He expected that, once she heard his name announced, she would arrive very quickly. But the longer Gordon waited and fidgeted, the more another thought began to take shape in his mind. He recalled his last visit, and the sight he had encountered when re-entering this room after emerging from her dressing room. Was she taking so long because she was ‘preparing’ herself for him? Might she even be doing so in that dressing room right now? He stared at the door and listened carefully, but could hear nothing.
Gordon found he could no longer sit still; he rose from the chair and walked over to the window, where he gazed down at the horses’ hooves and the iron-rimmed wheels of the vehicles rumbling over the damply glistening cobbles below. To him, everyone seemed to be miserable: heads bowed, caught up in their own little worlds. He was tiring of winter in London. Was it always like this? His mind was drawn back to days not so long ago in leafy Hampshire, when—
‘You look ill at ease, Mr Gordon.’
Gordon spun round sharply, like a child caught stealing. ‘Mrs Scambles – you startled me.’
‘So I see!’ She drew closer to him, and looked out at the same scene that he had been watching. ‘Last year we fled to Greece to escape the cold and rain. Everything was different last year ….’
‘And for me, too.’
She grasped his arm and looked up at him with those captivating blue eyes. ‘I’m glad you decided to come back to me. Everything could be different again next year, you know.’
He tensed and pulled back from her a little. ‘I’m afraid I come on police business, Mrs Scambles.’
She recoiled as if he had slapped her. ‘Mrs Scambles? Does our previous meeting mean so little to you?’
‘What happened … should not have.’
‘But it did mean something to you. A woman can tell that much, James. What we did was wrong in the legal sense, but was it in a natural way? Soon, Dr Scambles will be no more, and I shall be alone and in need of a companion. I know of no other man alive with whom I would rather—’
‘Your husband will soon be released.’
‘I – what? But he … but I know he murdered that man! You see, I probably should have told you, but I was also acquainted with Edward Mizzentoft….’
‘I know now that you were acquainted with him, Eleanora.’
‘Oh, please, James, don’t look so accusingly at me. If you only knew what my life has been like.’ She took both of his arms this time, pulling herself to him. He could feel her breasts against his chest and smell her perfume – that perfume again – and he felt the familiar surge of passion rising within him, threatening to overwhelm all reason. Gordon knew now that she was a manipulative woman – but he also saw beyond that a sad, needy creature whose life really had been miserable and loveless. It seemed an offence against God that such a thing of beauty and warmth should suffer such a fate, and he found it hard to condemn her pathetic attempts at employing whatever tools nature had endowed her with in order to gain some little consolation. With a supreme effort of will he prised himself away from her.
‘Eleanora, I have learned that you were at one time on intimate terms with a Mr Digby, but that you eventually made plans to pay a third party to take his life so that you could inherit at least part of his estate. You must see that that, added to your admission of a relationship with the late Mr Mizzentoft, is, at the very least, suggestive.’
He expected her to deny the former accusation, so her reaction took him by surprise. The radiance faded from her eyes for a moment, and they began to fill with tears. She sank to her knees, weeping uncontrollably.
‘I was a wretched, foolish child then … I dreamed up and said foolish things,’ she spluttered between sobs. ‘But like a child, I soon regretted my words. You must believe that it was merely words, and that I would never have made good my threats. Where would I find the kind of person who would carry out such an act?!’
Gordon had to admit to himself that it did seem unlikely, and also that Eleanora was pouring her heart out to him in a truthful way. ‘What of your association with Edward Mizzentoft?’
She slid off her knees to the floor so that she was slumped with her back against the wall, then placed her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her child-like, soft white hands. She looked so pitiful that Gordon felt guilty for even posing the question, as if he were deliberately prolonging her torture and humiliation. He squatted down beside her. ‘I hope you understand that these are questions I must ask.’
‘Of course. It’s nothing less than I deserve. My husband told me that Mizzentoft was a patient – I had no inkling of the financial dealings between them, and needless to say certainly not that Jonathan was deeply in debt to him. I met him a couple of times in the presence of my husband, and then one day he came to call when he must have known Jonathan was working. You may find this hard to believe, James, but Edward Mizzentoft seduced me. I did not find him an attractive man in any way; in fact he was rather ugly and arrogant. I suppose it was a way of punishing my husband. Even though he never knew about it, I gained some warped personal satisfaction from the knowledge that I had been unfaithful to him with a mutual acquaintance. God, how you must loathe me now!’
He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I loathe you less now.’
She reached up and cradled his face in her hands, her eyes imploring. ‘James….’
He took her hands and gently but firmly placed them back in her lap. ‘I cannot, Eleanora. I hope you understand. But I do believe in your innocence in the matter of how Edward Mizzentoft was killed, and I must report back to Mr Bucket.’
Gordon felt as though ten strong men were holding him back as he straightened up and moved away from her. He could still hear her heart-rending sobs as he walked out of the room and left her crumpled on the floor by the window.
Mr Bucket didn’t seem surprised when Gordon met him in Belgrave Place, outside the home of Baroness Sowerby, and told him of his certainty that Eleanora Scambles was innocent of the stabbing of Edward Mizzentoft.
