George wondered about that. Servants generally knew much more than their employers imagined.
‘How did the attack happen?’ said Eddy.
‘The detective said he heard a noise downstairs and went to investigate. He was set upon from behind; a chloroform pad was put over his mouth. He saw and heard nothing until he came to in the back laundry some time later. All he had time to observe before he lost consciousness was that his attacker was wearing a coat and gloves. More to the point, he smelt something on the coat — tobacco, to be precise, but a particular kind. He said he knew it instantly; it’s an unusual blend of cigar tobacco, only sold in a certain shop in Paris. He’s made a study of these things, he says.’
‘Paris!’ exclaimed George, happily. ‘So The Shadow is a Frenchman!’
‘Or any man who buys cigars from that shop, or has them sent to him,’ said Lady Eleanor. She paused. ‘Indeed, it might not be a man at all, but a woman.’
Eddy looked scandalised. ‘A woman, smoking cigars! Surely not!’
Lady Eleanor laughed. ‘My dear Constable Blake, how very old-fashioned of you.’
‘I will need to talk to everyone who was here last night,’ said Eddy, firmly, ignoring her remark.
‘Of course, Constable Blake. I just wanted you to know the background, from my point-of-view.’
‘Perhaps we could interview the detective gentleman first? What is his name, by the way?’
‘Oh, sorry, didn’t I say? How silly of me. His name is Philip Woodley-Foxe.’
Five
London! Heart pounding, Daisy watched the great city sliding past the taxi windows. Such crowds! Such elegant shops! Such imposing buildings! How exciting it was to be here! This was where life really was. Her quiet existence in Charlton Wells seemed like a dream now, receding into the distance.
Yesterday had been wonderful, though. She’d picked out a few new outfits from Gabriela’s — a crisp, stripy black and white dress with a round white collar, which she was wearing today; a cherry-coloured jersey suit; two blouses, and a pink silk sleeveless evening dress and white wrap to go with it. It was Daisy’s first evening dress, and she was very excited about it.
Then her mother had taken her to the milliner’s where she purchased a cheeky red velvet hat, with a little veil and a white beret. Then it was to the shoe shop for a pair of pale pink satin pumps for evening. Finally they visited the jeweller, to have a new clasp put on the pearl and garnet necklace Daisy had inherited from her grandmother. Then, happy and tired, they’d had a slap-up lunch at the White Hart. It must all have cost Mother a great deal of money, thought Daisy, now, and she felt a tiny spurt of guilt. But Mrs Gould, the owner of Gabriela’s, had been kindness itself. She had given them a good discount, and said the clothes could be paid for without interest, over quite as long a period as Mrs Miller could manage.
It hadn’t been easy to say goodbye at the station. It wasn’t only her mother; there was George too, looking extremely gloomy. Poor George, she thought, kindly. I must ask him to visit, one of these days.
The taxi drew up outside an elegant white Georgian building. Grey marble pillars supported a portico above which could be read, in gold writing, ‘Brooks Hotel’. A burly doorman in elegant top hat and white gloves stood on the front steps.
Mrs Peabody heaved her bulk out of the taxi and waved imperiously at Irene. ‘Pay the driver, will you. No need for a big tip. Come on, Daisy.’ Ignoring the cab driver’s cranky look, she waddled up the steps into the hotel, Daisy in tow.
Daisy had dreamt of staying at the Ritz or the Savoy, in lavish, film-star glamour. Her mother had told her Brooks was just as smart, though smaller and more discreet. The quiet walls of Brooks could tell many a story, said Mrs Miller, from love affairs to affairs of state!
Waiting now for Mrs Peabody to check them both in, Daisy looked around at her surroundings. They weren’t grand and imposing, but cosy, quiet and wood-panelled, like a well-kept country house. There were thick curtains of a pleasant pattern, carpeted floors and good mahogany furniture. The reception desk was positioned in a corner of the large entrance lounge, which was scattered with comfortable-looking easy chairs and low tables. There were several people sitting in the lounge, reading newspapers, drinking cups of tea, talking quietly to each other. They looked up briefly at Mrs Peabody and Daisy as they came in, then went back to their private affairs. Daisy studied them quickly. They were mostly unremarkable middle-aged or elderly men and women. But two people stood out: a dark, handsome youth of about nineteen, who wore a little moustache and a well-cut pinstriped suit, and his companion, one of the most elegant old ladies Daisy had ever seen. Tall, slim, with perfectly-set white hair, she was dressed in a pearl-grey crepe dress and silver fox furs, and had a striking resemblance to the young man. They looked foreign, mysterious, alluring, part of a glamorous world Daisy had only ever read about.
