Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1

by Sally Spencer

  Blackstone thanked the librarian for her time, and made his way over to the other end of the room, where Hannah was leafing through a Russian newspaper.

  She looked up at him. ‘You’ve finished?’

  ‘I’ve finished,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘Good. Then you can buy me luncheon.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why not? You don’t think I’ve earned it?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve earned it, right enough. It’s just that I have to get back to the Yard for a while.’

  Hannah pouted. ‘A paltry excuse,’ she said. ‘Is that the right word—“paltry”?’

  Blackstone laughed. ‘I suppose so. Look, I’ll make it up to you. If you can spare me some more of your time this afternoon...’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Then when it’s over, I’ll take you out for supper.’

  ‘I would like that,’ Hannah said, the sly smile creeping across her face. ‘Suppers are so much more intimate than luncheons, don’t you think?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘And what do I have to do to earn my supper? Where would you like me to take you this afternoon?’

  ‘Anywhere you took Charles Smith, though preferably somewhere he acted as if he might have learned something useful.’

  Hannah gave the matter some thought. ‘I think I’ll take you to the Ghetto Bank,’ she said finally.

  Eighteen

  Blackstone walked along the Embankment, looking up at New Scotland Yard and wondering what a stranger who knew nothing about the building would make of it. With its four huge gables and a circular tower on each corner, would the stranger perhaps mistake it for the home of a minor royal? Or was there something stiff and imposing about the place that would always identify it as a source of control and authority?

  You’ve got to stop educating yourself, Sam, he told himself. It’s doing your head no good at all.

  He had reached the big double gates that led into the courtyard. There were two uniformed constables on duty as always—and they seemed unusually relieved to see him.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor, sir,’ said the senior constable. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. ‘He’s a lord!’

  ‘Lord Dalton?’ Blackstone asked.

  The constable nodded. ‘He’s been waiting in your office for you. For over twenty minutes.’

  ‘And a lord’s time—any old lord’s time—is, of course, much more valuable than that of a Scotland Yard police inspector working on an important case, isn’t it?’ Blackstone said.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ the constable agreed. Then he caught the dangerous look in Blackstone’s eye and realized he’d made a mistake. ‘I mean...’ he mumbled. ‘What I was tryin’ to say was...’

  ‘Forget it,’ Blackstone ordered him. ‘Did Lord Dalton say why he’d come to see me?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was my place to ask,’ the constable said weakly.

  Blackstone sighed. ‘But you are sure it’s really him? You did ask for some kind of identification?’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well...he...he acted like he was a lord.’

  Blackstone shook his head in amazement. A few years earlier, he recalled, the Fenians had managed to plant a bomb in the offices of the Irish Special Branch, and since then, security had been tightened up. But that security was obviously still balefully inadequate if all it took to get through the gates was to act like a lord!

  He wondered what—other than habit—made ordinary people so deferential to those who were considered their betters. He himself went through the correct form when addressing Lord Dalton, but though he liked—and perhaps even admired—the man, he still considered Dalton, on a fundamental level, to be no more than his equal. Perhaps he was slowly turning from a mild sceptic into a fully-fledged republican, he thought worriedly.

  ‘I’m expecting the Pope to drop round this afternoon,’ he told the two constables. ‘He won’t be in his robes—he likes to travel incognito—but when he arrives, send him straight up.’

  The constables laughed nervously. Blackstone turned on his heel, and strode rapidly towards his office.

  The Inspector found Lord Dalton sitting in the same chair Emily Montcliffe had used only a few days earlier, when she’d revealed her worries about her brother. Dalton was reading a copy of the Times, and smoking an expensive cigar. He did not stand up when Blackstone entered the room.

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, my Lord,’ the Inspector said.

  ‘It’s entirely my own fault,’ Dalton replied easily. ‘I could have avoided the wait by simply having one of my people ring the Yard and tell you when I expected to find you here. But—’ he shrugged—‘I happened to be in the area, and I thought there was a good chance you might be in your office.’ He gave Blackstone a smile that might almost have been called a grin. ‘You don’t set me particularly easy tasks, do you, Inspector?’

  ‘Which task are we talking about, my Lord? Getting your hands on Charles Montcliffe’s private papers?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But you do have them?’

  ‘Yes, I have them.’ Lord Dalton indicated a leather attaché case that was resting next to his chair. ‘But the Earl was only prepared to release them under the most stringent conditions.’

  ‘And what might those conditions be?’

  ‘That you are to be allowed to read them, but not retain them. That you are to make no notes. That I myself never lose sight of the papers.’

  ‘What’s his game?’

  ‘His game?’ Dalton repeated, and there was just the slightest hint of rebuke in his voice.

  Blackstone sighed. ‘Why do you think the Earl has imposed so many restrictions?’

  ‘His son’s death will have to become public knowledge at some point. Probably, in fact, in the next few days. And when it does become generally known, he is most anxious that there should be no scandal.’

  ‘So he’s more concerned about protecting the family name than he is about seeing his son’s murderer brought to justice, is he?’

  Dalton frowned, perhaps issuing a second warning that Blackstone might be going a little too far.

