‘I shall need to talk to him,’ Blackstone said.
‘I will try to persuade the Earl to give his perm—’ Lord Dalton began.
‘Try to persuade the Earl!’ Blackstone exploded. ‘Good God, man, don’t you realize I’m investigating a murder—probably more than one by now. I don’t need Montcliffe’s permission for anything.’
‘I think you’ll find that you do,’ Lord Dalton said, and his voice was so cold that Blackstone felt as if he’d had a bucket of icy water thrown over him.
This was no good—no good at all—the Inspector thought. He needed Lord Dalton’s co-operation, and if swallowing his own pride was the only way of obtaining it, then he’d better get on with it.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord,’ he said.
‘I have given you a great deal of leeway because I think you are a good policeman who only wants to do his job,’ Dalton said. ‘But there have to be limits set somewhere. There has to come a point at which your insolent disregard for the social order must be called to a halt.’
‘I accept that,’ Blackstone said. ‘I was overwrought. If Thomas and Molly have been killed because of what I arranged today, then at least some of their blood is on my hands.’
‘And because I helped you, it is on my hands too,’ Dalton said, his tone considerably softened. ‘But we cannot do the impossible, Inspector. We must both work within the rules of society as we find them.’
*
The Commissioner glared across his desk at Blackstone. ‘You are skating on very thin ice, Inspector,’ he said.
Just how much shit was he going to have to eat in one day? Blackstone wondered.
But aloud, all he said was, ‘I’m only trying to do the job that I’m paid to do, sir.’
‘And does that include harassing members of one of the highest families in the land?’
‘Has any of them complained about me?’
‘No. At least, not directly. But I have been hearing whispers. Grumblings. And they will grow into complaints—make no mistake about that. So why don’t you drop that side of your investigation while you still have the chance?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,’ Blackstone said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because there are clear indications that at least a part of the solution to the murder lies in Montcliffe House.’
‘Perhaps you’re completely wrong about that,’ the Commissioner countered. ‘Isn’t it possible that there’s a much simpler solution? Couldn’t Charles Montcliffe have been doing what so many young men before him have done—simply gone to the East End to slake his baser sexual appetites?’
‘He wasn’t like that,’ Blackstone said stubbornly.
‘Oh, you knew him, did you? I wasn’t aware that you moved in such exalted social circles.’
‘I didn’t know him when he was alive,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘But I’ve got to know him since he was murdered. And I rather admire the young man.’
The Commissioner shook his head in exasperation. ‘Let us assume for a moment that there is a remote possibility that I am right and you are wrong. Charles Montcliffe goes to a brothel, stays rather later than he should have, and on his way home gets his throat cut by a thief. Isn’t that possible?’
‘It wouldn’t explain what happened today.’
‘Are you talking about the servant girl disappearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know for certain that her disappearance is connected with young Montcliffe’s death?’
‘As you pointed out yourself, sir, she’s nothing more than a servant girl. Why should anyone go to so much trouble to snatch her unless there was a connection with the murder?’
‘Of course, if you’d been there yourself to oversee the operation, Inspector, it’s possible we’d never have lost her,’ the Commissioner said, suddenly changing tack.
‘As I’ve already told you, sir, I couldn’t be there because Molly would have recognized me,’ Blackstone said. ‘Besides, I had confidence in the two men I’d assigned—’
‘That was certainly well placed, wasn’t it?’
‘—who would have successfully accomplished their task had it not been for the outside interference.’
The Commissioner sighed theatrically. ‘You’re a very good detective, Inspector Blackstone,’ he said, ‘but you’re going to come badly unstuck over this business. And when you do, don’t expect me to pull you out of the mess you’ve landed yourself in.’
‘Does that mean I’m still on the case, sir?’ Blackstone asked, feeling a relief that surprised even him.
‘Yes, you’re still on the case. And I’ll tell you why. One: you’re still on it because I’m not yet convinced you’ve completely crossed the line—though as I said a moment ago, I have no doubt that you will. And two: because I can’t think of another detective in the Yard who I wouldn’t have to coerce into taking over your investigation.’ The Commissioner waved his hand dismissively. ‘You can go now, Blackstone.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blackstone said. ‘And may I take the opportunity to thank you for the confidence you’ve shown in me.’
The Commissioner frowned. ‘You know that line I mentioned, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You’ve just edged a couple of inches closer towards it.’
Twenty-Three
The designers of Slater’s Restaurant on Piccadilly must have had shares in a decorative wrought ironwork factory, Blackstone thought. It was everywhere—forming a canopy over the bar, as a guard around the steps down to the tearoom, and as a banister on the stairs that led to the domed glass skylight.
There was other evidence of modest opulence, too—the waitresses all wore smart uniforms, the restaurant was carpeted throughout, and in every possible alcove and cranny the management had placed a palm plant in a round brass pot.
