The butler’s parlour was furnished with articles considered no longer good enough to be above stairs, but it was still far more luxurious than anything a police inspector would ever be able to afford, Blackstone thought.
Would have been able to afford, he reminded himself. Now that he’d lost his job, he could afford nothing.
The butler poured them both a glass of port wine, and took a seat opposite Blackstone.
‘Why do you think the Viscount was involved in his brother’s death?’ he asked.
‘A few days before Charles Montcliffe died, he and Hugo had a fight and Hugo gave his brother a black eye. You’re not going to deny that, are you?’
‘No,’ Hoskins said quietly. ‘I’m not going to deny it.’
‘Then after Charles died, I came up with a plan to find Thomas. Lord Dalton put it to the family. Hugo vigorously opposed it, and then—when it was plain that the Earl would give his consent—he leaked the details to his friends outside.’
‘What are you talking about?’ the butler asked. ‘Which friends?’
‘Friends he first met in Australia. And what’s happening now is that there’s a conspiracy afoot to protect the heir to the precious Montcliffe title at whatever the cost—a conspiracy that you’re probably a part of. But it won’t work! If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see Hugo Montcliffe swings for his brother’s murder.’
The butler shook his head, almost pityingly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Mr Blackstone.’
‘So put me right.’
‘Very well,’ the butler agreed. ‘But I must be allowed to explain things in my own way.’
‘All right.’
‘As butler to this household, it is my duty to protect the Family from any unpleasantness—’ Hoskins began.
‘Get on with it,’ Blackstone said impatiently.
‘Part of my job is to ensure that the Family are not exploited by any of their servants. But I also have a responsibility to my staff. I must ensure that they, too, are not exploited—either by each other or...’ he lowered his voice, ‘...or by anyone from above stairs.’
‘Are you saying—’
‘There have been times during my buttling career when a pretty parlour maid has caught the eye of the master I was serving, or—more often—one of his sons. I have always seen it as my job to ensure that such an attraction is not allowed to develop into a situation.’
‘How’ve you managed that?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Oh, there are ways,’ the butler said. ‘A raised eyebrow. A subtle word. They soon come to understand that to cross the forbidden line will be degrading both to the girl and to themselves.’ He permitted himself a ghost of a smile. ‘The upper orders are not always as stupid and insensitive as you seem to think they are, Inspector.’
‘How does Hugo fit into this? Are you saying that he was attracted to one of the servants?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it Molly?’
‘No,’ the butler said softly. ‘Regretfully, I have to tell you that it was Thomas who had caught his eye.’
What was it Turgenev had said about Hugo? Blackstone asked himself.
That not only was the Viscount as stupid as his father, but he also had some distasteful habits!
‘You’re telling me the Viscount is a sodomite?’ he asked the butler.
‘I would not put it in quite such stark terms,’ Mr Hoskins replied, ‘but I have to admit that the Viscount did become obsessed with Thomas. He would find excuses to be alone with his brother’s valet, and would brush his body up against the poor man. It soon became plain to me that nothing I could do or say would stop him, and the situation could only get worse.’ The butler sighed heavily. ‘And so I was forced to do something I have never had to do before in all my years of buttling. I asked a member of the Family to intervene on Thomas’s behalf.’
‘Charles!’ Blackstone said.
‘Master Charles,’ the butler agreed. ‘He was outraged when I told him what was going on. He had a fierce argument with his brother, and the Viscount, who has always found it easier to think with his body than with his mind, knocked him down. So you see, there is no dark conspiracy to protect a murderer. Thomas did not run away because he knew who had killed his master—he did it to escape the unwanted attentions of his master’s brother. And the reason the Viscount does not want Thomas found is because he is afraid of the scandal that might create.’