  ‘Of course he wants his son’s murderer arrested,’ the noble lord said, ‘but,’ he conceded, softening his tone slightly, ‘if it came to a choice between justice and the family name, I rather think that the weight of all his ancestors would compel him to put the family name first.’

  ‘You’ve just pretty much confirmed what I’ve been thinking myself,’ Blackstone said. ‘Thank you for being so honest with me, my Lord.’

  ‘My family does not yet have enough history behind it to have acquired the Montcliffes’ style of honour,’ Dalton said, ‘but I like to think that I can at least honour the truth.’

  He paused, as if he’d realized that he’d once again allowed their conversation to slip beyond what was the strictly acceptable.

  ‘Would you care to examine the documents now, Inspector?’ he continued.

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Well, there they are.’

  Blackstone bent down and picked up the attaché case. Then, having undone the buckles and extracted perhaps a dozen sheets of closely written notes, he placed the case back where he had found it.

  It would be difficult to examine the papers when he was standing, he thought, but was it the done thing to sit down in the presence of a lord without first being invited to do so?

  Bugger it—it was his office, wasn’t it? he told himself, as he walked round his desk and sat down in his usual chair.

  Blackstone quickly scanned the first of the sheets. It was headed, ‘Reasons exiles have had to leave their homeland.’ Below the heading was a numbered list, which included ‘political opposition’ and ‘religious persecution’. The second sheet listed the occupations the exiles followed—bamboo workers and slipper makers in the Commercial Road area; shipwrights and engineers in the East India dock, cab
inetmakers, tailors and bootmakers in Whitechapel; and skin-dressers, seamstresses and bow makers all over the East End.

  By the time he had reached the bottom of the second sheet, he was starting to feel a little uneasy. All the material he had read so far was worthy enough, but it didn’t quite square with the image of a man who had had the courage and the imagination both to have infiltrated a ring of child pornographers and to write an explosive exposure of their filthy trade.

  Well, perhaps this was no more than essential background to the story Montcliffe had been working on, Blackstone thought, and the real meat would come on the pages which followed.

  Real meat didn’t follow! There were more meticulously collected facts, and a few character sketches. Blackstone certainly knew more about the people of Little Russia when he’d finished reading, but his understanding of what made Charles Montcliffe tick had not been advanced a jot. And yet, while acknowledging that the papers were practically useless in terms of his investigation, he felt a sudden, irrational reluctance to hand them back to Lord Dalton.

  He brushed the feeling aside. There had to be something more, he decided—other notes which spelled out the real story Charles Montcliffe had been working on when he died.

  He looked up from his desk. Lord Dalton was engrossed in his copy of the Times.

  ‘Where did these papers come from, my Lord?’ Blackstone asked.

  Lord Dalton lowered his newspaper. ‘They came from the writing desk in Charles’ room.’

  ‘Can you he sure of that?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’

  ‘Perhaps the servant who brought them to you—’

  ‘There was no servant involved. Once I had Earl Montcliffe’s permission, I went and collected them myself.’

  ‘There were no other papers there—papers which you perhaps decided were not worth bringing to me?’

  And he was thinking: Or papers which you left behind because they might show the Montcliffes in a bad light.

  Lord Dalton looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘There were no other papers of any description,’ he said firmly.

  If he ruled out the possibility that such notes ever existed, then what other possibilities was he left with? Blackstone asked himself.

  The first was that Earl Montcliffe, or some other member of his household, had already destroyed them. The second—and Blackstone felt his heart miss a beat when this idea occurred to him—was that Charles Montcliffe had chosen to hide his more sensational material away.

  ‘Desks sometimes have secret drawers,’ he pointed out.

  ‘The same thought occurred to me,’ Lord Dalton replied. ‘I made sure that wasn’t the case with Charles’ desk.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I took the senior cabinetmaker from one of my factories to look at it. He’s been in the trade for over thirty years, and he swears that if there had been a hidden drawer, he’d have found it.’

  Blackstone felt a momentary stab of disappointment, but it was soon overtaken by the realization that there was one line of approach—possibly a very useful one—that they hadn’t even tried yet.

  ‘The servants are still confined to the house on the order of the Home Secretary, aren’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘That is correct,’ Dalton replied. ‘They are to stay there until after the Jubilee celebrations are over.’

  ‘But Earl Montcliffe has great political influence,’ Blackstone said. ‘If he wanted that order overruled, he’d probably get his way. And you have enough influence over him to persuade him that’s just what he should do.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind, Blackstone?’ Lord Dalton demanded, clearly astounded by the suggestion. ‘Let the servants leave the house? That would be tantamount to announcing to the newspapers that Charles is missing. It’s an insane idea.’

  ‘It would be insane to let all the servants out,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But it makes very sound sense indeed to let just one of them go.’

  It took ten minutes of persuasive argument to convince Lord Dalton that the plan was a good one, and even then Blackstone was not sure that Dalton was enthusiastic enough about it to play his part with the necessary conviction. Still, he had done all that it was humanly possible to do.

  As he stood up, with Charles Montcliffe’s notes in his hand, he experienced a second sharp attack of the feeling that had overcome him earlier. It was true that the notes had told him nothing, and he couldn’t see how they would ever be of value—but he simply did not want to give them back!