It was a more expensive place than Blackstone would usually have chosen to dine in—the economy-priced establishments run by Lyons and the Aerated Bread Company were usually good enough for him—but he’d argued to himself that after all the work Hannah had done for him, she deserved a real treat. Now, sitting across the table from her, he decided he’d made the right decision, because—dressed as she was—she would have looked out of place even in the fairly smart ABC.
She was wearing a blue patterned dress, with godets of contrasting, lighter coloured material down the sides. The dress had puff sleeves and a low neckline that revealed the beginnings of her firm bosom. Her hair gleamed, and she had artfully placed silk flowers in it. Blackstone could not imagine how any woman could ever be lovelier.
‘One and threepence a pound,’ the Russian woman said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘If you are thinking of buying me—which, from the way you have been so carefully examining my every flaw and failing, you must be—then I’ll cost at least one and threepence a pound.’
Blackstone felt himself start to colour. ‘I’m...I’m sorry,’ he stuttered. ‘I don’t mean to stare.’
Hannah laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it, Sam,’ she said. ‘I am not one your typical English women who dress to attract—and then are completely scandalized when they catch someone looking at them. I am flattered when I see in a man’s eyes that he wants me.’
I do want you, Blackstone thought. More than I can ever remember wanting a woman before.
The waitress arrived with the menus.
‘What will you have?’ the Inspector asked his guest.
Hannah laid her menu aside. ‘I think l would rather prefer to leave the choice up to you.’
With the confident air of a man who knows his food, Blackstone ordered veal in a cream and mushroom sauce for both of them.
‘Will you be having wine with your meal, sir?’ the waitress asked.
Would they? He supposed so—but he had never ordered wine in his life, and had no idea what to choose.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to select the wine,’ Hannah said.
When the waitress had left them, Blackstone said, ‘Do you think that Count Turgenev is some kind of diplomat?’
Hannah laughed. She seemed to laugh a lot, Blackstone thought, but while the laughs sometimes seemed to have a bitter edge to them, this one was filled with genuine amusement.
‘Have I said something funny?’ he asked.
‘You’re always the policeman, aren’t you?’ Hannah replied. ‘Here you are, out with a beautiful woman—and I am beautiful, aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ Blackstone said. ‘You’re beautiful.’
‘Out with a beautiful woman, and all that you can think about is your detective work.’
Blackstone grinned ruefully. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I just can’t help it, I suppose.’
Hannah clucked in mock disapproval. ‘Very well then. We will get the business out of the way now, so that after that we can converse like normal people. I know nothing of Count Turgenev but what I have seen with my own eyes. I know that he gambles heavily and is not assured enough of his own safety to walk the streets alone. Beyond that he is a mystery to me.’ She paused. ‘Can we talk about something else, now?’
‘Of course,’ Blackstone agreed, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘What subject shall we choose?’
‘Tell me about Afghanistan.’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘There’s nothing more boring than ex-soldiers recounting old hardships.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ Hannah told him. ‘I want to know what you learned from it.’
‘You mean, what I learned about the country?’
‘No, not what you learned of it—what you learned from it. How it changed you as a man. If, that is, it did.’
‘Oh, it did,’ Blackstone said sincerely.
‘Then tell me about that.’
‘All right,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But if it’s going to make any sense, then first I’ll have to tell you one of those war stories you’ll find boring.’
‘I’m sure it will be worth it in the end.’
‘We were on the march from Kabul to Kandahar,’ Blackstone said. ‘General Roberts was forcing quite a pace—well, I suppose he had to, really, at least by his lights—and inevitably some people got sick and fell behind the main column. And once they did that, they were slaughtered by the Afghans who’d been hiding in the hills. This went on for a number of days, then a few of us fitter lads got permission to detach ourselves from the column and stay with the walking wounded. That way we could protect them, and they’d have a fair chance of catching up with the column once the general had called a halt for the day.’
Hannah smiled. ‘Whose idea was that?’
‘I think it might have been mine,’ Blackstone confessed. ‘Anyway, one day we came under attack from a bunch of Pathan bandits. It was all hand-to-hand fighting. Very messy. I’d just killed one of them, and I turned round to find that another one was standing on a rock a few yards away. He had his musket raised, and he was pointing it at me. The thing was, he was very slow and clumsy, and I knew there was a good chance I could shoot him before he shot me. But I didn’t take my chance.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because he couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old.’
‘Did he fire at you?’
‘He didn’t get the opportunity. One of my comrades picked him off.’ Blackstone laughed, though without much humour. ‘So, you see, it was a pretty empty gesture on my part.’
‘I think it was a beautiful gesture,’ Hannah said.
‘That’s when I realized I’d learned a lesson about myself,’ Blackstone told her.
‘And what lesson was that?’
‘That I don’t want to die, but there are things I simply will not do in order to stay alive.’
The waitress brought their food and they ate in companionable silence, savouring the rich sauce and the tender meat. Nor did they say very much over the sorbets that followed, either, and it was only when they were drinking their coffee that Hannah suddenly slammed down her cup and said, ‘Damn!’
