by James Lear
“The best.”
“What’s this husband of hers like?”
“Morgan? My best friend in the world.”
One eyebrow lifted a little. “Indeed. Seems to have a gift for friendship, our Mr. Morgan.”
“He was always popular, even at Cambridge,” I said, not liking the tone of Trent’s voice.
“I gather he’s being questioned.”
“Of course. He was the last person to see Frank Bartlett alive.”
“Naturally, naturally. And they’ve kept him in.”
“Well, I suppose there’s a lot to be…”
“Discussed? Yes. There would be, in a case like this.”
We held each other’s gaze. Where was this leading?
“Mr. Mitchell, may I speak frankly?”
“Of course.”
He stood in front of the window with his back to me, his large hands clasped behind him, like a teacher about to deliver a punishment. “My sister knew something of her husband’s life,” he said. “It was a marriage more of companionship than love, if you understand my meaning.”
“I see.”
“When she learned yesterday of this terrible thing, she was… How can I put this? She was not surprised.”
“Ah.”
“She has suspected for some time that things were not… as they should be.”
“In what way?”
“Come on, Mitchell,” he said, turning to face me, “you know the score.” His eyes held the question that his lips could not frame: Are you one of them as well?
“Yes, I do.”
“Thought so. Now listen to me, Mitchell. What a man does in his private life is nobody’s business but his own. I don’t judge.”
Big of you, I thought.
“And I could see that Vivie and Frank were happy in their own way. Always thought it was a shame they never had children. Keep a marriage alive, children. I’ve got a son of my own—twelve years old now, and he’s the apple of my eye.”
Did all this family talk presage some kind of confession? I hoped so.
“But each to his own, or her own, and Vivie knew the score when she accepted Frank Bartlett as her husband. He provided well for her, as you can see.”
“Absolutely.”
“And there was never any breath of scandal. Bartlett was accepted in even the highest social circles, with Vivie at his side. But—well, she knew, and I knew, that he had other interests.”
“Yes,” I said. “So I understand.”
“From Morgan?” The question snapped out of him. “What did he tell you?”
I saw the trap opening, and sidestepped it. “Not a thing. I spoke to Mr. Bartlett’s colleague.”
“That scoundrel, Tippett? Nasty little toady.”
“On the contrary, Tippett seemed to be devoted to his boss.”
“Devoted? Oh, yes, he gave that impression. I never liked the man, personally. I don’t care for the type. No offense, I hope.”
“None taken.” Any hope I may have had of scratching that itch was fast fading.
“What did he say?”
“He mentioned that there may have been some financial pressures on Mr. Bartlett.”
“Spit it out, man. Frank was being blackmailed.”
“Who by?”
Don’t say Morgan.
“Some dreadful person that he…knew.”
“Do you have a name?”
“No, damn it, I don’t, because if I did I would have the bounder drummed out of the guards and clapped in irons.”
“The guards?” This had the ring of truth about it—guardsmen were a popular pastime for men of Bartlett’s means, and were also notorious for biting the hand that fondled them. “You mean the blackmailer was a soldier?”
“A disgrace to the king’s uniform.”
“You don’t happen to know his regiment?”
“Of course not. Frank didn’t advertise the details of his indiscretions.”
“Indiscretions hardly seems the right word, Mr. Trent. It seems to me that Mr. Bartlett was discretion itself. If, as you say, he was welcomed in the highest social circles in the land…”
Trent brushed away my remark. “Met him at the Parthenon, that’s all I know. That bloody place should be shut down. It’s a haven for immorality. Disgusting.”
You mean they turned you down.
“Did Bartlett tell you this, Mr. Trent?”
“Yes. We had an awkward talk about it a couple of years ago. He came to me in desperate straits. Said this guardsman was dunning him for money. Didn’t go into details—didn’t need to, and he knew I wouldn’t want to hear that kind of muck—I’ve got a wife and son of my own, I don’t want to roll in the filth.”
