‘I can’t stop thinking about Danny Boy.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I just know it wasn’t suicide. I feel it in my bones.’
‘Explain.’
‘If Daniel was going to kill himself, he would have put his affairs in order. He would have updated his Will and provided for his daughter. There’s no bloody way he would have left Cat at the mercy of Edwina.’
‘That thought did cross my mind.’
‘A couple of nights before he died, I found him in the Winter Garden. I was doing my nightly rounds and he was up there as usual, sitting in the dark. Alone. Staring out across the city, looking for something or someone. I coughed loudly and he turned around. He said, “Ah Jim, didn’t know you were there. You move so swiftly and silently, a tomcat on the prowl. Sit with me, I want some advice on bachelorhood.”’
Bertha lit the bedside candle. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘He wanted my help. He was willing to feign adultery in order to secure a divorce from Edwina. We were going to stage manage it down at his Brighton hotel. He admitted, “Eddie’s made it quite plain that she doesn’t want a divorce. But by God, we will divorce. I’ll do whatever it takes to get unshackled.”’
‘Ah.’
‘He was calm, confident, a man on the verge of something new. He was looking forward to the future.’
‘But that was just one night in many.’
‘True. But he also confided in me about buying an oceangoing yacht and sailing to exotic places over the following summer with Mary and Cat. He was going to talk Mary into letting Sean Kelly join them. In other words, he had plans. He was thinking months ahead. Danny was anticipating a new life. He only looked despondent when he told me, “Eddie is being really difficult about the divorce, and she’s resisting me every inch of the way.”’
‘Well, if it wasn’t suicide, just how did he wind up dead?’
‘I don’t know but I intend to find out.’
Edwina was annoyed at the persistence of the shoemaker. For days, Thomas Rodd had been leaving messages with the hotel concierge that read ‘I need to speak privately with Mrs Daniel du Barry’. A shoemaker of all people was making demands on her time. Admittedly he was known in fashionable circles as ‘The Botticelli of Shoes’, so maybe it wasn’t a complete insult? Balderdash, it was not only an insult, he was being highly presumptuous. Mr Rodd might well be Britain’s most accomplished shoe designer but nonetheless he was merely a shopkeeper.
Eventually curiosity got the better of Edwina and an appointment was made. She intended to allocate the man eight minutes and cram him in between her psychic reading and her facial massage. Eddie was a big believer in psychic healers and fortune tellers. One learnt so much from those who were familiar with the other side, especially those who were firmly on the dark side.
When Sebastian showed Mr Rodd into the study, Edwina was pleasantly surprised. Crafting shoes was essentially a medieval occupation. And she’d assumed all shoemakers were old men with pendulous bellies, gnarled hands, garlic breath and squinty eyes. But Mr Rodd was only about forty and very easy on the eye. His footwear was eye-catching, for he was wearing magnificent hand-tooled cowboy boots. He strode into the study and pointedly ignored the stool she offered him. Instead, he chose to stand tall on the hearth rug.
Astonishingly, Edwina’s psychic reader had just foretold, ‘A tall, handsome, aggressive man with capable hands will storm into your life, Eddie. And he will sweep you off your feet.’ Edwina maintained the sort of dignified expression appropriate to widowhood but her pulse was erratic and she felt decidedly warm and a tad moist. Celeste’s prediction was coming true. The woman must be a witch.
When Mr Rodd spoke, his voice was deep and manly. ‘I’ve only got five minutes to spare as I have an appointment with an American client. So I’ll come straight to the point, Madam. I live directly opposite your hotel – you can see my shoe emporium and apartment from here. A man I know only by sight, he lives in a cardboard box in the alley below, insists he saw something suspicious the night your husband died. Mikey Barthe didn’t have the courage to go to the police and he asked me to do so. I wasn’t sure if the information was valid but conscience dictates I should mention it. You can then make up your own mind.’
Edwina lowered her chin, widened her eyes and gazed up at him. My, Mr Rodd is certainly a fine figure of a man and just look at those broad shoulders. It was impossible not to notice the way his tailored trousers emphasised his muscular thighs. She tried to focus. ‘And what crucial information does this cardboard box denizen wish to impart?’
