A Knightsbridge Scandal

by Anita Davison

  From what she had witnessed, it was evident that Mr Crabbe was intent on repelling Miss Lange, not pursuing her. In which case what had he meant when he had told William about, “two incidents”?

  ‘Do you happen to know what “tot-hunting” is, Sally?’ she asked, pulling her fur collar higher against the chill wind that made her nose run.

  ‘Where’d did you hear an expression like that, Missus?’ Sally blinked, her cheeks flushing an unbecoming red.

  ‘I heard it somewhere.’ Flora shrugged.

  ‘It’s what they call men who chase women,’ Sally lowered her voice for the benefit of the pressing crowd. ‘And in most cases catches them.’

  ‘Thank you, Sally. That’s exactly what I thought.’

  Sally dawdled a few steps behind, exclaiming at each shop to point out the displays of jewellery, evening bags and scarves in every hue from sunshine yellow to rich, royal purple which hung between rows of beads. Tree ornaments beckoned from every storefront, sparkling with the promise of magic to brush away the drabness of everyday life for a few days a year.

  A sharp, sweet smell emanated from string bags that bulged with oranges hung on hooks attached to the doorways, while others covered with cloves dangled from red ribbons, giving off a warm, festive smell that helped cover the more earthy odours from the carts and horses on the road.

  Blood red holly and gleaming white mistletoe berries added spots of colour to bunches of greenery slung from market stalls piled high with produce outside shops and arcades.

  The roar of traffic and the hoarse cries of the street hawkers were interspersed with the laughter of children, who pleaded with a parent or nanny to allow them to press their noses up against the shop windows to see the treasures inside.

  Grocers’ counters were piled with Christmas puddings and mince pies for those without resident cooks who had been preparing since November. Handmade chocolates, marzipan fruits, and humbugs wrapped up in striped red and green ribbons piled into baskets everywhere Flora looked. Crowded streets were made more impassable by the knots of people gathered on the pavements in front of shop windows to admire the exotic foods, tree ornaments, and gifts wrapped with brightly coloured paper. There was also the enticing smell of hot butter mixed with charcoal from the baked potato sellers, who did a roaring trade from the walkers dawdling along the pavement.

  ‘They smell good, Missus,’ Sally craned her head round to stare at a cart piled high with hot chestnuts. ‘I wouldn’t mind some of those.’

  ‘Later, you’ve only just had your breakfast.’

  Flora eased through the pressing crowd that seemed to thicken as she walked, many with brown parcels tucked under their arms or, in the case of the elegantly dressed ladies, were carried by maids who kept a regulatory three paces behind them. The festive atmosphere brought smiles to the dourest of faces as gentlemen slipped coins into the hands of the crossing sweeper as they passed; a rare sight indeed with Christmas still over two weeks away.

  ‘Is this whole building one shop, Missus?’ Sally asked, her neck craned to stare up at the towering façade of Charles Harrod’s store, watched by a bemused doorman. Shoppers forced to walk around her glared in annoyance at the fascinated girl who stood frozen in the middle of the pavement.

  ‘The store itself occupies the ground and first floor,’ Flora explained. ‘The other four floors are mansion apartments.’

  ‘That’s good because I don’t much like heights.’ Sally sidled up to Flora’s shoulder. ‘Is it true that there’s a staircase inside that moves all by itself?’

  ‘I think it’s more complicated than that.’ Flora had heard about this innovative contraption. ‘It’s more like a conveyor belt with a handrail. I don’t see why we shouldn’t take a look. If you pretend to be frightened and shake a little, they’ll offer you a brandy at the top to settle your nerves.’

  ‘Even better,’ Sally beamed. ‘Though who says I’ll be pretending?’

  Flora led the way through the series of halls, each one an Aladdin’s cave of goods laid out to entice the most discerning eye. Ladies paraded between the rooms, exclaiming loudly, while uniformed girls dashed between cabinets to fetch items to show them.

  ‘Look at all this grub!’ Sally slowed her steps as Flora led her through the food hall where pheasants, turkeys, and geese hung from hooks above their heads, set beside vast pyramids of fruit and vegetables, some of which even Flora had not seen before.

  ‘Don’t dawdle, Sally,’ Flora chided when her maid pressed her nose against a cabinet of cream cakes. ‘I’m not buying food today. The hall I want is over there, the perfume department.’

  Sally’s gasp as she stepped through the archway reminded Flora of the first time she had visited Harrods with Riordan Maguire, a memory which made her throat burn. He had been gone over a year, but even a brief, passing memory caused sharp pain.

  A full height hall extended into the roof through two storeys, with a gallery that ran round the top, below which two long rows of glass display cases were arranged opposite one another. The air filled with musk, roses, and sandalwood, from rows of crystal bottles in every colour, with names as famous as the fragrances they contained.

  ‘Are those real palm trees?’ Sally nodded at the rows of wide-leafed plants that fanned out between the shelves.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think the ferns are attached to crepe-paper-covered posts and fastened to the cabinets to make them look like trees.’

