by Joan Smith
“It wasn’t me!”
“Who all knows you are here?”
“No one but Deirdre,” he answered.
“She will keep quiet. Very proud, all the Gowers. She won’t want it said her fiancé is a felon. Do you think— France, Dickie? You could be quite comfortable in Paris till it blows over.”
“I can’t run away.”
“But if you stay, you know, you’ll end up investigating into it yourself, as you love to do. Why don’t you go to France instead?”
“Flight would be taken as a sign of guilt. I must stay and see if I can find out who did it, catch him, and get the necklace back to Charney.”
“You had great luck in finding the little Everton girl who was kidnapped,” Bertie said reluctantly.
“It was not luck!” he said, offended. “It was ingenuity, and hard work. Of course I can and shall do it. I must go now. Don’t worry, Mama. I’m not a thief.”
“I know that, love.” She smiled a watery, sad smile that caused an ache in his heart. He kissed the top of her head, and left.
One might be forgiven for thinking his tread was slow, his shoulders sagging, his face set in gloom. It was no such a thing. The expression that took possession of his features was not quite delight, but it veered in that direction. The young baron’s occasional brushes with mysteries provided variety in an otherwise self-indulgent and unchallenging life. He could not think, offhand, when he had been happier than the week he undertook to find Lord Everton’s kidnapped daughter. The excitement of the chase, the challenge of outwitting a mind nearly as quick as his own, the satisfaction of bringing a lawless wretch to justice and restoring an innocent family to peace—why, it was more amusing than making love, or money, when you came down to it. There was an added spice in the dish this time, as it was himself he had to extricate.
By the time he bounced off the bottom step and met a distracted Snippe, he was not far from smiling. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Happy New Year, Snippe,” he said. “It got off to a bang here, I understand.”
Snippe compressed his lips and glared. “Some people might think it amusing to go dressing up like ghosts and stealing diamonds and throwing their mothers into pelters. I think they ought to be horsewhipped.”
“I think their butlers ought to be turned off without a reference. Get me some champagne. Where’s the Duchess now?”
“Gone to her room to gloat, and her niece with her. You’ll be wanting the whole bottle of wine, then?” he added in an accusing way.
“We’ll start with one. What’s going on in there?” Belami asked, tossing his head towards the ballroom.
“Gossip and a deal of drinking.”
“Serve ‘em dinner, if it’s ready.”
“It’s ready. Who is to sit at the head of the table? Her ladyship isn’t up to it. I shouldn’t think you will wish to show your face.”
“What’s wrong with my face?” he asked, lifting one of his mobile brows.
Snippe pinched his eyes into slits and left, to return in a moment with the bottle of champagne and a glass. “Here you go, then,” he said, chucking them towards his master.
“Is Uncle Cottrell here?” Belami asked.
“Aye, His Lordship is here.”
“Good, he’ll be the host for dinner. Kindly tell him so. I have a spot of looking around to do. I’ll duck into your lair while you herd the guests into the dining room. Send Pronto to me.”
“I’ve only got two feet,” Snippe pointed out.
“Use them. Go!” He shook his head at the bad habits Bertie had allowed his servants to slide into. But then it wouldn’t be home if it were well run.
He poured a glass of champagne and sipped carefully as he walked along to the butler’s private room, close to the door. The mask, gloves, sheet, and pistol the thief used indicated that some preparation had gone into the job. As it was only Charney’s necklace that had been stolen, this was apparently the thief s aim, to steal that one particular piece. The thief therefore knew she would be wearing it. This was helpful, as it eliminated the country neighbors. It had to be one of the guests from the city, then, and one close enough to Charney to know she had brought the diamond pendant with her. The next job would be to learn who had been in the ballroom when the thief entered. It was beginning to look like a case of eliminating suspects, and not finding one.
He heard the babble of voices and shuffle of footsteps as the guests went to dinner. Soon there was a tap at the door and Pronto Pilgrim entered.
“If you say ‘How could you,’ Pronto, I’ll land you a facer,” was Belami’s greeting.
Pronto sniffed. “No such a thing. I know how you did it. Got it all figured out. Know why you did it too. Dashed havey-cavey business, Dick. Ought to give it back to her. Knag won’t work.”