‘He saw your husband up on the roof that night.’
‘Really?’
‘And Mr du Barry wasn’t alone.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Mikey Barthe swore he saw two people clear as daylight up there on the parapet. They were illuminated by light streaming from what I’ve been told is your Winter Garden. Mikey said he saw the young man and Mr du Barry arguing. Then he witnessed a brief struggle and the young man shoved Mr du Barry over the edge.’
Edwina pressed her hand to her forehead and tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Mr Rodd –’
‘Please, call me Thomas.’
‘Thomas, this Mikey fellow, is he the drunk who’s been living in the alley for quite some time? Rheumy eyes, urine-stained pants and unkempt black hair? Often seen lurking around the hotel entrance?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Do you really think he’s a credible witness? Couldn’t he have been hallucinating? Or maybe he was suffering drunken tremors and seeing two men instead of one? If I go to the constabulary and report the matter, is there any likelihood it will bring my dear husband back to life?’
And with that Edwina burst into tears. Thomas gaped at her; he still hadn’t worked out how to handle a weeping woman. This unhappy beauty was clearly at her wits’ end. Such a petite, defenceless little thing.
Edwina turned her lovely tear-streaked face up at him. ‘Oh, Thomas, my husband was so good to all those beggars, drunks and layabouts. No doubt they miss him too. Why, only last week a wino went to Scotland Yard and swore Daniel had been killed by German spies. Why won’t they just let my Danny be at rest? Why must mankind keep seeking false truths?’
Thomas didn’t quite catch the widow’s drift but he was emotionally engaged nonetheless. He reached into his breast pocket and passed her a neatly folded handkerchief. His wife was keen on ironing and all his hankies had four perfectly pressed folds. Edwina daintily blew her nose and handed it back to him.
Thomas Columbus Rodd felt deep guilt and an unwanted erection as he slyly admired her tremulous pale beauty. How he longed to fondle her all over and kiss her adorable rosebud mouth until she willingly yielded to his aberrant desires. He reddened. How fucking shameful to think such dirty thoughts about Madam, when her husband isn’t even cold in his grave. Mrs du Barry’s tears had accentuated the impact of her sea-blue eyes. A man could drown in those eyes. Thomas felt a lump in his throat and mumbled, ‘I’m terribly sorry I upset you. Please don’t get up; I’ll see myself out. I do hope to see you again under less distressing circumstances. Here is my card. Goodbye, Mrs du Barry.’
From under lowered eyelids, Edwina glimpsed his cowboy boots heading out of the room. When the door clicked shut, she rushed to the balcony. She desperately wanted to watch Thomas stride off down the street. Obviously a man like him would have already been snapped up by a scheming female. Goddamnit. Edwina approved of his refusal to sit on command. Arrogant men were her speciality. With his neatly ironed handkerchief he’d come across as a housebroken mastiff, yet he still had his mongrel defiance. She peered at the apartment opposite. If only she could catch a glimpse of Mrs Rodd doing something unspeakably dreary in the Rodds’ apartment. Preferably while wearing hair curlers and a hideous floral apron. Hell would freeze over before Edwina was caught wearing anything remotely resembling an apron. Her garment of choice at home was a lacy peignoir.
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Sebastian dutifully reported the shoe designer’s visit to Jim Blade. The two of them sat down in the labyrinth and mulled over the details. Jim had an office upstairs but in the cooler months he preferred to direct business matters from the cosy depths of the boiler room. It was an intensely private space and Jim kept a stash of booze down there for his cardsharping buddies. Peeling movie posters, Cat’s sketches and yellowed horse-racing photographs decorated the grubby walls. Jim had furnished the place with a pockmarked table, rough wooden chairs and a low-slung shade, which created a puddle of green light on the table.
Sebastian loved visiting Jim’s lair, which was as titillating as an imaginary tour of Hell. He felt privileged to be sipping the hotel’s best cognac while seated in the place frequented by professional cardsharpers and corrupt Scotland Yard detectives. The furnaces were all fire and brimstone, sending warmth and wickedness up and out of the labyrinth. Sebastian fancied it was Jim’s boiler room that generated the energy for all the dirty doings at the Hotel du Barry.