Just then the young man looked up and caught Daisy’s eye. He smiled, got up, and bowed.
‘Good day, mademoiselle.’ He spoke perfect English, but with a soft French intonation. She blushed. She hadn’t meant to stare. ‘Er … good day, sir.’
‘Not sir, oh, not that, please!’ His hazel eyes danced. ‘My name is Victor, mademoiselle. Victor St-Remy. And this is my grandmother, Madame Juliette St-Remy.’
‘I am very pleased to meet you,’ said Daisy, uncertainly, as a couple of other people turned their heads to look at her. She fancied she saw disapproval in their glances. Would they think she was too forward? You heard such things about French boys, too! ‘I’m Daisy Miller.’
‘That is a pretty name,’ said the old lady. Her smile was like her grandson’s — lighting up her eyes like candles. But there was no French accent in her English at all. ‘I once read a book about a girl named Daisy Miller.’
‘Oh,’ said Daisy, who hadn’t.
‘She had very pretty eyes and very pretty hands and talked a great deal,’ said Madame St-Remy.
Victor laughed. ‘Two out of three is not bad, is it, Grandmother?’ he said. Daisy coloured. She wasn’t sure if they were making fun of her or paying her a cool compliment. She knew she should make some sophisticated retort, but couldn’t for the life of her think what.
‘Daisy!’ Mrs Peabody’s booming Australian voice made her start. ‘Pay attention, girl.’ She turned to the receptionist. ‘This is my secretary, Daisy Miller. She’s going to type up the book I was telling you about.’
The receptionist, a well-groomed middle-aged woman with a face that betrayed no emotion, smiled neutrally.
But Mrs Peabody was irrepressible. ‘Rather her than me, eh? All that dull stuff about films and stars and what have you!’ She cackled.
Daisy was frozen to the spot. The whole room was listening to Mrs Peabody’s antics. Daisy didn’t dare to look around her.
‘Righty-oh, then, where are those rooms?’ said Mrs Peabody, completely oblivious to the atmosphere.
‘Third floor, madam. Rooms 35, 36 and 38,’ the receptionist said frostily.
‘You take Room 38,’ said Mrs Peabody to Daisy. ‘I need Irene next to me. What are you waiting for? Off you go and get settled.’
Daisy faltered, ‘Would you like me to …’ but her employer waved her away. ‘No. No work today. Leave me in peace this afternoon,’ she snapped.
Daisy saw the covert smiles all around her, and wished that the ground would open up and swallow her. She stammered, ‘Of … of course, Mrs Peabody.’
‘See you at dinnertime, girl. Seven-thirty sharp. Get on with you, then, what are you waiting for, mouth open like a goldfish? Girls these days, I ask you! Must we teach them to put one foot in front of the other as well?’
Scarlet, mortified, not looking to the left or right, Daisy hurried miserably after the concierge. The elegant French boy must, she thought, see her as a kind of servant, at the beck and call of a rich, overbearing woman. He would, she was sure, take no notice of her now.
She felt a little better when she reached her roo
m. It was sunny, with a large French window giving on to a balcony over the street. With an adjoining small bathroom, a large bed, two armchairs, a chest of drawers and dressing table, and a curtained alcove for hanging clothes, it had everything you might need in the way of comfort. There were also a desk and chair in a corner. A brand new typewriter, a ream of paper, carbons, and pencils stood on the desk, ready for business.
There was a knock on the door. It was the porter with her luggage. Daisy put away her clothes, freshened up and looked at her watch. It was still only three-thirty. She would go exploring! She had a London guidebook, purchased from the bookstall at the station. There was an Underground station nearby. Mrs Peabody had already given her an advance on salary, so she had some money. Now, where should she start?