“Of course,” I said, thinking of the dozens of husbands and fathers who had been happy, nay eager, to “roll in the filth” with me. There seemed little point in arguing with Trent, whose facial hair confirmed him as a man of set opinions—set in the last century. All I wanted from him now was information.
“Of course I offered to help, because I didn’t want to see my sister dragged down, and with her the family name. I helped him out with a bit of financial jiggery pokery. Bartlett’s a wealthy man—was a wealthy man, I should say. But it wasn’t always easy for him to lay his hands on ready cash when he needed it. All his assets are tied up, salted away, sitting in the five percents paying for all this.” He gestured around the room, and I could see the envy in his eyes.
“You lent him money?”
“God, no. I don’t have much to spare, and what I do have I spend on my boy.” That son of his again; how many times could Trent remind me that he was a family man? Was this a case of a “lady” protesting too much? I’d had to listen to these paternal litanies often enough before, sometimes just moments before the mouth was lowered onto my erect prick.
Not in this case, however.
“What, then?”
“I brokered a deal with a pal of mine in the city. Rustled up the necessary.”
“A money lender?”
“That sort of thing, although he wouldn’t thank you for calling him that. He prefers to be known as a venture capitalist.”
“A rose by any other name,” I said. “So Bartlett told you a little about his predicament, I suppose.”
“I didn’t ask, if that’s what you’re implying. There was no quid pro quo. I’d rather have had nothing to do with it. But as I say, I wouldn’t see Vivie dragged down without a fight.”
“And as far as you know, the blackmailer was paid off?”
“At first, yes. But now it seems that Frank found other ways to pay him.”
“You mean—?”
“Think about it, man. He had his fingers in the till. Must have done. What possible reason could there be for him to do such a dreadful thing? He knew the game was up.”
“But why would he do it at Morgan’s house?”
“Last spark of decency in an otherwise corrupt soul,” said Trent, with a note of appalling piety in his voice. “Didn’t want to soil his own nest.”
“So he soiled Morgan’s instead.”
“Birds of a feather,” said Trent.
At that point, Belinda opened the door. The children were in their coats, all ready to go home. Just in time; I was ready to knock Trent’s teeth out.
“Come on, Belinda,” I said, “let’s get you home and leave Mr. Trent”—I almost spat the name—“in peace.”
We piled into a cab, much to the children’s delight. There was much that I wanted to ask Belinda—what had been said, was there any mention of the will, did anyone suspect Morgan of wrongdoing? But, since the children demanded our attention, and I failed to think of ways of broaching the subject that did not implicate her husband in Bartlett’s death, we reached Wimbledon without a single question being asked.
The children were taken upstairs by the maid. As soon as they were out of sight, Belinda’s demeanor changed.
“Mitch, what’s happening? Where is Boy?”
/>
“He’s at the police station. Helping with their inquiries.”
“But…he’s not—”
“No. Of course not.” I was never sure just how much Belinda knew or suspected of her husband’s true nature; perhaps, like many wives, she imagined that a certain amount of extramarital activity took place with male friends, she accepted it and found it to be no threat, and focused her mind on the good things about her marriage—of which there were many, this elegant house among them.
“I’m so worried, Mitch.” Her eyes held mine, looking for answers or reassurance—neither of which I could give.
“Look, Billie,” I said, “I can’t do anything by hanging around here. You need to rest. You look exhausted.”
“I didn’t sleep. Poor Vivie was in a state.”
“I’m going to find out what’s going on. Stay here. If Morgan comes home, tell him Mitch is on the case.”
“I will.” She put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “Good old Mitch. You’ve been very good to us, you know. We both love you very much.” She kissed me on the cheek and followed the children upstairs.
I took the train back to town, washed and changed in my hospital quarters, and wondered what the hell to do next.
