by Rhys Bowen
“Anyone who has the nerve to die in my bath without my permission has to be a blighter, Inspector,” Binky said. “If you must know, the first I knew about it was when my sister telephoned me with the news.”
“If I tell you the gentleman’s name was Gaston de Mauxville, does that ring a bell?”
“De Mauxville? Yes. I know that name.” Again he was sounding too hearty.
“I believe he was an acquaintance of our late father, wasn’t he?” I cut in.
“De Mauxville. Yes. I met him once or twice.”
“Recently?”
“Not that recently.”
“I see. So would it surprise you to know that a note was found in that gentleman’s hotel room inviting him to speak with you on a matter of great urgency at eleven o’clock yesterday at your London address?”
“Not only would it surprise me but I can tell you that I wrote no such note,” Binky said in his best ducal tones. Again our great-grandmother would have been proud.
“I happen to have the note here.” The inspector opened a folder and pushed a sheet of paper in front of us. “This was delivered by hand to Claridge’s yesterday morning and taken up to Monsieur” (he pronounced it “Mon-sewer”) “de Mauxville’s room.”
Binky and I looked at it.
“Certainly a forgery,” Binky said.
“And how can you tell that, sir?”
“For one thing, I only write on paper embossed with my crest. This is cheap stuff that one would buy in Woolworths.”
“And for another,” I said, “it’s signed ‘Hamish, Duke of Rannoch.’ My brother signs letters just plain ‘Rannoch’ to social equals, and if he were to include his full title, it would be ‘Duke of Glen Garry and Rannoch.’ ”
“And what’s more, it’s not my handwriting,” Binky said. “Close, I’ll agree. Someone has tried to imitate my style, but I cross my ts differently.”
“So you are maintaining that this note was not sent by you.”
“Precisely.”
“So what happened when the gentleman showed up on your front doorstep?”
“I have no idea. I wasn’t home. Let me see. Where was I?”
“You were planning to go home to Scotland, Binky,” I reminded him.
“That’s right. I had packed my bags ready to leave when I received a telephone call asking me to come to my club on a matter of urgency. Naturally I went straight away and found that no such message had been sent. I chewed the fat with a couple of friends and then came back to Rannoch House in time to pick up my bag from the front hall and take a taxi to the station.” It did rather sound as if he were rattling off his lines, the way one does in a school play.
“How very convenient, sir.”
“It’s ‘Your Grace.’ ”
“As you say, sir.” He looked from my brother to me. “You know what I think? I think the two of you are in this together. Why would a duke and his sister come to London alone, leaving all their servants behind, if it was not for something underhanded?”
“I’ve already told you that I left my maid behind and hadn’t had enough time to hire a new one,” I said, “and my brother was only down on business for a couple of days. He took his meals at his club.”
“But who dressed him?” The inspector was smirking now. “Don’t you upper-class folks all need valets to help you dress?”
“When one has been to a school like Gairlachan one has learned to stand on one’s own feet,” Binky said frostily.
“Besides,” I said, “what possible motive could the duke and I have in wanting to kill a strange Frenchman?”
“Plenty of motives come to mind, your ladyship.” These last words dripped with sarcasm. “This man was known to be a gambler. He was seen in one of the city’s most notorious gambling haunts this week. Maybe your brother had run up gambling debts that he couldn’t afford to repay. . . .”
“My dear man,” Binky spluttered, rising to his feet. “I can barely afford to keep my place in Scotland running. It takes every penny of my meager income to feed my cattle and my staff. We don’t heat the place. We live with incredible frugality. I assure you I have never gambled in my life!”
“All right, sir. As yet nobody has accused you of anything. We’re merely putting together pieces of the puzzle. I think that’s all for now. But I expect we’ll want to speak to you again. Will you be staying at your house—without servants?”
“I’ll be at my club,” Binky said, “and Lady Georgiana, I believe, is staying with friends.”
“We’ll be in touch, sir.” The inspector got to his feet. “Thank you both for coming in.”
The interview was at an end.
“I thought that went rather well, don’t you?” Binky said as we came out of Scotland Yard.
Rather well? This was rather like our ancestor, Bonnie Prince Charlie, saying that he thought the battle of Culloden went rather well. I wondered whether the men of our family line were unbridled optimists or just plain thick.
The next morning I awoke, with a definite crick in my neck, to see Belinda tiptoeing across the room.
“You’re up early,” I said drowsily.
“Darling, I haven’t been to bed yet—or should one correct that to I haven’t been to my own bed yet.”
“So I take it the selection of males was preferable to last night’s?”
“Absolutely, darling.”
“Are you going to elaborate?”
“That would not be discreet. Suffice it to say that it was heavenly.”