*
As Blackstone made his way slowly up the servants’ steps on legs that felt as if they were made of lead, his mind was in turmoil. He had been so sure—so very sure—that while it would not be easy to prove his case, he at least had a case to prove. Hoskins had put an end to all that. The butler was probably wrong when he said that the only reason Thomas had fled the house was to escape the attentions of Viscount Montcliffe. The valet had to have known something about the story Charles was working on, or Turgenev would never have made such elaborate efforts to track him down. But the butler had probably been right when he’d claimed that the reason Hugo did not want Thomas found was because of the potential for scandal.
So where did that leave the investigation? A prime suspect had been eliminated—a suspect Blackstone had intended to use as the key to open the whole can of worms. And without that lead, where could he go next? He no longer had the resources of Scotland Yard at his disposal. He didn’t even have the authority to question suspects any more. He did not want to give up—but he simply didn’t see what else he could do.
He was dimly aware of the sound of horses’ hoofs, and of the coach, bearing the Montcliffe family crest, pulling up beside him. He found himself watching—without much real interest—as the coachman opened the door and Lady Emily climbed out.
‘Inspector Blackstone!’ she said. ‘I’ve been to Scotland Yard to look for you, but they said you’d been suspended.’
‘And so I have,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘The Home Secretary and your father joined forces to see to that.’
A shocked look came to Lady Emily’s face.
‘But that’s terrible! Apart from William and myself, you seem to be the only person interested in finding out who killed Charles.’
A question suddenly appeared, unbidden, in Blackstone’s mind. It shocked him to find it there. It was not the kind of question he would have come up with before his night of passion with Hannah, he recognized. And it was not the kind of question he should be putting to someone like Lady Emily. Yet, he badly wanted to know the answer.
‘Do you love Lord Dalton?’ he asked.
Lady Emily looked down at the pavement. ‘William is the kindest and most considerate of men,’ she said.
‘We both know that’s no answer,’ Blackstone said softly.
Lady Emily lifted her head again, and looked him in the eye. ‘The most important word in my family is not “love”,’ she said. ‘It is “duty”. Duty to the Crown—and duty to the Montcliffe name. That is why two of my brothers are serving with Her Majesty’s forces overseas, and why I...and why I...’
‘Why you’re marrying Lord Dalton?’ Blackstone supplied. ‘Out of duty to the family?’
‘I will learn to love William over time,’ Lady Emily said determinedly. She reached into her bag. ‘I almost forgot,’ she continued. ‘The reason I went to see you at Scotland Yard was that I have something to give you.’
She produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to him. On it, written in a handwriting that looked very like Charles Montcliffe’s, were a few hastily scribbled notes.
Empire Livings Pictures, 37 Fenchurch Street: are they involved?
Pro: Why has Turgenev told ‘Seymour’ to give them money if they’re not?
Anti: Don’t see how they fit into the scheme.
Need to talk to someone else. William? The Police?
‘Where did you find this?’ Blackstone asked.
‘In Charles’ room. I...I go there sometimes. I find it a comfort. The last time I was there, I walked over to the fireplace
. I don’t know why. The fire was laid, though, of course, it hasn’t been lit for months. I noticed that amongst all the pieces of balled-up newspaper, there was one sheet which was plain. It was this note that Charles had written to himself. What does it mean? What are living pictures?’
‘It’s the latest novelty,’ Blackstone said. ‘They flash thousands of pictures, each one slightly different from the one which preceded it, on to a screen. It gives the impression of movement.’
And Charles Montcliffe had suspected that this particular living picture company was involved in a plot with Turgenev—had believed it so strongly, in fact, that he had been considering taking his suspicions to either Dalton or the police. It would have been a wise move to have done just that, Blackstone thought, and if he’d followed it through, he might still be alive.
‘Is it of any use to you?’ Lady Emily asked anxiously.
‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone admitted.
But already the fires of hope—fires that had been all but extinguished a few minutes earlier—were burning brightly again.