Chapter Eleven
IF I WERE A REAL DETECTIVE, AS OPPOSED TO A BUNGLING amateur with a supercharged libido, I would by now have formed some kind of overall picture of the case, and would be charging from one address to another asking seemingly irrelevant questions about minute details, much to everyone’s bafflement. Then, suddenly, the pieces would cohere and I would finger the villain while leaning against a mantel-piece in an elegant drawing room, shaking my head in regret at the wickedness of humanity while all around offered me congratulations.
Unfortunately the “Mitch Mitchell Method,” such as it is, involves blundering in a thick fog of confusion, from which cocks and asses occasionally emerge to demand my attention, until I trip over something so obvious that I should have noticed it right away.
I was pondering my general uselessness and lack of mental acuity, picturing that thick fog of confusion punctuated by male sexual parts—and this led me naturally to think about steamrooms, of which London is so gratifyingly full. My first instinct was to visit one forthwith and see what was offered; my second thought was that Morgan had mentioned the steamrooms at the Parthenon Club as a regular haunt of the late Frank Bartlett—the place where their mutual attraction had first been revealed. Now, if anyone knew anything about the private pleasures of Frank Bartlett, it would be the patrons and staff of the Parthenon Club, one of those exclusive establishments where the pillars of the British Empire relax and unwind, without women, secure in the knowledge that what goes on behind that mock-Classical facade will never be spoken of beyond the Doric columns that guard the door.
Fortunately for me, my professor at the hospital is well connected in London social circles, and had equipped me with a letter of introduction to the Parthenon which would give me limited access as his guest; if he suspected what I would use it for, he did not let on, being the type of tight-lipped Scot to whom any mention of the physical, outside a strictly medical context, is unthinkable. Perhaps he, too, got his rocks off in the comforting obscurity of the steamrooms; if so, he would never tell, and I would never ask. But that letter stood me in good stead, and within minutes of presenting myself at the front desk I was being directed down a dark wooden staircase, flanked with portraits of prominent members, to the moist areas in the basement. It was barely noon, but already the place was busy; in the changing room, a Spartan arrangement of benches and coat hooks, there were perhaps 20 men, all of them over 50, dressing and undressing, or simply sitting wrapped in towels discussing the issues of the day. My arrival caused a discreet flurry of interest, and as I removed my clothes I was conscious of several pairs of eyes flickering in my direction. If I were a gigolo, I think I could turn a tidy profit in the lower regions of the Parthenon Club.
“Say, where can I get a massage around here?” I said to a plump, rosy-faced gent who had been watching me more intently than most. It was a redundant question; I could see clearly into an adjoining room with four tables, only one of which was currently occupied by a man, facedown, who was being roughly handled by what looked like a Turkish wrestler. But I wanted to engage him in conversation; he looked like a regular, the type who would notice all the comings and goings, and would not be too discreet to pass on a bit of local news to a curious, attractive, and naked young stranger.
“I’m sure Tabib will be delighted to be of service, as soon as he’s finished the Judge.” The man nodded toward the tables.
“Is he good, this Tabib?”
A hand went up to his chest. “Oh! The best. Really, it’s very lucky that you dropped in today. He’s only here Mondays and Thursdays and he’s much in demand. By about three o’clock they’ll be queuing up to be manhandled by Tabib.”
“This is my lucky day.” I sat opposite the man on a slat-ted wooden bench, a white towel wrapped around my waist but otherwise naked, just as he was. This way, he could see just as much as I chose to show him. “Should I go next door and wait?”
“No! Stay right where you are.” My plan, such as it was, was working. “Tabib! Customer for you! What’s your name, sir?”
“Mitchell.”
“Mr. Mitchell,” he shouted again. “A visitor from the United States, I believe.” I nodded, and he pursed his lips in satisfaction. “Tabib is a good friend of mine. He’ll give you every satisfaction, I am sure.”
“I sure look forward to that.” I stretched my arms above my head, allowing him to see my hairy armpits. “I’m sore after a game of soccer. I need some steam, I guess.”
“Let Tabib work his magic, and then relax through there.” He pointed to a pair of double doors with glass port-holes. “The Parthenon steamroom is the best in London.”