“Et tu, Pronto?”
Pronto sniffed again and looked about for a wine glass. Finding none, he called Snippe and sent him off for one. “We’re missing dinner,” he warned Dick. “Don’t know about you, but I’m ready for fork work.”
“Have Snippe bring you a plate, if you dare incur his wrath.”
“Don’t know why you keep that ghoul in your service. No, I’d sooner go hungry than have to look at his eyes disappear into slits.”
As he spoke, he sauntered to the murky mirror on the wall and ran a hand over his brown hair. It was luxuriant and waved. He was proud of it. It was the one good feature on an otherwise undistinguished body. Pronto was blessed with no impressive physique. He was shorter than the average, with narrow shoulders, eked out with much wadding. There was no tailor clever enough to conceal the protruding stomach and bowed legs. His face was not actually ugly, but the bewildered expression he generally wore did not enhance it. He had gray eyes, a nose crooked from having been broken in a brawl with a chairman, and a scar on his left cheek. He found this assortment dashing, and hoped the scar would not sink into insignificance with the passing of time. He spoke vaguely of a duel when quizzed as to its origin, but in fact he had tripped over his own feet and scraped it on a sharp dresser edge.
With a last admiring look in the mirror, he turned back to his friend. “So what’s to do about this mess, Dick?”
“I’ve been working out my plan,” Belami answered, and sat down with his feet on Snippe’s desk, the glass in his hand, the chair tipped at a perilous angle, to explain his line of attack.
There was a sharp rap at the door, and without waiting for an answer, Deirdre stepped in. “My aunt is resting. Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.
“They’re serving dinner,” Pronto told her, hoping to be rid of her.
Belami had lowered his chair and arisen to his feet. She glared at him and said. “I’m involved too. I want to know what you’re doing.”
“But of course you do,” Belami agreed, offering her his chair and removing Pronto’s glass from his fingers. He filled it and handed it to Deirdre.
“That’s my glass!” Pronto told him.
“Call Snippe for another. I won’t let him hurt you.” With mutinous mutterings, Pronto waddled to the door and shouted to Snippe to bring a tray of glasses and a couple of bottles, as it seemed the party was transferring here. It struck him this was also an opportunity to order food, but Snippe’s countenance made him change his mind.
Belami’s impassive countenance gave no notion of the thought going on in his head, and his eagerness to get busy. He would give the two a little talk on criminal investigation and find a harmless job for them to do while he went on with the real work. Pronto he could have used, but Deirdre was definitely de trop.
Chapter 3
While the guests ate and drank and discussed the startling theft, Belami introduced his colleagues into the intricacies of criminal investigation. He rather enjoyed giving this particular lecture. Motive, method, and opportunity were the three magical keys. Deduction was the power that fitted the keys to the proper locks. In a case of theft, one assumed the motive was financial gain. The method t
hey had already learned, and it was the opportunity they must discover. He impressed upon them that no detail was too small to bring to his attention, in the unlikely case that he overlooked anything.
While he spoke, Pronto sat regretting the dinner he was missing, and Deirdre admired his vocabulary, the delivery of the speech, and general physical appearance. At the lecture’s end, they dispersed to begin searching for clues. Belami went abovestairs to go inch by inch over the guests’ rooms, while their servants were busy below celebrating the New Year in the kitchen.
Various clues were collected and put into blue envelopes for further perusal. This done, he darted to the stable to seek the help of Pierre. There he learned that no one had made any secret trip to his carriage, which loomed as a possible hiding place for the necklace. The grays had been rubbed down and blanketed for the night. At about two o’clock, Pierre decided he would just take a walk around the grounds on his snowshoes, to calm himself for a night’s sleep. He enjoyed these balmy nights, with the wind howling and the. snow swirling around his head.
“Pity the pond is frozen over, or you could have a swim,” Belami told him.
“We often took an ax to the river at home, for a short swim,” Pierre told him, his steely gaze daring a contradiction.
“Go to bed, you fool. You’re shivering worse than I am.”
Deirdre and Pronto examined the unoccupied rooms downstairs, not quite sure what they were looking for, but knowing that anything “unusual” was suspect. As they had no real idea what might be usual in another man’s house, however, they were not hopeful of great success. But at least they realized that one window had been opened, as it had markings in the snow on the ledge outside.
