Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  After a decent dinner topped off with an excellent cheese and some lovely old cognac, I took to the streets again, enjoying the crowds and the bustle, which really was different from the parts of London with which I was familiar, more festive and filled with people one had never met and didn’t require one to raise one’s hat; and there were the men, bold-eyed men who looked at me very directly, one or two of whom actually turned to follow me for a short distance — though they gave up the chase when I passed up the opportunity to pause in a shop window and receive their attentions.

  Back at the entry to the mews, I stood for a moment trying to decide if it was more or less pleasant in the full light of a summer evening: it looked horribly dreary rather than eerily sinister, and I couldn’t quite make up my mind which was worse. I eventually decided it didn’t matter, and entered the alley, studying the doors on the right-hand side in an attempt to remember which one was Gabriel’s.

  After some confusion over the lack of numbers, I found the correct door, pushed through, and climbed to the second landing. There I was thwarted, however, when my knocking went unanswered — at least from within Gabriel’s flat; I got plenty of answer from the floor above, where a very uncouth woman suggested some physiologically impossible exercises instead of “makin’ sech a row.”

  “Oh, hullo,” Gabriel startled me, coming up the stairs behind me, “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

  “I didn’t say what time, did I?” I responded a little sheepishly; more imprecision on my part, I was getting sloppy.

  “No harm done,” he smiled, digging into his pockets in search of his latchkey, “Oh, bother, I must have left it inside.”

  “How did you lock it?” I asked idly, thinking it was just as well: I’d prefer talking to him somewhere that didn’t smell of cabbage.

  “I didn’t have to, Michael was home when I left. But he’s gone out, I’ll have to wait for him to come back. Bother!”

  “You don’t keep a spare?” I knew a lot of people kept a spare key in a flowerpot or under a stone in their gardens for just such an emergency; of course, there were no flowerpots or gardens on this dingy little landing, “Why don’t I take you for a drink, instead? No point standing around here.”

  “I’m not dressed for drinks,” he pulled at the tatty Fair Isle jumper he was wearing with gray flannels and no necktie; I started to tell him he looked fine for a pub when he interrupted me by snapping his fingers, “Old McGillicuddy upstairs has a spare, Michael asked her to keep one for him in case he forgot his.”

  “I’ll wait here, Mrs. McGillicuddy has already expressed a certain aversion to my charms,” I said, taking a step down the stairs so that I couldn’t be seen from above.

  “You’re silly, she’s a harmless old girl. But I’ll be right back,” he said and bounded up the steps to the next landing, where the uncouth woman swore at him like a sailor but gave him the extra key while she did so; tripping gracefully back down, he unlocked the door and ushered me in, “Have a seat, I’ll just take a minute to put on a jacket and tie.”

  Mike Baker lay in the middle of the floor on his back, eyes and mouth wide open, the jeweled handle of a golden knife protruding from the left side of his neck. Gabriel screamed and collapsed into an hysterical heap in the corner by the door.

  There was no sign of a struggle in the room, no overturned furniture or rucked-up rugs; there was also very little blood, mostly on his own hands and in the immediate vicinity of the wound. I noticed that though the blade of the knife was splattered with blood, the handle was clean; I didn’t know if it really meant anything, but in a detective story it would be a clue that the murderer had blood on his hand, and probably on his sleeve as well (which would be in some way extremely distinctive, giving the detective a vital clue).

  Mike’s face was twisted with fear and surprise, all the meanness gone out of him, rendering him tragic instead of ugly. His hair was tousled and he was dressed in trousers and an undershirt, as if he’d just got out of bed when he was killed. Reaching out a slightly trembling hand, I touched his bare ankle; it was cold but not ice-cold. The blood on his hands and neck was sticky-looking, not liquid but not yet dry. He probably hadn’t been dead very long, maybe a couple of hours.

