Lady Emily pursed her brow thoughtfully. ‘It must have started around the time I became engaged,’ she said.
‘Which would make it...?’
‘About three weeks ago now.’
Blackstone wondered whether the timing was more than coincidence—whether, in fact, the young man felt more than brotherly love for Lady Emily, and her engagement had driven him into a desperate orgy of forbidden pleasure. But it was far too early for such suppositions, he rebuked himself.
‘I see no point in worrying your family unduly about this matter, my lady,’ he said, ‘so I suggest you have one of your servants—perhaps your brother’s valet—meet me at the morgue this afternoon.’
Lady Emily nodded her head gratefully. ‘Yes, that would probably be for the best,’ she agreed.
Three
When there was the possibility of a good juicy inquest—the case of a man who’d thrown himself in front of a train, for example—the queue waiting outside Southwark Coroner’s Court could stretch round the corner, but that afternoon there was no such excitement on offer, and Blackstone found himself waiting alone.
He turned to face the road. Buses, vans and cabs thundered past, some pulled by a single horse, others by a team of two or four. He’d read somewhere that the new horseless carriages—automobiles, was it?—would soon be taking over most of the work. But he couldn’t see it happening—not in his lifetime.
The carriage that now appeared in the distance would have looked far more at home on one of London’s more exclusive streets. Blackstone, who knew horses from his time in the Army, whistled appreciatively at the sight of the four jet-black animals pulling it. Beauties, they were—real beauties. And whoever owned them must have paid a pretty packet for the privilege.
As the carriage drew closer, the Inspector was able to take in more details. The woodwork was lacquered, and a coat of arms was exquisitely painted on the door. Nobility, then. Was there no end to the number of aristocrats who had a desire to slum it?
The carriage drew level with the Coroner’s Court, and the coachman reined the magnificent horses in. Blackstone, still watching, expected the door to remain firmly closed until the coachman climbed down to turn the handle. Instead, it swung open immediately.
The Inspector was not quite sure whom he’d expected to climb out, but the man who did was certainly a surprise. For a start, at twenty-seven or twenty-eight, he seemed far too young to he travelling in such an august vehicle. Then there were his clothes. He was wearing a heavy cotton jacket, wide tie and a felt trilby. Presentable enough—smart, even—but again, scarcely appropriate to his majestic form of transport.
Blackstone quickly assessed the man. Broad brow, wide mouth, square jaw. An intelligent man, the Inspector decided. A decisive man.
The gentleman in question looked at him inquisitively. ‘Are you, by any chance, Inspector Blackstone?’
Now that he thought he understood the situation, Blackstone almost laughed out loud. No wonder this man dressed well, but not like one of the rich. This wasn’t one of the aristocracy at all. He himself had suggested to Lady Emily that she send her brother Charles’ valet to view the body at the morgue—and that was exactly what she had done!
‘Yes, I’m Blackstone,’ he said. ‘And you would be...?’
‘Dalton,’ the other man replied. ‘Lord William Dalton.’
He had put the emphasis on the second word, but that did not mean that he had intended Blackstone to miss the first. The Inspector bowed slightly. ‘My Lord.’
‘You may be surprised by my presence here,’ Lord Dalton said. ‘Well, I can clear that up for you right away. I’m here on behalf of my fiancée, Lady Emily Montcliffe.’
‘We...er...we were expecting someone else...’ Blackstone began.
‘Of course you were,’ Dalton agreed amiably. ‘But now I am to be a part of the family, it seemed only fair to me that I should shoulder some of its responsibilities, as well as its privileges. Besides, my fiancée is eager, should this prove to be a false alarm, that...that...How shall I put this?’
‘That her father does not find out she’s been anywhere near Scotland Yard?’ Blackstone suggested.
‘Exactly,’ Lord Dalton agreed. ‘So with that in mind, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d show me where the body is.’
‘It isn’t a pretty sight, my Lord,’ Blackstone said.