That morning, Susie had discovered three debutantes and two train shunters in the same big bed in 806. She’d reported to Sebastian, ‘Buck naked they were. Except for the real sexy shunter who still had his yellow leather work gloves on. Them girls like a bit of leather with their slap and tickle.’
The girls had shown no shame. ‘Those shunters reckoned them girls picked them up at Waterloo Station. They’d been to a nightclub and was sucking down champagne and watching trains getting shunted around at two in the morning. Can’t blame them debs, most Oxford and Cambridge students I’ve met are wet behind the ears. But I tell ya, Sebastian, them shunters could shove their muddy work boots under my bed anytime.’
Susie and Sebastian had chuckled immoderately over the juicy details. Sebastian was already missing the Hotel du Barry and he hadn’t even left yet.
Jim finished rolling a cigarette and stared morosely at a poster of Greta Garbo blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘Sebastian, what was that bloke’s name again?’
‘Thomas Columbus Rodd. It’s writ large on the awning of all his emporiums.’
‘Nah, I meant the homeless wino.’
‘Mikey Barthe.’
‘Yep, I know him. Used to be a professional gambler, lived by his wits. He came unstuck when his woman dumped him. She supported him by turning tricks, was a very talented amateur. Mikey’s luck ran out and he ended up on the streets. Guess I’ll pay him a visit.’
Sebastian looked thoughtful. ‘Excellent. If there was foul play we simply must get the matter sorted.’
Jim grimaced. Bloody hell, every man and his dog wanted to be a private dick.
Jim visited the alley several times but Mikey Barthe was never home. Other street folk denied all knowledge of his whereabouts. However, after he slipped them some folding readies and a few packs of American cigarettes, they became positively chatty.
‘Ain’t seen him. Try the Thames Tunnel.’
‘Barthe likes the hot air vent out front of Harrods.’
‘Mikey likes to keep to himself. A real gentleman.’
‘He don’t trust nobody but he trusted Danny Boy. They used to have real long chinwags on the hotel steps. At four in the fucking morning. Meaning of life stuff.’
‘What do ya want Mikey for? He ain’t been seen for over a week.’
Jim put the word out. He combed back streets and alleys all the way down to the Thames. Still no Mikey. Until one morning, when a call came through from Senior Constable Walker. ‘We’ve got him.’
‘Great, Bill. Can you trump up a charge and keep him in the slammer till I get there?’
‘No dice. Can’t be done.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s been fished out of the Thames with a job lot of bullets all over his body. The killer was either fucking crazy or an idiot amateur.’
‘Bill, why would anyone want to unload a gun into a harmless old booze hound?’
‘Beats me. Usually homeless drunks freeze to death of their own accord, or their clapped-out livers do them in. Unless of course their fellow man strangles them, sets them on fire or beats them to death. It’s been a brutal week, that’s the third deceased hobo we’ve found. I’m thinking I need a change of career. Anyway, Jim, why are you so damned interested in Mikey?’
‘I’m kind-hearted. His chums from the alley were missing him.’
‘Yeah right, you lying bastard. See you tonight at the Plumbers Arms. You owe me so it’s your shout.’
13
Blood on the Teeth
Jules Bartholomew, formerly known as Marcus O’Shannessy, proceeded in a stately manner along the corridor. In his breast pocket he carried a scented pink envelope addressed to Miss Caterina du Barry. Jules was too proud to ask for directions. Edwina’s directive had been, ‘Take this to Caterina and wait for her answer.’
Unbelievable. What sort of mother dealt with her daughter in such a cold, formal way? Fuck, who gave a damn anyway? As long as Jules remained in the employ of the du Barry widow, it was none of his business. He congratulated himself on his good luck. Thank God her previous butler had shoved off, although no doubt Sebastian would already be regretting his move. Lord Harwood was known around London as being a real twat.