  The knife was definitely the Baron’s, the same knife I had inquired after at Nazerman’s: even without the detailed description the Baron had provided me, I would have recognized the distinctive van der Swertz crest with its pale-blue chevron on an orange field.

  Having taken all the time I could to study the scene, I turned my attention to the screeching Gabriel, pulling him up onto his feet and out of the grisly room, into the tiny bedroom next door where I dropped him on the bed and brought him a glass of water from the lavatory sink in the corner. He eventually stopped wailing, but continued to weep brokenly. It wasn’t just the shock, either, it was obviously grief: despite all his cruelties, Gabriel had loved his brother.

  “Is there a telephone here, Gabriel?” I asked as gently as I could, giving him my handkerchief and kneeling down on the floor so I could look up into his tear-stained face.

  “N-no,” he choked out, “Shop... end of the Mews.”

  “Can I take you out of here? Can I take you to Mrs. McGillicuddy or one of your other neighbours?”

  “Why?” he sobbed out.

  “I need to go get the police, but I can’t leave you here by yourself. I need to take you someplace safe and quiet.”

  “I have to get out of here!” he gasped when the word ‘police’ filtered into his consciousness. He was a molly-boy, and the police were no friends to him.

  “Sweetheart, you can’t run away,” I held his hands and tried to reason with him, “They’ll think you did it.”

  “They’ll think I did it anyway,” he tried to struggle away from me, his panic building.

  “No, they won’t. I’ll tell them you couldn’t have. I’m your witness. I have a friend at the Yard, he’ll vouch for me. And my father’s a very important man in Government, they’ll have to listen to me.”

  “Are you sure?” he hiccuped, his face a picture of fear at war with trust.

  “I’m sure. Now where can I take you?”

  “Take me with you,” he said after thinking a moment and huffing out a few more sobs, “As soon as my neighbours know police are coming, they’ll run like rabbits. I can’t stay with anyone here.”

  “Well, all right,” I conceded, getting up from the floor and pulling him up by his hands, “Come with me, and I’ll take you... I don’t know where. Someplace safe. Is there anything here you need? The police probably won’t let you back in tonight.”

  “My jacket, I think,” he looked around him, trying to think practically instead of panicking, “I’d better get my money, too. No, wait, would you get it for me? It’s... it’s out there. In a book on the shelf, the one with the purple cover. It’s got a lock on, just bring the whole book. Should I get a change of clothes?”

  “You’d better not, the police will want things as they are as much as possible. I’ll get you some clothes later. Now come with me. And don’t look at him, just face the wall and go out.”

  “I need to say good-bye to him,” he whispered pathetically, “Please.”

  I stood and held him as he wept over the body of his brother, but didn’t let him go when he went to touch it. I’d read too many detective stories to let anyone touch a body before the police got to it. That always caused trouble later on.

  *****

  The police arrived in increments of two: the first pair of patrol constables in helmets popped up as soon as I’d finished my call to Scotland Yard in the little tobacconist’s shop at the mouth of the Mews (where I’d left Gabriel in the tender care of the tobacconist’s wife, while I stood sentry at the street door to the lodging house); the second pair wore peaked caps and came in a car, driving it into the Mews and blocking the archway; they had to move it when the medical examiner showed up with his assistant in a van; and finally the detectives sh
owed up in another car.

  I gasped when I recognized the craggy profile of Chief Inspector Brigham, then blushed scarlet when Sergeant Paget followed him out of the car.

  “I swear I didn’t call for you specifically,” I rushed to explain when Twister walked up to me.

  “I know you didn’t,” he grinned ruefully at me, “You just have the damnedest luck.”

  “Finding corpses all over the place? Or always drawing you out of the hat when I do?”

  “Both, I suppose,” he laughed, then pulled his trusty notebook and pencil out of his pocket, “What can you tell me about all this?”

  “I can tell you a lot, if you can keep it off the record.”

  “You know that’s not how it works,” he scolded gently.