The other man smiled. ‘I don’t imagine it can be,’ he replied, ‘but someone has to see it, and I would appear to be the most suitable person.’
Blackstone shrugged. ‘Very well. If that’s the way you want it, my Lord.’
Blackstone led his visitor down the maze of corridors to the mortuary. It was obvious that Lord Dalton was not used to the smell of formaldehyde—he probably wasn’t used to any unpleasant smells—but glancing over his shoulder, Blackstone saw that the aristocrat was trying his hardest to make the best of it.
The morgue contained three bodies that day, the one that had been fished out of the Thames being closest to the door. ‘Right, Sid, let’s see it,’ Blackstone said to the attendant. The constable pulled out the drawer, and lifted back the sheet.
Lord Dalton took a step forward. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed.
‘I warned you it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, sir,’ Blackstone said.
Dalton leant against the wall to steady himself. ‘It’s not the wounds,’ he gasped, ‘though, God knows, they’re bad enough.’
‘Then what is it?’ Blackstone asked gently.
‘...I never expected it really would be him,’ Dalton said. ‘I mean, I knew in my mind that it was always a possibility it could be Charles, yet I never actually thought...’
‘Then I take it that this is Charles Montcliffe?’
Dalton nodded. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Would you like me to find you a chair, sir?’ Blackstone asked, already reaching out for one.
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Lord Dalton said. ‘What I’d like you to do, Inspector, is to take me to the nearest public house and let me buy us both a drink.’
*
Blackstone hesitated at the front door of the Chandler’s Arms. True, it was the closest pub to the Coroner’s Court—and Dalton looked as if he could really use a drink—but inside it was all spit and sawdust, and the Inspector was not sure how the lord would react to it.
‘It will serve us perfectly well,’ said Dalton, reading his mind.
Blackstone pushed open the door, and the two men entered the pub. The bar was furnished with cracked leather settles, rickety chairs and scarred tables. Dalton headed for the nearest table and sat down.
‘A large whisky,’ he called across to the landlord. ‘The best you have.’ He turned to Blackstone. ‘And for you, Inspector?’
‘A pint of the usual,’ Blackstone told the landlord.
The drinks were brought, and Dalton swallowed half his whisky in one gulp. Then he took a deep breath, as if he were doing his very best to regain control of himself.
‘I must apologize for my reaction in the mortuary, Inspector.’ he said. ‘It was weak of me, and I deplore weakness in any form.’
‘If you’d like to go somewhere else now you’re feeling a bit better, sir...’ Blackstone suggested.
Dalton waved the offer aside, then looked straight into the Inspector’s eyes. ‘If we are going to be spending any time together, Mr Blackstone—and it looks as if, inevitably, we will have to—then it would he as well that you understand me from the start.’
‘Understand you?’ Blackstone repeated, mystified.
‘My fiancée’s family is very old stock,’ Lord Dalton explained. ‘There were Montcliffes with William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings. That means that they have been landed nobility for hundreds of years.’
‘I see,’ Blackstone said—although he didn’t.
‘My family, on the other hand, is not so well established,’ the other man continued. ‘My grandfather had a small business. He could, in fact, have b
een called a tradesman. My father worked hard to improve the situation he inherited, and became a very rich man. But he was not ennobled until three years before he died.’
‘Why are you telling me all this, my Lord?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Because you will not understand my fiancée’s family’s world, and they will not understand yours,’ Lord Dalton said. ‘Whereas I, with a foot in both camps, could form an effective bridge between the two.’
Blackstone took a reflective swig of his pint. ‘I’m not meaning to sound impertinent, my Lord, but what’s in it for you?’
‘I want the killer of that poor man who was to have been my brother-in-law brought to justice,’ Dalton said firmly. ‘And I am willing to do anything I can to help that process.’
He sounded sincere, but Blackstone felt he was holding something back. Still, it would be wise to tread warily when dealing with the aristocracy—even if it wasn’t real aristocracy like the Montcliffes.
‘Ask your question, Inspector,’ Lord Dalton said.