The lounge area was empty, much to Daisy’s relief. Outside, it was one of those lovely, soft late spring afternoons. Daisy decided to walk. She’d go on the Underground or on buses later, if she was tired. Happily, she strolled through Green Park, into St James Park and up to the gates of Buckingham Palace. The gates were closed, but the flag was up so the King must be in. She stared in through the bars. How many windows the palace had! Would there be cosy sitting-rooms in there, or was it all grand and imposing and chilly?
She had been staring through the bars at the palace and the Guards for a little while when she heard a voice behind her. ‘Mademoiselle Daisy Miller! We meet again.’
She spun around. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she exclaimed, then clapped a hand over her mouth, belatedly realising how rude she sounded.
Victor didn’t seem to mind. He tipped his hat. ‘Forgive me for startling you, Miss Miller.’ He really had a very nice smile! ‘You are going walking too, around London?’
‘Yes. I … I don’t know it well.’
‘I know it a little,’ he said. ‘My grandmother and I, we come here every year. She was born in London, you see.’
‘Oh,’ said Daisy. That explained the old lady’s lack of accent, she thought.
‘You permit that I walk with you, Mademoiselle Miller? Perhaps I could be allowed to show you round this city? But perhaps you may think it a cheek that a Frenchman should presume to show an English girl around her own capital?’
‘Oh no,’ said Daisy, warmly. ‘I don’t know London at all, Mr St-Remy. And I was a little afraid of getting lost. I … I should like it very much if you would show me around.’
‘Then I will be delighted to be your guide. But you must promise me one thing, mademoiselle.’
‘What’s that, Mr St-Remy?’
‘That you will call me Victor!’
‘Only if you call me Daisy,’ she replied, pertly.
He laughed. ‘That is a fair exchange. Now tell me, Daisy — what is it you’d most like to see in this fair city?’
‘Well —’ Daisy looked sideways at him. ‘After the Palace, what I really wanted to see — but I don’t suppose, no, you won’t want to go there …’
‘Anywhere you want,’ said Victor, dramatically throwing out his arms to encompass all of London.
‘Well … I was … you see, I’ve always wanted to have a look at Harrods … just looking, you know, I don’t think I can actually afford … but you wouldn’t want to go there, men never like …’
‘Try me,’ said Victor, brightly, smiling at her. ‘Harrods, here we come!’
The next three hours were among some of the happiest in Daisy’s life so far. Victor was the most engaging companion you could hope to have on such a trip. Unlike George, who despised shopping with a passion, Victor didn’t seem to mind it at all. Yet it was nothing like going shopping with a girlfriend. He didn’t look for things for himself, but patiently watched Daisy trying on extravagant hats she had no intention of buying, or browsed with her amongst the shoes and the furs, and paid exactly the right sort of compliments. He knew too how to speak to the sales assistants, whose superiority might otherwise have thoroughly intimidated Daisy. He took her to the toy department and told her stories about coming here with his grandmother when he was a little boy. She had, he said, brought him up, because his mother had died giving birth to him and his father died twelve years ago, in the war. His grandmother had bought him his first camera here, thus starting his lifelong love affair with photography. Apart from those few snippets, he didn’t talk about himself, but asked her many questions about her life, and about what she was doing in London. He seemed genuinely interested and just as thrilled as Daisy by her good fortune. Unlike George, he didn’t read any tiresome mystery into it. But then, he was obviously from a rich family himself, she thought, and wasn’t surprised by rich people’s whims.
By the time they got off the train at the Underground station near the hotel, it was just before seven, but still quite light. Just as they got to the hotel, an open-topped car drew up with a screech of brakes beside them. It was a brand new scarlet and white Delage sports car. At the wheel was a glamorous young woman. She was wearing a crimson silk scarf over platinum-blonde hair, dark glasses and a white linen dress that looked very plain but was in fact very expensive.
She saw them and gave an exclamation. ‘Why, if it isn’t Victor St-Remy! How nice to see you!’ She took off her glasses. Daisy only just restrained the exclamation that rose to her lips. That heart-shaped face, those big blue eyes, that rosebud mouth — she had seen them in magazine photographs! It was Olivia Marlow, the young actress she’d read about in Stars and Pictures the other day — the one who was romantically involved with the Prince of Luxenstein!