‘What’s the matter?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I think I’m catching Blackstone’s Disease,’ the Russian woman replied.
‘Blackstone’s Disease?’
‘I’m starting to become as obsessed with this case as you are.’ She paused for a second. ‘If I asked you a question about Charles Smith—assuming that’s his real name—would you give me an honest answer to it?’
‘I’d like to, but my instructions from the Commissioner are that—’ Blackstone began.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Hannah interrupted.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘An important policeman like yourself would not be spending so much of your time on the case if he wasn’t.’
‘Perhaps I’m not quite as important as you seem to imagine,’ Blackstone countered.
Hannah reached across the table and took his hand in hers. He felt a tingle run up his arm.
‘I am willing to help you in any way I can, Sam, but you must be honest with me,’ she said earnestly. ‘We have to learn to trust each other.’
This was a test she was giving him, Blackstone realized, and if he failed it, she would walk out of his life for ever. Out of his investigation, he corrected himself. She would walk out of his investigation for ever.
‘You’re right in thinking that Charles Smith is no more than an alias,’ he told the Russian woman, ‘but however much you press me, I simply can’t tell you what his real name was.’
‘If you say that, I must accept that you have very good reasons,’ Hannah said. ‘But perhaps there is something about him you can tell me. You talk about him in the past tense. Does that mean that he is dead?’
Blackstone hesitated, then saw that in his very hesitation, he was telling what she wanted to know. ‘Yes, Charles Smith is dead,’ he said heavily.
‘How did he die?’
There was no delicate way to phrase it. ‘A few nights ago someone slit his throat and dumped his body in the river.’
Hannah shuddered. ‘Poor Charles!’
‘Were you very fond of him?’ Blackstone asked, noticing that she was still holding his hand.
‘Not very fond.’ Hannah replied. ‘He was nothing but a child when compared to you. But I did like him, and even if I hadn’t, I don’t like to think of anyone being killed in such a terrible way.’ Another pause. ‘You suspect Count Turgenev is behind the murder, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Blackstone admitted.
‘Then he is much more than the degenerate aristocrat he appears to be. He is a very dangerous man—and you would be wise to tread warily.’
‘Are you saying that you think I should stop asking questions about him?’
‘That would certainly be a start.’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve always followed any leads in an investigation I’ve conducted to their natural conclusion, and I’m too set in my ways to change now.’
‘What is it you English say?’ Hannah asked. ‘“There is no fool like an old fool”?’
Her words stung him more than he could have imagined they would. But he was forced to acknowledge that she was right. Compared to her, he was old—and in pursuing Count Turgenev, he was probably a fool.
Hannah squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t look so downhearted,’ she said in a soft, silky voice. ‘There is something very appealing about an old fool.’
Twenty-Four
Dusk was falling as Thaddeus Tompkins left the pawnbroker’s shop where he worked and headed for his lodgings.
He was a far from happy man. The meeting with the detective that morning had made him very nervous, and the phone call that followed it had done nothing to allay his fear. Perhaps he should leave London, he thought. But to do that he would need money—and the only sou
rce of that was the man he would be running away from.
He felt a sudden chill run through his body. He looked around wildly. To his immediate right were the Royal Courts of Justice—the Old Bailey. To his left, just down Middle Temple Lane, were the Inns of Court. He was at the very heart of the British system of law and order, he reminded himself, so why should he be afraid? Besides, what had he done that was so wrong? Told one small lie! Said that a certain person had been to see him, when, in fact, that certain person hadn’t! And even if he was scared of the man who had put him up to it, surely, having done the job properly, he no longer had anything to fear.
A four-wheeled cab that had been travelling down Fleet Street at a fair trot suddenly came to a stop next to him. The door swung open and a man’s voice said, ‘G’day, Mr Tompkins. Would you like to get in?’
The moment he heard the Australian accent, the pawnbroker’s clerk was overwhelmed by a sense of dread.
‘I’d...I’d prefer to walk, Mr Seymour,’ he said.
‘That’s what I always told myself when I was poor,’ the other man replied. ‘Now I’m rich, I like to travel in style. So get in, Mr Tompkins. We have business to discuss—accounts to settle.’
‘Send the money to the office,’ Tompkins croaked.
The other man chuckled. ‘That wouldn’t be a very intelligent thing to do, now would it? Anyway, l don’t just want to talk about our past dealings—I may have some new work for you.’
‘I...I don’t want to help you any more.’
‘I wouldn’t really think you’d got any choice in the matter,’ the other man said, some of the geniality leeching out of his voice. ‘Besides,’ he added, his former jovial tone returning, ‘what have you got to worry about, Cobber? Do you really think I intend to do you some harm? If I did, would I try it on right in the centre of your own city, with a London cabbie—the salt of the earth—as a witness? You must have a very low opinion of one of us if you can imagine that, Mr Tompkins.’
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 15