  ‘It’s grand, just like the orchid house at Kew Gardens,’ Sally observed.

  ‘I suppose it does look a bit like that.’ Flora regarded the long room with its glass lantern ceiling through Sally’s eyes. ‘As a special treat, would you like to try some of the perfumes?’

  ‘May I?’ Sally’s eyes widened further.

  ‘Of course. Don’t let those haughty-looking girls behind the counter intimidate you. Many of them started off as housemaids.’

  Taking her at her word, Sally proceeded to try out each of the colognes and perfume samples ranged along the counter.

  ‘I think that’s enough,’ Flora whispered after the sixth bottle had been upended on Sally’s wrist, a combination of herbal and floral scents making her cough. ‘You smell like a flower shop.’

  ‘But they are all so beautiful, Missus. I like this one best, I-oh—’ A bottle of rose water tipped sideways, spilling precious perfume onto the glass-topped counter. As it dripped off the side and onto the floor, Sally’s mortified face combined with the shop assistant’s disdain as she mopped up the liquid prompted Flora to take pity on her maid.

  ‘I wish to purchase the rose water,’ Flora said, at which the assistant gave her an ‘I should think so’ look, which altered rapidly to a shocked start when Flora added, ‘It’s for my maid. I’ll take a bottle of Violette as well,’ Flora spoke down her nose in imitation of Beatrice when she addressed those she considered beneath her. ‘No, not the small one, that one over there.’

  ‘Certainly, Madam.’ The assistant’s disapproving expression transformed into an ingratiating smile. Flora watched her open a glass-fronted cabinet and take down a Baccarat bottle with silver embossed Greek figures encircling the base, hoping she had brought enough money with her, for the d’Orsay perfume was exquisite but ruinously expensive.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that, Miss Flora,’ Sally whispered when Flora handed her the packages, neatly wrapped in pink tissue paper and silver ribbons.

  ‘I didn’t like the way that girl scowled at you,’ Flora replied as they carved a path through the shoppers who filled the aisles between the display cases. ‘She would have reacted very differently had I been the one who spilled her sample bottle.’

  Knowing her mother-in-law’s views on spoiling servants, Flora tried not to dwell on what Beatrice Harrington would have said had she known.

  ‘Can we go on the elevator again?’ Sally pleaded.

  ‘No, you’ve been on it three times already and we’re already on the ground floor. Now go and ask that doorma
n to hail a hansom. We’re going to Regent Street next.’

  The hansom darted through traffic around Hyde Park Corner, past Green Park and into Piccadilly, then took a left into Regent Street. They pulled up beside an ordinary-looking store, not dissimilar to the rest of the street, the only difference being the explosion of colour and variety of items on display in the windows. Red and black lacquered cabinets and armoires decorated with golden dragons occupied one large storefront. A row of paper lanterns in primary hues with Chinese characters in black strung across the front of the window. Jade figurines of serene-faced young women and men with plaited beards were set on delicate tables with gold legs that looked flimsy enough to be carried away on a stiff breeze.

  ‘What is this place, Missus?’ Sally’s eyes widened as she stared through the glass.

  ‘This is Mr Liberty’s Store. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve read all about it in The Lady. He imports unusual items from places like Egypt, Asia, Morocco, and China to enhance the home. I doubt Mrs Harrington would agree, but I would love to have some of these at home. Wait until you see inside.’

  Flora led her into a large hall filled with brightly coloured rugs draped in artistic layers over waist-high tables, interspersed with gilt vases and strangely shaped mirrors in all sizes.

  ‘It’s all very bright and, well, strange.’ Sally started as she came up against a life-sized model of a giraffe. ‘Folks want this stuff in their houses?’

  ‘Of course, Eastern style is all the rage just now, and where else in London could you find it but here? Though perhaps I shall need to wait until Mister Bunny and I have our own house to furnish. Think how bright and cheerful a room would look dressed with turquoise and lilac instead of soil brown and sallow yellow.’ She fingered a length of peacock blue brocade shot through with silver thread and on impulse, asked the nearest salesgirl to measure out ten yards of the silky fabric. Bunny adored that shade of blue on her and the metallic shine would add a magical quality to the gown she planned to have made.

  ‘Cheerful certainly, Miss. But how would you sleep with all these bright colours around you all the time? It would give me an ’eadache.’

  ‘I should love it.’ Flora handed Sally the parcel of cloth and moved on through the store, issuing ‘excuse me’s’ to ladies slow to step aside so she might examine the silks and coverlets that hung from the galleries on the upper floors; the vast hall a blaze of colour which shone in the subdued light from artistically placed oil lamps around the room.

  ‘It’s just like an Eastern Bazaar.’ Flora craned her neck to take in the lengths of multicoloured voiles and calicos arranged to form a tented ceiling in one corner.