More than an hour elapsed before dinner was over. Belami went to his mother’s room. “You must brace yourself to see the guests out, Mama. I have decided not to appear tonight. If we don’t get them blasted off soon, they’ll be battened on us for days. The snow is still falling. By morning, they won’t be able to move their carriages.”
This alarming news was enough to get her up off her bed. She struggled manfully to her little feet, had her woman in to tidy her hair, and, with a pathetic effort at a smile, went downstairs. A few guests were loath to tackle the snow, already two inches and higher where the wind had drifted it, but she assured them blithely it was only a sprinkle. If they hastened, they’d make it home with no trouble. No trouble at all.
It took another half hour before the city guests had straggled upstairs to their rooms. Bertie claimed she was ready for the grave by the time the last of them finally went up. “And I look it,” she said with an accusing stare at her son, who was back hiding in Snippe’s room with Pronto and Deirdre.
“You’d best hit the tick too, Dick, and let poor Miss Gower get to her bed,” she advised.
Deirdre had not the least wish to miss out on the excitement. Life was dull with Aunt Charney. Such venturesome goings-on as she was enjoying at Beaulac were a rare event in her life, but she worded her objection in a different light. “Who could possibly sleep with so much worry and confusion surrounding us?” she asked.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Belami told her. “Mother is right. Why don’t you go on up to bed?”
Her jaw squared, and a mutinous light entered her gray eyes. “There are a few points I’d like to discuss with you this evening, Belami, while they’re fresh in my mind.”
“Such as?”
“I had just returned to the ballroom. I can tell you who was present.”
“She’s right,” Pronto agreed, “Women have sharper eyes than us. Besides, she’ll only come down and listen at the keyhole. You might as well let her stay.”
“Oh, very well,” Dick agreed.
With this warm welcome, she sat on a very hard horsehair sofa and prepared to add her mite to the investigation.
“Your aunt will blame me in the morning if you have black circles under your eyes,” Bertie said, but sleep was overtaking her. She was too tired to fight with youngsters. Where did they get such stores of energy? They looked as fresh as squirrels in spring, every one of them.
“I have Mama’s guest list here. Can you help me check off anyone who didn’t come?” Belami said after Bertie had left.
Between Deirdre and Pronto, the list was soon shortened to possible suspects. After considerable discussion, the possibles were further reduced to what Belami termed “likelies.” “Let us see what cream—or scum— has risen to the top,” he said, thinking aloud.
“There is old Bessler, the duchess’s boyfriend,” he began.
“My aunt’s doctor,” Deirdre corrected quickly, but already there was an asterisk by Bessler’s name.
“An Austrian who came to London five years ago,” Dick continued. “He once had a shingle hung on Harley Street and called himself Doctor, till the College of Surgeons paid him a visit and took away his gold-knobbed cane. He calls himself Herr Bessler now, as he likes to wear something that sounds like a title. You’d be surprised how many folks think it is one.”
“It means ‘gentleman’ at least,” Deirdre pointed out.
“And is he one?” Belami asked her archly. “It’s not uncommon for immigrants to hop their social standing up a notch or two when they take up residence in a foreign land. I’m surprised he hasn’t stuck a von in front of his name.”
“My aunt considers Herr Bessler a gentleman,” she insisted. “A professional man, but genteel. He lives very much in Aunt Charney’s pocket. Ac-tually, he came in the carriage with us. He still treats my aunt, even if his license has been revoked. She had a session with him after she arrived. She had a megrim from the trip,” she added.
“I expect it set in as soon as she learned I wasn’t here,” Belami said.
“Possibly. She said it was the garish red carpet in her room that aggravated it, but it didn’t hurt my eyes.”
“Waste of time,” Pronto said, calling them back to business. “Bessler was in the ballroom when the diamond was snitched.”
“That’s true,” Deirdre corroborated. “He was near the door, with Auntie.”
“Then next we come to Lady Lenore Belfoi,” Belami said, wearing a little smile. “I notice by the list her husband didn’t make it.”
“Chamfreys is here,” Pronto mentioned knowingly.