  “Well then, let me tell you everything I know off the record, as a friend; and then you can decide which of it you’ll need to put in the record, as a detective.”

  “What’s all the mystery? More of your ‘exceptional circumstances’?”

  “Well, yes. There are people involved who would be harmed if they were officially involved, so it would be unfair and unkind to involve them unless it’s really necessary. It’s a situation where discretion is by far the better part of valour, if you see what I mean.”

  “All right,” he conceded, putting away his notebook and folding his arms expectantly, “Spread out your wares, and I’ll pick over the pieces I want.”

  In a low voice so as not to be overheard, I related the entire saga, from the Baron collaring me at dinner to my late-evening meeting with Gabriel; and putting a great deal of trust in Twister, I also related the mystery of the missing paper knife redeemed from the pawn shop just hours before it turned up in Mike Baker’s carotid artery, as well as spotting the Baron and his manservant on Wardour Street when I was in the pub. I wrapped up with a very lucid account of how I found the body, what Gabriel’s reactions had been, and what I did between finding the body and talking to Twister.

  “So I’ve got a boy prostitute on one end and a foreign diplomat on the other end, with a pawnbroker and a bookie in between,” Twister shook his head in dismay, “You’re right, the harm done to their livelihoods from being officially investigated by the police would be tangible, not just a matter of delicate feelings. Though I am compelled to point out that the prostitute’s livelihood is not legal, and may need to be harmed if he keeps at it. Now, let’s go over this again without using names, and I’ll take my notes. Then we’ll go talk to Gabriel, just you and me, before I let Brigham at him.”

  “You really are a preux chevalier, aren’t you?” I smiled admiringly, “I think I may just have to fall in love with you.”

  “Shh!” he hissed angrily.

  “Nobody heard me,” I assured him, exasperated by his needless caution.

  “You’re impossible,” he shook his head again, “Now let’s start over.”

  I went over my story again, leaving out any details that seemed too indicative of any one identity, which made the story go a lot faster. On a separate page, he wrote down all the omitted names, then tore the leaf out of his book and put it in his top pocket. When we went to the tobacconist’s and talked to Gabriel in the pokey little kitchen in back, Twister was incredibly gentle with him — I could see that he’d taken my estimation of the boy’s character as a vouchsafe, and was treating him as a witness rather than a suspect.

  “Thank you very much for your help, Gabriel,” Twister said to the boy when he’d finished, “I will be in touch again later on, especially if I need you as a witness; but in the meantime I will keep your name out of the papers.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Gabriel whispered; his crying had ravaged his voice and he was no longer able to do much more than croak, “I’m very grateful to you.”

  “The gratitude belongs to Sebastian, here,” he passed off the thanks with an impatient wave, “Without his interference, I probably would have taken you down to the Yard for questioning. But knowing your story, I’d prefer to not involve you if I can help it. But I do have to ask you to give up your... well, profession. At least for the time being. If you get hauled in for soliciting while this investigation is going on, I won’t be able to help you.”

  “I’ll keep him out of trouble,” I assured them both; I’d decided while I was waiting for the police to arrive that there was nothing else I could honourably do: to cut the boy loose after all he’d been through would have been as cruel as kicking a baby. I could be a preux chevalier, too, when the occasion arose.

  “Well, then,” Twister got up and put his hat on, “I’ll turn my back while the two of you scurry off somewhere else. I’ll tell Brigham you wandered away while I was questioning someone else.”

  “Wandered away?” I gaped at him, offended, “The man will think I’m an idiot.”

  “He already thinks you’re an idiot,” Twister said with brutal candour, “And I’d just as soon he keeps on thinking that, if your pride can take it. If he found out there’s a real brain inside that pretty head of yours, he’d start asking suspicious questions about your inexplicable presence in multiple murder investigations.”

  “You think my head’s pretty?” I grinned with delight, completely ignoring the rest of what he said — though I did indeed see the sense in it. If Brigham thought I was clever enough to commit a murder and then make it look like someone else did it, with three found corpses to my credit, I’d be in deep trouble.