‘Why, hello, Miss Marlow.’ Victor’s manner had suddenly become a little stiff. ‘It’s good to see you, too.’ It didn’t sound exactly like the truth. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Daisy felt a little uncomfortable.
‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’ said the actress, eyeing Daisy with open curiosity. Victor coloured. ‘Forgive me. Olivia … Miss Marlow, this is my friend Miss Miller. Daisy Miller.’
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Olivia Marlow, warmly, extending a hand, and smiling a dazzling smile.
‘And I am just so pl …’ began Daisy, eagerly, but she did not get to finish, for, with a bright wave, Olivia Marlow dashed up the steps into the hotel.
Victor saw Daisy’s questioning expression. He said, rather reluctantly, ‘I worked on a film set last summer, in Biarritz. She was the star.’
Daisy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, how exciting! You didn’t say that you worked in films!’
‘I don’t,’ he said, with a tight smile. ‘I just worked a camera as a favour to someone. Solo photography’s my thing; film work doesn’t really interest me. You’re just a cog in a big machine, then.’
‘Oh,’ said Daisy, who had never thought of it that way. ‘Well,’ she added, ‘she seems so nice, so natural.’
‘She’s an actress, Daisy. That’s what they do — act.’ He saw Daisy’s hurt expression. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you! Now let’s forget spoilt screen stars and focus on something far more important.’ Ignoring the doorman’s interested gaze, he flung himself on his knees on the steps before Daisy. ‘Miss Daisy Miller — your humble servant prostrates himself before you to beg you to give him the honour of inviting you to join him and his grandmother at their table tonight. Will you be so kind as to join us?’
Daisy giggled and blushed. ‘Why, sir, I might well think about it! But there’s Mrs Peabody to consider, too. What will she think if I desert her?’
‘If I know such a person, she certainly won’t allow it! But that is easily solved. We invite her too — and don’t worry, Grandmother will keep her busy chatting. Grandmother knows how to deal with people.’
Six
Philip Woodley-Foxe looked exactly like his photographs. Tall, heavily-built, tanned, and balding, with a pair of piercing blue eyes and a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache. He was dressed in a smart Donegal tweed suit and he held a lit pipe in his hand — a rather unusual meerschaum pipe whose ivory bowl was carved in the shape of a dragon’s he
ad. It was, George knew from his reading, a souvenir of the time the detective had single-handedly tracked the gangster Singapore Charlie through the opium dens of San Francisco’s Chinatown.
George gazed at him in admiration. But the detective was in no mood for small talk. He was arguing with Eddy.
‘I haven’t got time to sit here answering damn fool questions from the local constabulary! Every minute spent on trifling details is a minute taken away from true investigation. Don’t you see, I’ve been following The Shadow’s trail for weeks, but this is the first time I’ve come so close …’
‘Too close for comfort, sir, I would say,’ said Eddy, stolidly.
Eddy had absolutely no idea just how lucky he was to be in this man’s presence, thought George, desperately. If he hadn’t told George very sternly that he had to remain silent and not interfere when he was questioning witnesses, he’d have broken in. He itched with the desire to do so now.
‘I have my own methods, which the uniformed police cannot understand,’ said the detective. His accent was English, overlaid with a thrilling American twang, a reminder of the fifteen years he’d spent in the States. ‘You proceed according to the book. But you don’t understand the leap of genius that enables one to crack a case!’
‘I am sure you are right, sir,’ said Eddy, woodenly.
‘Now, for instance, you have wasted your time taking down dull interviews with those other people in the house party, who saw and heard nothing. You have interviewed the servants, who are old and feeble. You have asked me a whole lot of useless questions at least twice, and you haven’t even started applying your mind to what it might all mean! You see the piddling little details, and not the full picture, man!’
Eddy’s colour rose. ‘If you are sure you have told me all you remember, sir …’His voice was neutral, but George knew exactly what his brother-in-law was thinking. Damn, he thought. Damn, damn and triple damn!
The Case of the Diamond Shadow Page 3