Twenty-Eight
In many ways, it could have been any normal weekday morning on Southwark Street. Trams, carrying their penny passengers, were rattling up and down the road as they always did. Wharfingers in frock coats scurried self-importantly along the pavements with wads of shipping manifests tucked under their arms. A bill-sticker was pasting an advertisement for the latest show at the New Savoy on to a convenient wall. A beer boy was weaving his way in and out of the stream of foot traffic and using the pole from which his cans of beer hung as an encouragement to other pedestrians to clear a way for him. Yet there was also a new excitement in the air—an excitement born out of the fact that the Queen, who had probably never even been to the East End before, would soon be passing—in state—along this very street.
The preparations for her procession were well underway. Line after line of brightly coloured bunting had been strung across the road, photographs of Her Majesty were on display in every window—and two young men in worn suits watched anxiously as a gang of workmen erected wooden scaffolding in front of a second-hand clothes shop.
Blackstone tapped one of the two young men on the shoulder. ‘I’m looking for the owners of the Empire Living Picture Company,’ he said. ‘The girl at the office said I’d find them here.’
The men turned to face him. ‘I’m Mr Dobkins,’ said the shorter, stockier of the two, ‘and this—’ indicating his tall thin companion—‘is Mr Wottle. And who are you?’
‘Police,’ Blackstone said.
Wottle, who had a naturally pale complexion, went even whiter. ‘We’ve got written permission from the council to put the platform up,’ he said. ‘I can show it to you, if you like.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ Blackstone told him. He looked up at the scaffolding. ‘So that’s where you’ll have your camera, is it?’
‘Our two cameras,’ Dobkins said, his tone somehow suggesting that he felt slighted by Blackstone thinking they’d use only one. ‘This is going to be the greatest living picture ever filmed.’
‘Expect to make a lot of money out of it, do you?’ Blackstone asked.
‘We expect to make a fortune,’ Dobkins replied, the aggression still in his voice.
‘There are millions of people flocking into London for the Jubilee,’ Wottle said, ‘but there are many millions more who can’t come, and they’ll want to see it as much as everybody else does.’
‘We’ll be able to sell the living pictures to every music hall in the entire country,’ Dobkins said. ‘Anyway, what can we do for you?’ he continued, ostentatiously checking his pocket watch. ‘Please be brief and to the point, because—as you can see—we’re very busy men.’
‘I’d like to know if either of you have ever had any dealings with a journalist called Charles Smith,’ Blackstone said.
‘We’ve talked to him,’ Wottle admitted.
‘Where?’
‘He came to our office.’
‘How long ago?’
‘I think it was a week yesterday.’
‘And what did he want?’
‘He said he was interested in writing a piece on living pictures,’ Wottle replied.
‘But that was a complete bloody lie!’ Dobkins added. ‘He had no real interest in them at all. When I was explaining to him how they are going to change the world, I don’t think he was even listening.’
The manager of the Ghetto Bank had said pretty much the same about Charles Montcliffe’s lack of interest in what he considered to be the big story, Blackstone thought. Charles Montcliffe might have been good at collecting facts, but he’d certainly had no idea of how to handle people.
‘So if he wasn’t interested in living pictures, what was he interested in?’ the Inspector asked.
‘He wanted to know what dealings we’d had with some Russian chap,’ Dobkins said.
‘I think his name was Count Turgulev—or something like that, anyway,’ Wottle added.
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘The truth,’ Wottle said. ‘That we’ve had no dealings at all with any Russian, let alone with a count.’
‘Did he seem happy with your answer?’
Dobkins snorted. ‘Far from it. He had the impertinence to question us further. Asked if we had a partner.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him exactly what I’ll tell you—that whether we have a partner or not is no one’s business but our own.’
‘I could make it my business,’ Blackstone said. He reached out for one of the scaffolding poles, and shook it. ‘Now that doesn’t seem very stable to me. I think there’s a real danger it might fall down and hurt somebody. Maybe I’d better have a word with the local coppers about it.’