  “Be gone with you,” he rolled his eyes and left the room, “Before I change my mind.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice, knowing I would not relish a tête-à-tête with Chief Inspector Brigham; I took Gabriel and slithered away to Wardour Street, where I hailed a cab and directed it toward St. James’s. When we arrived at Hyacinth House, I dragged him up to my rooms, where I told Pond to put him into a hot bath and get him something to eat, and warm whiskey with honey to soothe his throat, before I went out again.

  “Mr. Delagardie,” I stopped at the front desk to talk to the manager, “I have a friend I’d like to stay here for a little while, if you’ve a room available.”

  “We have four vacancies, my lord,” he opened his big ledger and peered down through his pince-nez, “I have the two-room suite above your own, two alcove suites on the second and third floors, facing the street, and a single room on the second floor facing the courtyard. Count Gryzynsky’s former room, you may remember.”

  “I’ll take the Count’s old room,” I said, not because it was the smallest but because I wanted to keep him where I could see him, “Reserve it for at least a month, and add it to my bill. I’ll let you know then if I want to keep it longer.”

  “Very good, my lord. Will you sign the register for your friend? Just his name and city of residence, if you don’t mind. Regulations, you understand.”

  Gabriel’s name looked very odd when I wrote it down — I’d associated ‘Baker’ solely with the older brother, though obviously they’d have the same surname. But everyone called him Angel or Gabriel or both, and referred to his brother as Mike Baker, as if it were one word; so the misconception was understandable.

  Having resolved the question of his room and board, I went out to buy him some pajamas and other toilet articles to see him through the night. I would have to take Gabriel with me, probably to Harrods, for some day-clothes; but in the meantime I could get some overnight things for him at Monsieur Alcide’s. The pretty lettuce-green silk pajamas and the darker green velvet dressing gown would bring out the green of his eyes, and though I didn’t know what scents he preferred, I chose soaps and colognes that smelled nice to me, redolent of verbena and lime.

  I felt very paternal (or perhaps avuncular is a better word) making all these arrangements for Gabriel’s care, and I quite liked the feeling. I wondered if I would continue to enjoy it over a period of time, though: it felt a bit like Responsibility, which I had sworn to avoid until I acceded to the earldom. But it was fun for the time being, so I enjoyed myself without too much intro
spection.

  When I got back to my rooms, I found Gabriel tucking into a perfectly enormous omelet sprinkled with Russian caviar and chopped onions, while Pond hovered solicitously at his elbow with a silver-lipped carafe of my second-best Tokay. The boy was wrapped up in one of my old bath-robes, which was much too big for him, making him look even smaller and younger than he already was — it was immensely endearing, and that avuncular affection swelled anew in my breast.

  “You’re looking much fitter,” I sat down at the little table and motioned for Pond to bring me a glass of the Tokay, “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, thanks,” he said around a mouthful of omelet.

  “I got you a room here in the hotel, so you don’t have to worry about where you’ll stay. And I got some overnight things for tonight, I’ll take you to get some clothes tomorrow if the police haven’t finished with your rooms.”

  “Oh!” Gabriel looked alarmed, “You didn’t have to do all that! I could just sleep on your couch tonight and go back home tomorrow. I don’t want to be a burden.”

  “Nonsense,” I waved away his objections, “You can’t go back to those rooms, at least not for a while, not while the memory is still fresh. And I told Twister I’d keep you off the game for the time being, you can’t stay out on your own with no income.”

  “I have savings,” Gabriel grumbled but didn’t pursue the issue, instead changing topics entirely, “Why do you call Sergeant Paget ‘Twister’?”

  “It’s his school nickname,” I laughed, “We public-school types always do that, I’m afraid. We revert to adolescence whenever we meet.”

  “What’s your school nickname?” he wondered.