‘There was never a possibility that Mrs Scambles was the killer.’
‘Then, if you don’t mind me asking, sir, why did you send me to interview her about the matter?’ Gordon tried not to let the irritation show in his voice, though knowing Mr Bucket’s powers of perception, he doubted whether he had succeeded.
‘All loose ends must be tied up in an official investigation, Mr Gordon. And besides, all loose ends must be tied up in life, too.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that they were, Mr Bucket.’
‘Ah well, where murder’s concerned there’s always a right and wrong conclusion, provable by cold fact. That’s what I like about murder. In life things ain’t always that straightforward. But you’re your own man, you are, and that’s all a matter for you to decide.’
XXII
‘HER LADYSHIP IS not at home, I’m afraid, sirs.’
‘Well, we’d like to see her anyway if it’s all the same with you.’ Mr Bucket replied cheerfully and tapped the tip of his stick rhythmically on the floor to the beat of some unheard tune that was apparently playing in his head.
The maid blinked uncomprehendingly at him. ‘No, sir, what I mean to say is, she’s out. Perhaps you’d like to leave your card?’
Gordon fidgeted and struggled to keep his silence. It was common practice and considered perfectly acceptable in polite society to use the excuse that someone was out if they did not wish to entertain a visitor for some reason. Surely even Mr Bucket was aware of this? It assuredly was not considered good form to press the point as he seemed intent on doing.
‘And what I mean to say, madam, is that I intend to see her. I have seen her carriage standing horseless round the corner, I have seen the lady herself at an upper window and I shall not withdraw until I have seen her in person! Tell her it is Inspector Bucket of the Detective and Sergeant James Alexander Gordon, Seventh Earl of Drumnadrochit. Tell her it is to do with ferns, and more particularly, tell her it is to do with nasty notices in th
e Morning Chronicle. I believe she will see us.’
Gordon felt sorry for the poor girl, who was little more than sixteen and only trying to do her mistress’s bidding in the face of Mr Bucket’s irresistible powers of persuasion. Gordon had quite forgotten the business of the ferns – something which seemed not only trivial but even inappropriate to be dealing with now that the Mizzentoft case was officially theirs to look into. Quite what he meant by ‘nasty notices’ Gordon had no idea.
A couple of minutes later the maid returned and sheepishly ushered them straight up to the drawing room where Baroness Sowerby was to be found. She was standing by the hearth, stiff and erect, glaring at them from afar. The fire had recently been built up; it spat and crackled, and in complete contrast to Baroness Sowerby the room was invitingly cosy after the dank chill of the streets outside. There were to be no formalities this time.
‘Say what you have to say, Bucket.’
She uttered his name like someone spitting a disagreeable morsel of food out of their mouth. Her manner was defiant, yet also strangely resigned, like a defeated general reluctantly offering his sword to the victor.
‘It’s an honour and a privilege to be invited to share your ladyship’s company again,’ Mr Bucket said most affably. ‘Mr James Alexander Gordon and I are most grateful to you for making the time in your busy schedule to see us – are we not, Mr Gordon?’
Since he had no idea what his chief was building up to, Gordon had little choice but to go along with his approach. ‘Very grateful, my lady.’
Baroness Sowerby had not moved from her position at the hearth. She tipped up her chin haughtily and said in a low, harsh voice, ‘State your business and leave, sir.’
‘I shall indeed state my business, ma’am. But first, perhaps your ladyship would care to sit on that sofy over there and make herself more comfortable? It is my aim to be as quick as I can about this matter, but one can never tell how long these things are likely to take.’ He still smiled warmly and spoke as if to an old friend, while the sense of barely concealed animosity emanating from their reluctant interviewee was almost palpable. What puzzled Gordon was that she could have ordered them to leave at any point, an order they could only have disobeyed at the cost of their careers and reputations as gentlemen. In fact, she could have refused to have even let them set foot over the threshold in the first place, despite Mr Bucket’s harrying of the poor maid who had answered the door. What was going on here? Gordon was torn between anxiousness and fascination as the scene unfolded.
Baroness Sowerby’s only response to being invited to sit on her own sofa was to remain standing imperiously and defiantly by the fire like one of a pair of iron dogs that go with many fireplace sets.
‘Now, it’s like this, your ladyship. Myself and my colleague here, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk – a sergeant of no little potential in the detective force – have been investigating this business about the ferns, and we have reached a conclusion.’
‘Really?’ Although she maintained her air of condescension and disinterest, Gordon could sense a certain uneasiness.
‘Yes, your ladyship. But that’s where it starts to get a bit complicated, for in the course of making inquiries into the disappearance of valuable ferns from several households, I have discovered that one thing leads to another, as Shakespeare possibly once said. One thing – being the ferns – led to the unearthing of another crime: the theft of some personal letters and a consequent attempt at blackmail. Whether the press or society in general would consider one crime more serious than the other I have given some thought to and I confess I can’t quite reach a definite conclusion.’
‘Neither can I, Inspector. Nor is it of any interest to me.’