‘We do have a partner,’ Wottle said hurriedly. ‘His name is Mr Seymour.’
Are they involved? Charles Montcliffe had scribbled down on his piece of paper. Pro: Why has Turgenev told ‘Seymour’ to give them money if they’re not?
‘Tell me more about this Mr Seymour of yours,’ Blackstone said.
‘He’s filthy rich, but he’ll never be a gentleman,’ Dobkins replied.
‘He can he a little blunt and direct,’ Wottle explained, ‘but I expect that comes from being Australian.’
‘How long has he been your partner?’
‘He first came to see us a few wee—’ Wottle began.
‘Why should that possibly interest you?’ Dobkins interrupted.
Because it had interested Charles Montcliffe, Blackstone thought.
But aloud, he said, ‘It would be a real pity if that scaffolding did have to come down, now wouldn’t it?’
The two young men exchanged questioning glances, and then Dobkins gave Wottle a reluctant nod.
‘Mr Seymour came to see us a few weeks ago,’ Wottle told Blackstone. ‘He said that he’d had a very good idea, but he didn’t have the technical skill to see it through himself.’
‘And what was this good idea of his?’
Wottle pointed to the scaffolding. ‘This. Making a living picture of the Jubilee procession.’
‘I see,’ Blackstone said. ‘But what I don’t understand is why, once he’d told you his idea, you needed to take him on as a partner.’
‘He had money and we didn’t,’ said Wottle ruefully.
‘You were in debt?’
‘Up to our necks. It wasn’t just that we owed rent on the office. We’d fallen behind on the payments for the equipment. Another couple of days, and we’d have lost everything.’
‘So he paid off your bills for you in return for a share of the profits of this living picture?’
‘That’s right,’ Wottle agreed.
‘What percentage is he actually getting?’
‘Twenty!’ said Dobkins, who seemed to have the ability to make even a simple answer seem like an act of defiance.
‘And how much would you have given him if he’d pushed you?’ Bla
ckstone wondered.
‘Twenty percent was very fair,’ Dobkins said.
‘We’d have given him fifty percent,’ Wottle said candidly.
‘Perhaps even more.’
‘Can you give me an address for this Mr Seymour of yours?’ Blackstone asked.
The two young men looked blankly at him.
‘No, I’m afraid we can’t,’ Wottle confessed.
‘But you must have been to his office, surely.’
‘He always comes to ours.’
Blackstone sighed. ‘All right, I’ll have to find him the hard way,’ he said. ‘Give me either the name of the solicitor who drew up the deeds of partnership or the name of Seymour’s bank.’
‘There were no deeds of partnership,’ Wottle told him. ‘Mr Seymour was quite happy with a handshake. He said they often did business that way back in Australia.’
‘His bank, then,’ Blackstone said impatiently. ‘The place you got the credit drafts from.’
‘I can’t help you there, either,’ Wottle said. ‘Mr Seymour always prefers to do his business in cash.’
Twenty-Nine
The public house was called the Eagle and Child. It was a poky, uncomfortable place, with both the walls and the ceiling stained a dark nicotine brown. Most of its customers were dockers who had failed to find work that day but still had enough money to get noisily drunk. It was not an establishment Blackstone would normally have chosen to drink in, but on that particular day it had one distinct advantage—it was not an establishment that anyone else from New Scotland Yard would choose to drink in, either.
Blackstone sat at a table in the corner, studying the legacy Charles Montcliffe had left behind him. It wasn’t much to go on—two pieces of paper, one stolen from Lord Dalton, the other given to him by Lady Emily Montcliffe. Worse yet, the two documents—if they could even be called that—seemed to have very little in common. The one that had been part of a larger sheaf of notes was so bland it could almost have been a schoolboy’s homework, the Inspector thought, whereas the other hinted at a dark conspiracy.
The pub door swung open, and Patterson walked in. The sergeant looked cautiously round the room, did a double-check, then made his way over to Blackstone’s table.
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 18