“And will you be seeing him again?”
“One never knows.” Again a dreamy smile as she made for the stairs. “I am now going to sleep. Please do not wake me, even if a body turns up in my own bathtub.”
She reached the bottom step then turned back to me. “There’s going to be a fabulous party on a boat this evening. A real boat with a motor this time. We’re going to take a picnic down the Thames to Greenwich, and you’re invited, of course.”
“Oh, I don’t think—” I began but she cut me off.
“Georgie, after what you’ve been through, you need some fun. Let your hair down. Besides, there are certain people who will be most disappointed if you don’t show up.”
“What people?”
A beatific smile. She put a red-nailed finger to her lips. “Ah, that would be telling. We’ll be taking a cab at five. See you then. Night night.”
And she was gone, leaving me wondering which people hoped to see me. Probably thrill-seekers wanting to get the gory details on a murder story, I thought angrily. I wouldn’t go. But then a ride down the Thames and a picnic in a park did sound heavenly. How long had it been since I’d truly had fun?
Until then I had already decided what I was going to do: I was going to ask help of the only person who could be of use to me—my grandfather. It was a glorious May Day with the sun shining down, the trees in blossom, the birds chirping madly, and pigeons whirling in flocks. The sort of day when one is glad to be alive, in fact. I caught the train to Upminster Bridge and walked back up the hill to Granddad’s house. He looked half pleased, half startled when he opened the door and saw me standing there.
“Well, blow me down,” he said. “ ’Ello, my love. I’ve been worried sick about you. I read it in the papers this morning. I was thinking of going to the telephone kiosk and ringing you up.”
“It wouldn’t have done any good. I’m not at Rannoch House at the moment. It’s swarming with police and reporters.”
“Of course, it would be. It would be,” he said. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in. What a terrible thing to have happened. What was it? He’d drunk too much?”
“No, I’m afraid he was murdered,” I said. “But neither Binky nor I has a clue as to who could have done it. That’s why I came down to see you. You used to be in the police force.”
“Ah, yes, but just on the beat, ducks. ’Umble copper plodding his beat, that’s what I was.”
“But you must have been p
art of criminal investigations. You know how these things work.”
He shrugged. “I don’t see what I can do. Nice cup of Rosie Lee?” he asked, using the Cockney tradition of rhyming slang.
“Yes, please.” I sat at his tiny kitchen table. “Granddad, I’m worried about Binky. He’s the obvious suspect and the fact that he fled to Scotland on discovering the body won’t help him.”
“Does your brother have close ties with the murdered man?”
“Unfortunately one close tie.” And I told him about the letter.
“Oh, dear me. Dearie me. That’s not good, is it?” he said. “And you’re sure your brother is telling you the truth?”
“Positive. I know Binky. When he lies his ears turn red.”
Granddad picked up the shrieking kettle and poured the water into the teapot. “It seems to me you need to find out who else knew this chap was coming over to London. Who else he planned to meet while he was here.”
“How would we do that?”
“Where was he staying?”
“Claridge’s.”
“Well, that makes it easier than a private house. Good hotels know everything about their guests—who visits them, where they ask a taxi to take them. We can go to Claridge’s and ask a few questions. We can also take a look at his room.”
“What would be the point of that? Wouldn’t the police have searched it thoroughly?”
“You’d be surprised at what the police don’t consider important.”
“But it’s two days now since he was murdered. Won’t they have removed his things and cleaned out his room?”
“Possibly, but in my experience they don’t rush these things, especially over the weekend. They’ll want to make sure they haven’t missed anything. And after the police have released his effects, they’d have to be stored somewhere until they have orders to ship them to a next of kin.”
I shook my head, feeling as if I were about to face a horrible exam. “Even if his things are still in his room, who would let us in? They’d think it highly suspicious if I asked to go in there.”
He looked at me, head tilted to one side in the cheeky Cockney way. “Who said anything about asking?”
“You mean break into his room?”
“Or find a way to get in. . . .”
“I can get my hands on a maid’s uniform,” I said, cautiously. “Nobody ever notices maids, do they?”
“That’s the ticket.”
“But, Granddad, it’s still breaking and entering.”
“Better than swinging on the end of a rope, my dear. As an ex-member of the force I shouldn’t be encouraging this sort of thing, but it seems to me that you and your brother are in big trouble and desperate means are called for. I’ll come along and have a little chat with the doorman and the bellboys. Some of them may still remember me from the time when I was on the beat.”
“That would be brilliant,” I said. “And another thing. I need to find out if real window cleaners were working in the square on Friday, and if so, who they were. I’d ask myself, but with all those reporters . . .”