“So I hear.”
“Ah. You have…friends here?”
“Sure.” There was no point in beating around the bush. “Do you know Frank Bartlett?”
“Oh.” He rolled his eyes, narrowed them, pursed his lips again—a whole repertoire of facial tics to express knowing-ness. “Mr. Bartlett. Yes. We all know…him.”
I thought for a moment he was going to say her. Perhaps, if we knew each other better, he would have.
“Great guy,” I said, and then extended my hand. “Edward Mitchell, by the way. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He took my hand. “Gerald Osborne, MBE, at your service.” He tittered. “I’m sorry. I never can resist mentioning my order.”
“I’m impressed.”
This time he adjusted his features to express an unconvincing modesty. “Oh, really! No, don’t be. Just for services to war veterans. One does what one can.” I felt sure that Gerald Osborne, MBE, had done a great deal for war veterans in one way or another, though “another” was probably not what he’d gotten his medal for.
“So, you known Frank for long?”
“Oh yes. He’s a regular. Always down here.”
“Well, it’s a swell place. Looks like a man can get just what he needs.”
“Indeed.”
“Massage. And steam.”
“Absolutely.” Osborne sucked his cheeks in, moved his lower jaw from side to side and did something complicated with his eyebrows. This telegraphed “understanding,” possibly tempered with constipation.
“So, Frank…”
“Hmmm?”
“He enjoys the…facilities?”
“To the full.”
“As it happens,” I said, “another fellow was telling me recently what a great place this is. His name is—”—I made a pretense of searching my memory—“Oh God, what is it? I was talking to him only just the other day. How ridiculous.”
“What does he look like? I know most of them.”
“Tall, well-made guy,” I improvised. “In the guards. Knows Frank, or knew him at any rate.”
“Oh,” sai
d Osborne, with a look of disgust. “The person to whom you refer is no longer a member.”
“You’re kidding! He told me that—”
“Whatever that man has told you is not to be believed.” Osborne crossed his arms over his ample chest. “I’m afraid that with the best will in the world, sometimes the Parthenon slips up and admits…a wrong’un.”
“Gosh,” I said, all hurt surprise, “and he seems like such a nice guy.”
“So we all thought. At first.”
“Oh well.” I made a pretense of wanting to change the subject. “I wonder how much longer Tabib will be.”
I knew that Osborne wanted to gossip, and would spill the beans much quicker if he thought I was slipping out of his grasp. “Actually,” he said in a whisper, “he attempted to blackmail some of us.”
“Who? Tabib?”
“No! McDermott.”
“That’s it!” I clicked my fingers. “McDermott. Of course. Met him in a pub on Shaftesbury Avenue.”
“That sounds about his level.”
“So, he’s a blackmailer. Wow. I’d never have thought it. He seemed such a nice, genuine guy.”
“Appearances can be very deceptive, Mr. Mitchell. Alas for those of us who try to maintain some faith in human nature. All too often it’s the most beautiful containers that conceal the most putrid rottenness.”
This was getting a little too poetic for my liking, so I put one foot up on the bench, crooking my leg and revealing a bit of scrotum as I did so. “Well, he sure has one hell of a nice container, rotten or not,” I said. “Good thing I didn’t—you know.”
“Come now,” said Osborne. Was this a request, or simply a turn of phrase? “A young chap like you would never need to avail yourself of the services of a McDermott. If anything,” he murmured, almost dreamily, “one would expect you to be on the other side of the coin. As it were.”
His metaphors were muddled, but telling. McDermott, the blackmailing guardsman, was charging for what I give away for free. Judging by the glint in Osborne’s eyes, he would drop a few pounds if I would drop the towel. The thought was not unpleasant; I often think that if I hadn’t succeeded in my medical career, then prostitution would be the obvious path to follow. And though Osborne wasn’t personally attractive to me, I found his keen interest arousing. My cock started to stir, and he watched it like an owl watching a vole.