“Which explains the husband’s absence,” Dick said, quirking a brow. “I wouldn’t put it past either of them. Did you happen to notice if this pair were present when the thief entered?”
“Lady Lenore—is she the woman who looks like an actress? Wears paint, too much scent, low-cut gowns?” Deirdre inquired with condescension.
“She has black hair, lovely green eyes, and a superb figure,” Belami explained.
“And a wart on her chin?” Deirdre asked, bristling.
“A beauty mark to the left of her lips,” Dick countered.
“If she is the woman whose bedroom is next to Chamfreys’, I think I know who you mean,” Deirdre said.
“That’s that, then. Was she at the ball at midnight or not?” Pronto asked impatiently.
“I didn’t see her,” Deirdre said after a frowning pause. “I do remember seeing her roll her eyes at Chamfreys at about eleven-thirty, though. She slipped out immediately after and went upstairs, and he had a quick glass of wine with Bidwell, then he followed her up. I happened to be watching them.”
“Only till they got to the top of the stairs, I hope?” Belami quizzed.
“Yes, I didn’t see them come down,” she said with a quelling stare. “They went in to dinner, so they must have been finished by then.”
“Finished what?” Pronto asked. Belami rolled his eyes ceilingward and sighed.
“Whatever they were doing,” Deirdre replied, unfazed. “Sir Lawrence Bidwell went up as well, with Chamfreys.”
“Was Bidwell in the ballroom at midnight?” Dick asked.
“No, I’m quite sure he wasn’t. I was looking for him,” Deirdre said. It was quite true sh
e had been looking for a personable gentleman to stand up with so Belami wouldn’t find her unpartnered. Bidwell had occurred to her as a possible partner.
“We’ll give him two asterisks,” Belami said with relish. “He is chronically dipped. Handsome, but ramshackle,”
“Bidwell dipped?” she asked, astonished. “He looks as fine as ninepence, and drives such a handsome carriage, with a team of four. He has lovely jackets and wears fine jewelry. I thought he must be a nabob.”
“No, his uncle is a nabob,” Pronto told her.
“He makes a grand appearance,” she insisted.
“When a gentleman is at pains to make a grand appearance, you may suspect his bank balance,” Belami decreed, annoyed with her praise of Bidwell.
Her eyes wandered over his well-tailored jacket, his immaculate white tie and diamond pin, the heavy emerald crested ring on his finger. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said.
“Suspect,” he repeated with emphasis. “It is not necessarily an indictment.”
“It could indicate simple vanity,” she agreed with an artless smile.
“She’s got you dead to rights there, my lad,” Pronto snorted.
“About Bidwell; he is the right size for our masked intruder. You said he was my own size, more or less, did you not, Deirdre?”
“Yes, but it could have been Chamfreys. It certainly wasn’t Lady Lenore. How would either of them know my aunt was to wear her diamond, though?”
“Deduction,” Pronto answered. “Whole world knows she owns it. She often sports it about here and there.”
“Yes, but they couldn’t be sure,” Belami mentioned. “Comes to that, the only ones who knew were Deirdre herself and Charney,” Pronto pointed out with a sharp look at Deirdre.
“Lenore goes everywhere. She might have weaseled the fact out of the duchess in some manner,” Belami thought aloud. “She’s good at that sort of thing.”
“Good at lots of things,” Pronto added with a lascivious smile that earned a repressive frown from Belami.
After more talk, the list stood at Herr Bessler; Lady Lenore; her lover, Chamfreys; and Sir Lawrence Bidwell. Not all had a motive—Chamfreys, for instance, was well to grass. Not all were suited to the method— Lady Lenore was certainly not built like Belami. And Bessler was lacking the opportunity and suitable build for the method employed, but still they were on the list. They had to put someone on it, and there was no point thinking a man one step from being a bishop had done it, or a cabinet minister, or a very well-to-do marquis who owned a quarter of Surrey and diamonds bigger and better than the one stolen. It was mainly the fact that all of the suspects except Bessler had left the ballroom at eleven-thirty that accounted for their being under the cloud of suspicion. As to Bessler himself, he was a foreigner living on the fringes of society, and no Englishman really trusted foreigners.