But Gordon knew by now, and Mr Bucket undoubtedly did too, that she was very interested indeed, even if she would rather not be listening to what he had to say.
Mr Bucket raised his forefinger and his face lit up as if he were regaling a friend with a fascinating yarn. ‘Ah! But that is not the end of it by a long chalk, ma’am! For I then became aware that those two matters were in turn connected – however loosely – with a third and yet more serious felony: that of murder!’
Gordon was as fascinated by this battle of wits as one in the audience of a superior mystery play, and was watching Baroness Sowerby’s face intently. There was a sudden draining of colour at the mention of murder, and an almost imperceptible movement as if her legs nearly gave way beneath her. But he couldn’t help but admire the way in which she instantly recovered her composure. She quickly gathered herself, and let out a disdainful snort.
‘Mr Bucket, this has all been very entertaining but not only have I not the slightest idea what all these riddles mean, they most certainly have nothing to do with me and I must now ask you to leave. I have a luncheon date with The Honourable Mrs Jessamine Cranson Wight and I do not intend to make her wait for me.’
Mr Bucket’s response took Gordon quite by surprise. He gave a brief nod and turned on his heels, walking towards the door. ‘Then I won’t take up any more of your ladyship’s valuable time. Mr Gordon and I are also busy men – warrants to prepare and the like. I just hope this all doesn’t get into the press too quick as is sadly so often the case in these more sensational cases.’
Gordon followed him, having quickly worked out that this was a bluff on his part, since despite his inexperience he knew they didn’t need a formal warrant in order to arrest someone against whom there were sufficient grounds and evidence. Which he fervently prayed there were….
They were in the act of crossing the threshold of the room when the call came.
‘Mr Bucket….’
Her voice was weary, empty of its former sense of superiority. They turned to face her. Baroness Sowerby’s face and posture retained some of their former boldness but it was little more than pride, and her eyes told a different story. That’s why what she said next took Gordon quite by surprise.
‘If you arrest me it will cause me great inconvenience and humiliation, but the case would never come to court no matter how much proof you have. I am a first cousin of the Earl of Runnymede and distantly related to and on friendly terms with the Duke of Wellington himself. There are people who would not let this proceed. My reputation might be tarnished, but yours – and your career – would be destroyed utterly.’
‘Arrest, your ladyship? Why, who said anything about an arrest?’
‘You … you spoke of a warrant.’
‘A warrant to search the premises – that’s what I was referring to. To enable me to locate certain concealed items of a fern-like nature, as I am sure would be found within a very short space of time. My sergeant would remain here to make sure no such items were surreptitiously removed from the premises while the warrant was being obtained.’
‘Not only is this preposterous and an outrage—’
‘Now, now, madam! What you want is for this matter to be sorted out quickly and quietly, not all drawn out and painful. You’re a woman of intelligence and knowledge of the world and its ways, that’s what you are. You know what I know and I know what you know, and there’s no sense or pleasure in playing games with words any longer. Now you go and sit down upon that sofy and allow me to reveal my hand in plain terms.’
To Gordon’s amazement, Baroness Sowerby meekly obeyed. She left her post at the fireside and settled on the sofa – though she perched herself on the edge in a tense, uneasy posture. The detectives drew up two chairs and sat opposite her.
Mr Bucket clapped his hands on his thighs and launched into the case he had against her without any preamble. ‘Your ladyship, overcome by jealousy or some womanly emotion to which I’m not privy, took it upon herself to relieve a member of the Society for the Relief of the Ruptured Poor of a fern or two from their, perhaps, over-large collection.’
Baroness Sowerby opened her mouth to interject, but Mr Bucket raised a finger and waggled it till she thought better of her plan. ‘Now, I never suggested that your ladyship per
sonally performed the deed … although I do wonder whether the very first occasion might have been simply a moment of weakness or opportunism when your ladyship was alone for a moment. But no, I believe an intermediary was used for the most part. The type of person I’m more used to dealing with is motivated by want or greed, but in this case I suspect it was at least in part a sense of illicit adventure which led to further such escapades. And I’m as sure as eggs is eggs that the aforesaid intermediary went by the name of Alfred Jukes.’
Again Baroness Sowerby attempted to speak, but again she was cowed into submission by that stern forefinger. ‘Alfred Jukes is the name in the parish book, if his appearance in the world was ever recorded in such a sacred volume in the first place, but he would be known to your ladyship by the name of Chuddersby. This Chuddersby left your employ and found himself a position with Lady Rhynde. One thing I’d be interested to know is whether this was by chance, or part of a grand design on madam’s part.’
‘It suited my purposes,’ she replied with a shrug of indifference.
‘There you are, Mr Gordon – foresight! Resourcefulness! That’s what that is, Mr Gordon. But then, in the specific case of Lady Rhynde, you took things further – too far, as if what you’d already done wasn’t bad enough. You discovered, no doubt through some freelance prying on the part of the man you knew as Chuddersby, that that good Lady—’
‘She is neither good, nor a lady in the purest sense of the word!’ hissed Baroness Sowerby, finding a target for her spleen at last.
Murder in Montague Place Page 18