  Yet what choice did he have? he thought as he walked around the side of the desk. If he refused to hand the papers over, then Lord Dalton—however much he might be on Blackstone’s side—would be compelled to report the matter to Earl Montcliffe. And the Earl, for his part, would immediately telephone the Commissioner. Then the fat would really he in the fire—and Blackstone could say goodbye to his job and his pension.

  The Inspector was halfway between his desk and Lord Dalton when he suddenly missed his footing. He lurched forward, and it was only by an effort that he stopped himself falling flat on his face. But in saving himself, he had lost his grip on the papers and they scattered all over the floor.

  Dalton quickly rose to his feet to assist the detective, but the other man waved him away.

  ‘I’ll be perfectly all right,’ Blackstone said. ‘It was a stupid thing to do—losing my balance like that. I don’t know what came over me. Haven’t even had a drink today.’

  ‘These things happen,’ Dalton said understandingly. Blackstone knelt down and began to collect the papers. He straightened up and handed them over to Dalton.

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess I’ve got them into,’ he said. ‘They’re probably all out of order.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Dalton told him. ‘I don’t expect the Earl will look at them. It is not so much that he wants them himself as that he doesn’t want anyone else to have them.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘I must be going.’

  Since Dalton was obviously not enough of a democrat to offer to shake hands, and Blackstone not yet quite enough of a republican to ignore the alternative, the policeman bowed slightly and the lord took his leave.

  Blackstone listened to Lord Dalton’s footsteps retreating down the stairs, then reached into his jacket pocket and brushed his fingers against the ball of paper that was sitting there. He still wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to steal one sheet of Charles Montcliffe’s notes—but he was glad that he had.

  Nineteen

  It was some fifteen minutes to luncheon, and the Montcliffe family had gathered, as was their custom, in the parlour. Earl Montcliffe stood at the window, gloomily looking down on Park Lane.

  The London that he had loved as a boy had changed beyond recognition, he thought. And not just the capital—the whole country. Servants left their employment whenever they felt like it, instead of serving loyally for as long as they were physically able. Radicals, like that bounder Scott, were allowed to publish almost anything they wished to. Even some members of parliament were now being drawn from the ranks of the lower middle classes. No one seemed to know his place any more.

  In the good old days, there would have been no problem similar to the one they were now experiencing with Charles’ valet. And why? Because the valet would have known he was expected to keep quiet, at whatever cost to himself. And even if he hadn’t held his tongue—even if he had revealed all—who would have listened to him? Who, in their right mind, would have taken his word against the word of one of the Quality?

  Earl Montcliffe took a sip of the dry sherry he had specially imported from an exclusive vineyard in Jerez. Hoskins had deferentially informed him, only that morning, that there were just three barrels left in the cellar. And when that had gone? Well, he would have no alternative but to ask little Billy Dalton, the grandson of a common tradesman, to order him some more.

  There was the sound of the door opening, then Hoskins announced, ‘Lord Dalton, my Lord.’

  Montcliffe forced a
smile to his lips, and turned around.

  ‘William!’ he said feigning delight. ‘We don’t often see you at this time of day.’

  ‘No, I’m usually kept rather busy during City hours,’ Lord Dalton agreed. He walked over and kissed his fiancée’s hand. ‘The only reason I’m here now is to convey a request from Inspector Blackstone.’

  ‘A request!’ Viscount Hugo Montcliffe snorted. ‘Become Blackstone’s messenger boy now, have you, William?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell Father what the request is, William?’ Lady Emily said hastily, before Dalton had time to respond to her brother’s comment.

  Dalton shot the Viscount a look of pure contempt, then turned to the Earl. ‘Blackstone thinks that Charles’ valet may provide one of the keys to the investigation,’ he said.

  Damn and blast the bloody policeman! the Earl thought. And damn and blast William Dalton for going along with him!

  ‘Blackstone thinks Thomas is important!’ Hugo Montcliffe said. ‘Can’t see how he’d be any help at all. Fellow’s almost a mental defective, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘If he were an idiot, he’d never have been able to fill his post as he did,’ Lord Dalton countered.

  ‘Balderdash!’ the Viscount said. ‘Nothin’ much to valettin’.’

  ‘There’s far more to being a good valet than you seem to appreciate, Hugo,’ Dalton said. ‘I doubt very much whether you would be able to cope with the demands of the job.’

  ‘Wasn’t brought up to be a valet,’ Hugo said, missing the point.

  But it was plain that Hugo’s sister Emily hadn’t missed it, the Earl thought, as he saw the slight smile play on her lips. Damn and blast her, too! She could afford to smile—because she didn’t know what he knew.

  ‘Anyway, even if the man’s a total brainbox, still won’t do you any good,’ Hugo Montcliffe continued. ‘Last time I spoke to Hoskins, he said he had no idea where Thomas was—an’ if the butler don’t know, you can bet your last guinea that nobody does.’

  If only we had a last guinea to bet, the Earl thought. But they didn’t. Now, all the money seemed to be in the hands of people like Dalton—men without a drop of decent blood flowing through their veins.