“Think no more about it, my love. That much I can do for you. And I’d ask you to stay for lunch but I promised I’d go over to the widow next door. She kept on inviting me and I kept on refusing, and then I thought, Why not? What’s wrong with a bit of company?”
“What’s wrong indeed,” I said. I reached across the table and took his hand. “Can she cook?”
“Not as good as your grandma, but she ain’t bad. She ain’t bad at all.”
“Enjoy your lunch, Granddad.”
He looked almost bashful. “She can’t be after my money,” he said with a wheezy laugh, “so it must be my good looks.
Shall I meet you tomorrow, then? I’ll find out about your window cleaners and then we’ll go to Claridge’s.”
“All right,” I said, feeling my stomach twisting itself into a knot. Posing as a maid to get into a person’s room was serious business. If I was caught, I might well harm Binky’s cause rather than help it.
Chapter 19
Belinda’s mews and later Rannoch House
Sunday, May 1, 1932
Belinda roused herself shortly before five o’clock and came downstairs looking stunning in red trousers and a black riding jacket. This immediately reminded me that I had nothing to wear, even if I could get into Rannoch House, which didn’t seem likely. I lamented this to Belinda, who immediately opened up her wardrobe and fixed me up with a spiffing yachting outfit consisting of white skirt and blue blazer with white trim. It even came with a jaunty little sailor’s cap. The result, when I looked in the mirror, was quite satisfying.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wear this?” I asked Belinda.
“Good Lord, no. It’s not exactly the height of fashion, darling. You can get away with it, of course, but if I were to be seen in it at Cowes, bang would go my reputation.”
I thought privately that her reputation had probably gone bang already.
“Off we go, then,” she said, slipping her arm through mine.
“Belinda, I’m very grateful for everything you’re doing for me,” I said.
“Darling, think nothing of it. I would have been expelled from Les Oiseaux many times over if you hadn’t rescued me. And you are certainly in need of a friend at the moment.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. We took a taxi to the boat dock at Westminster pier, even though I suspect that neither of us had money to waste on taxies. But one had to arrive properly, as Belinda put it, and so we did.
The boat/ship/yacht currently tied up at the pier was large and sleek, bigger than any cabin cruiser I had seen—a sort of junior transatlantic liner. An awning had been erected on the rear deck (Is that called the poop? I’m not up in nautical terms). A gramophone was playing and couples were already dancing some kind of hop. I was so enthralled with the scene on board that I almost caught my foot in a rope lying across the top of the steps and would have sprawled forward if Belinda hadn’t caught me.
“Careful,” she said. “You don’t want to arrive headfirst. Now go down the ladder backward and watch your footing. I really don’t want to have to fish you out of the Thames.”
“I’ll try hard,” I said. “Do you think I’ll ever outgrow my clumsiness?”
“Probably not,” Belinda replied with a grin. “If deportment classes, gym at Les Oiseaux, and climbing those crags in Scotland haven’t cured you, I’d say you were destined to be clumsy for life.”
I lowered myself down the ladder carefully. I hadn’t reached the bottom step when hands came around my waist and lifted me to the deck.
“Well, look who’s here,” said a familiar voice and there was Darcy, looking devastating in a white open-necked shirt and rolled up sailor’s trousers. “I’m glad Belinda persuaded you to come.”
“So am I,” I stammered, because his hands were still around my waist. To my annoyance I found myself blushing.
“Aren’t you going to give me a hand, Darcy?” Belinda asked. Darcy let go of me.
“If you wish, although I thought you were capable of doing most things remarkably well.”
There was something in the quick glance that passed between them that I couldn’t interpret. It did cross my mind that his might have been the bed she shared last night. I was surprised at the rush of jealousy I felt. But then, I reasoned, why would she have insisted that I come this afternoon if she wanted him for herself?
“Come and meet our host,” Belinda said, dragging me away. “Eduardo, this is my good friend Georgiana Rannoch. Georgie, may I present Eduardo Carrera from Argentina.”
I found myself looking at a most suave gentleman, maybe in his late twenties, dark sleek hair, Ronald Coleman mustache, dressed impeccably in blazer and flannels.
“Señor Carrera.” I held out my hand and he brought it to his lips.
“Delighted to welcome you on board my little tub, Lady Georgiana,” he said in perfect English without trace of a foreign accent.<
br />
“Little tub!” I laughed. “Did you sail it all the way from Argentina?”
“No, I regret it was just from the Isle of Wight. Although she is supposed to be up to an Atlantic crossing. I have not been back to Argentina since my parents sent me to Eton. Obviously I’ll have to go back sometime to take over the family business, but until then I make the most of the delights Europe has to offer.” He let his gaze linger first on me then on Belinda in a most suggestive way. “Let me find you some champagne.”