‘My question, my Lord?’
‘I could see on your face that you weren’t happy with my reason. Isn’t that true?’
Easy, old son, Blackstone warned himself. Watch your step.
‘People aren’t normally as willing to become involved in police business as you seem to be, my Lord,’ he said.
Dalton signalled for more drinks. ‘All right, there is more to it than I might have said,’ he admitted. ‘Poor Charles is dead, and catching his killer won’t alter that. But I am concerned to see that no more harm is done. I want to do all I can to protect the family.’
‘Protect them from what, my Lord?’ Blackstone asked obtusely.
‘From the gutter press,’ Dalton answered. ‘From the heavy-handed part of the police inquiry. And, of course—’ he lowered his voice—‘from scandal.’
‘What kind of scandal?’
A frank expression came to Dalton’s face. ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t need the resources of the police.’
Blackstone leant back in his chair. ‘Indeed, my Lord,’ he said.
‘Indeed,’ Dalton replied, without a trace of irony in his voice. ‘If I knew, for example, that Charles had been gambling, I would simply pay off his debts. If there was a...er...woman involved, then I could pension her off to the South of France. But I have no idea what he was doing on those nights when, his sister now tells me, he disappeared. Nor do I have the means to find out. But you do.’
‘Are you suggesting that I cover up a crime, my Lord?’ Blackstone asked heavily.
‘By no means,’ Dalton assured him. ‘As I told you, I want the criminal caught. But if it became necessary to...er...blur the motive behind the crime, and you were in a position to help me do that, I would find a way, at some time in the future, to show my appreciation.’
He isn’t quite offering me a bribe, Blackstone thought—but he’s coming damn close to it.
Yet he couldn’t afford to dismiss the offer of help out of hand because—in many ways—Dalton was right. The noble lord was a bridge between two worlds that did not understand each other at all. And, treading on dangerous ground as he was in this case, Blackstone couldn’t help thinking that it wouldn’t do him any harm to have friends in high places—always assuming he could make those friends without prejudicing his investigation.
‘I can quite see your concern in this matter, my Lord,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘and you can rest assured that if it’s at all possible...’
‘That’s all I ask,’ Dalton said. He stood up and placed a guinea on the table. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, Inspector, I have some rather bad news to break to the family.’
Blackstone watched the other man until he reached the door, then turned round to examine the rest of the people in the bar. In one corner sat an itinerant chair mender, who after hours of knocking on doors was now nursing the half-pint of beer his labours had bought him. Standing at the bar counter were two leather workers, deadening the stink of the tannery that was trapped in their nostrils with glasses of best ale. An off-duty fireman sat at one of the tables; an old man who sold caged birds in the market at another.
These were his people, he thought. He had grown up among them and—had it not been for the Army—he could have been any one of them now. He understood them, perhaps even better than they understood themselves. But the society into which he was being thrust was an entirely different matter altogether. He didn’t know how they thought, and he didn’t know what rules they played by. He drained his pint, and permitted himself a short sigh. He was not looking forward to his first meeting with a family that had arrived in England with William the Conqueror.
Four
In all his time at the Yard, Blackstone had only seen Sir Edward Bradford, the Commissioner of Police, from a distance. Now, because of the murder of Charles Montcliffe, he was standing less than five feet from the great man, separated only by a mahogany desk.
Bradford was not alone. Sitting next to him was a thin, slightly older man wearing a frock coat, and it was obvious from the Commissioner’s demeanour towards him that he was a Very Important Person indeed.
There was something familiar about the newcomer, Blackstone thought. He was sure they’d never met before, but perhaps...perhaps he had seen an engraving of the man’s face in the newspapers.
The Commissioner cleared his throat. ‘This is Inspector Blackstone, Home Secretary,’ he said. ‘He is the officer who will be conducting the investigation into Charles Montcliffe’s death.’
Home Secretary? Blackstone repeated silently. The Home Secretary? Bloody hell fire!