Mrs du Barry hadn’t bothered checking his bogus references and Jules was now considered an experienced, trustworthy butler. Ha. The hotel was a damned good hideout. Jules was a lad who appreciated the finer things in life and the hotel was more than ample for his present needs. He just needed to lie low for a few months and then he could get the fuck out of Britain. It would be plain stupid to try to ship out the merchandise while the constabulary had every bloody dock in the country under surveillance. Patience, boyo, just hold your nerve until the time is right. There were worse places to hole up in than the Hotel du Barry. Also, there was no way those double-crossing bastards would ever think of looking for him here. I should never have trusted those shifty fuckers in the first place.
It was his first day on the job. Jules tried to ignore the luxury items surrounding him but his professional instincts were aroused. Those lamp fittings alone would fetch a pretty penny down on the docks – solid copper and crystal embellished with gold leaf. Choice indeed. He also could not help but notice that all the hotel rooms had pickable locks. Unbelievable. Nine floors of loot just sitting there waiting to be fenced.
He smirked at the potential ease of making such a haul as he strolled along the corridor. Just as well he’d given up petty theft. From now on it was only going to be the big-time art stuff. Jules had finally worked out why so many lads in juvenile detention were dead keen on art history classes. For how else would those future art thieves know what was worth stealing? Or more importantly, how to identify the Old Masters that could only be safely sold to private collectors. You couldn’t flog the famous stuff that every man and his dog had seen at the Tate, Prado or Louvre. But you could offload it onto those rich, cunning society geezers who hid their stolen booty away from prying eyes. Mind you, there was something sick about those fuckers keeping great art all to themselves. You wouldn’t even be able to show it to your chums in case they blabbed. Bloody hell, where is the girl’s studio?
Jules heard someone cough behind him and nearly jumped out of his skin. But he managed to turn around slowly, consciously signalling a relaxed demeanour. Instinctively his right hand curved for the security of his pistol, then he remembered it was hidden under the floorboards in his attic bedroom. So Jules kept his hands firmly in his pockets; paranoia had a smell and the last thing Jules wanted was to appear as a cove with a shady past.
He found himself eyeball to eyeball with a big, brown bear.
Jim flashed his gleaming incisors and enquired, ‘Can I help you, Sir?’
‘I’m looking for Caterina du Barry’s studio.’
Jim’s eyes narrowed. He took in Jules’s dapper attire and the highly polished shoes. So this must be Edwina’s new butler, the one she’d selected without consulting the managers respo
nsible for the hiring and firing of staff. Jim’s gut feeling was that this lad had to be a career criminal of the first water. Look at the way the fucker was bouncing on his toes, no doubt looking for the nearest exit. His efforts to appear relaxed made him look half asleep.
Jules stared back. This giant had to be the hotel dick; his extreme courtesy and feigned humility stuck out like a mongrel’s balls. They didn’t usually make them this smart. One false move and Jules could well find himself nailed to the carpet with a boot in his face. They assessed each other briefly then both backed down. Jim sensed that the new employee was dodgy but he didn’t have the demeanour of a hardened killer. However, in a place like the Hotel du Barry, it was crucial to learn the dance steps of a potential adversary. It paid to keep things polite. So Jim extended his hand and said, ‘Jim Blade, hotel detective. You must be Madam’s new butler.’
Jules reached forward and clasped the detective’s hand in a firm grip. Firm enough to be assertive but not hard enough to seem aggressively polite. ‘Yes. I’m Julian Bartholomew, but I’m usually called Jules. Pleased to meet you.’
Jim released Julian’s hand and cracked his big knuckles. ‘Try the top floor, Cat’s studio is the last door on the right. I’ll be seeing you around. By the way, Jules, you might like to pop down to the boiler room at midnight. Poker party. Strictly cash only.’
‘That would be grand. See you then, Jim.’
Jules took the stairs two at a time, then crept along the corridor and stood outside the studio. From habit he put his ear to the door and listened to the voices within. He heard girly chitty-chat and the distinctive sound of quality porcelain being rearranged. They were probably having afternoon tea. He estimated there were about four or five females within. Jules heard one of them squeal, ‘Oh, Mrs Brown, you is having us on!’
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