The man in the frock coat nodded slightly in Blackstone’s direction. ‘This is a very difficult situation we find ourselves in, Inspector,’ he said.
‘I appreciate that, sir,’ Blackstone replied.
The Home Secretary raised his hands from the desk and clutched the lapels of his frock coat.
‘I don’t think you do quite appreciate it,’ he said. ‘How could you? You are one of the workers at the coalface, as it were, of this great city of ours. You can only see what is directly in front of you. Whereas I, from a more elevated position, can take a much broader view of the whole situation.’
He wasn’t so much talking as making a speech, Blackstone thought, but maybe after so many years in politics, that was all he was capable of.
‘In a few days’ time, Inspector, we will be celebrating Her Majesty the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee,’ the Home Secretary continued. ‘And those celebrations will not be centred on the small country in which she was crowned sixty years ago, but on the vast empire she rules over now.’
Why is he telling me this? Blackstone wondered. What could it possibly have to do with a murder in the East End?
‘Her Majesty’s hold over her overseas subjects is really quite remarkable,’ the Home Secretary said. ‘To them, she is the Great White Mother. The Malayan coolie and the African rubber gatherer, the Australian aborigine and the Canadian Indian, all of them—to a man—obey our colonial administrators not out of respect for them, but out of respect for the Queen. They are compliant because they know that is her wish. She is of as much value to government’s imperial policy as half a dozen regiments of fighting men.’
He paused, almost as if he was expecting applause.
‘She has made us the great nation we are,’ Blackstone said, hoping there was enough conviction in his voice to keep the politician happy.
‘Made us the great nation we are,’ the Home Secretary repeated, savouring every word. ‘Exactly! And that is why nothing must be allowed to distract attention from the celebrations. To put it simply, there must be no other news in the papers but the Diamond Jubilee.’
‘Do you see where this is all leading?’ the Commissioner asked.
Oh yes, Blackstone thought. I can see where it’s leading, all right.
‘What you’re telling me is that this murder case might prove a distraction,’ he said aloud.
‘Just so!’ the Home Secretary agreed enthusiastically. ‘The brutal murder of a man who is a distant relative of Her Majesty would fill the front pages of even the most responsible newspapers.’
‘It is for precisely that reason that there will be no announcement of the death of the Honourable Charles Montcliffe—at least for the time being,’ the Commissioner said.
‘You’re going to try and keep it a secret?’ Blackstone asked incredulously. ‘You really think you can hide something like this?’ He caught the look in his superior’s eye, and pulled himself up short. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to sound insubordinate. It’s just that I don’t see how it can possibly be done.’
‘We cannot, of course, keep it completely secret,’ the Home Secretary said. ‘Charles Montcliffe’s family will have to be informed, as is their right. Even as we speak, Lord William Dalton, who is almost a member of the family himself, will be carrying out that unpleasant function. And, naturally, Her Majesty will have to be told. But no one beyond that must know.’
What kind of make-believe world did this man inhabit? Blackstone wondered. Did he really think that the murder could be hushed up just because that was what was convenient?
‘I see some doubts written on your face, Inspector,’ the Commissioner said. ‘Would you mind putting them into words?’
‘It’s too big a secret to keep, sir,’ Blackstone said. ‘For a start, there’s the dead man’s friends. They’re bound to wonder—’
‘From what I saw of Charles when I dined with his family, I would say he was a rather solitary young man,’ the Home Secretary interrupted.
‘And then there’s the servants,’ Blackstone continued. ‘How can you ever hope to keep them completely in the dark?’
‘The servants will be told a part of the truth—which is that Montcliffe has gone missing,’ the Commissioner said. ‘But they will also be told that there is no cause for concern.’
‘They won’t believe it,’ Blackstone said firmly. ‘First of all, they’ll start speculating amongst themselves, then they’ll pass it on to their family and friends. By tomorrow at the latest, at least a couple of hundred people will know that something strange has happened to Charles Montcliffe. And I guarantee that three or four of them will come up with the idea of selling the story to the papers.’
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 3