  ‘I ain’t never been to one ‘o them.’ Sally ran her fingers along a carpet on a waist-high pile, tracing the edges of the intricate pattern.

  ‘Haven’t been, Sally. Neither have I, but I’m certain that if ever I do, it will look just like this, if considerably warmer.’

  ‘Do they really sit on cushions on the floor in those Eastern countries?’ Sally pointed to a mountain of cushions in vast wicker baskets at the ends of rows.

  ‘I imagine they must do.’ Flora picked up a gold filigree lamp with an enamelled lid shaped like a minaret roof.

  ‘Funny sort of thing to do if you ask me. What’s wrong with proper chairs?’ Sally sniffed.

  Flora laughed, then glanced up at a clock on the wall. ‘Goodness, it’s almost time for luncheon and we haven’t even had that coffee I promised.’ She replaced the lamp and headed for the door. ‘We had better get back to the apartment.’

  *

  ‘A shame we couldn’t find a motor taxi, they have more space inside for parcels.’ Flora piled her purchases into the corner of the seat of the hansom she had almost lost heart at finding in Regent Street.

  Sally fidgeted, rearranging a square package wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Don’t tear that one,’ Flora warned. ‘It’s my new dress. I’ve never bought a store made one before, but I couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Sorry, Missus. These small ones were sticking into my back.’

  The traffic in Regent Street crawled along, becoming no better by the time they reached Knightsbridge, the road lining the park crowded with motor cars, carts and horse-drawn hansoms in the gathering fog. A unique combination of fresh manure mingled with fumes from the engines made a unique smell which was, thankfully, dampened down by the cold winter air.

  Flora could make out the corner of their building from where she sat and fretted at the fact they had moved no more than a few feet in the last ten minutes. ‘Drop us here would you please,’ she called through the overhead trap. ‘Come on, Sally, we’ll walk the rest of the way.’

  Jostled by impatient walkers, Flora clutched her parcels tightly and scooted aside to avoid being tripped up by an elderly man with a walking stick. As she set off again, mumbling to herself about bad-mannered people, she glanced to her right, where the sign on the narrow alley beside the Alexandra Hotel proclaimed it to be Old Barrack Yard.

  ‘That’s where they found that woman.’ She turned to see if Sally had heard her, but her maid was trapped behind three matrons in wide hats who took up the full width of the pavement, her head only just visible.

  Flora waited for her maid to catch up, her attention still on the alley. Barely wide enough for a cart, scant light penetrated between the tall buildings on either side, the ground twisting sharply to the right as it stretched away into blackness. Was she killed right here in sight of the road, or further along the alley? Where did it go?

  She summoned a picture in her head of the woman in the green coat with Mr Crabbe on the pavement the night before. His words of dismissal repeated in her head, then the lady’s softer, more reasonable one saying he would be hearing from her again.

  If she was the woman they had found, no one would be hearing from her now. Is that why she was killed? Did Mr Crabbe have anything to do with it?

  ‘Sorry, I made you wait, Miss Flora.’ Breathless, Sally reached her at last, the larger of the parcels under one arm and the others clutched to her chest. ‘Some people don’t have no manners.’

  Flora smiled that it was no trouble, and with the prospect of a warm fire and hot coffee beckoning, she pushed all thoughts of the dead woman away and carried on to the entrance of William’s building.

  Chapter 7

  ‘That policeman is here to see you, Miss.’ The porter cut a glance at a serious-looking man who occupied one of the lobby sofas. In a brown tweed suit with a mustard stripe, he looked to be in his early thirties, his forearms on his knees and a black bowler hat on the seat beside him. The set of his shoulders indicated he had been there a while.

  Flora released a sigh as thoughts of coffee and a welcome fire dissolved. She acknowledged Dunne with a curt nod of thanks; still mildly irritated by his earlier behaviour toward the suffragist.

  The stranger balanced his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet while eyeing her with the look of someone accustomed to making snap judgements about people. ‘Mrs Osborne, is it?’

  He stood an inch or two taller than herself, well-built with shrewd brown eyes that held a look of weary annoyance as if he didn’t appreciate being kept waiting. Flora was surprised at how handsome he was, though the effect was spoiled by the sight of the grey and mustard check suit beneath his overcoat. Was the man colour blind?

  ‘Harrington actually, Mrs Harrington. I believe you wished to speak with me about what happened last night?’

  ‘Uh-I did, yes,’ he mumbled, flushing slightly, and coughed into a fist.

  Flora flicked the porter a glance and wondered what gossip he might have imparted to make the man so uncomfortable.

  ‘Despite being aware of my impending visit, you and Mr Osborne went out on separate errands this morning.’ His tone did not quite amount to a reprimand but came close.

  ‘Hardly an errand, Inspector,’ Flora corrected him. ‘Mr Osborne had an appointment with the Prime Minister.’
She waited for his startled apology, but none came. ‘As for myself, I had no idea when to expect you. Besides, I only arrived in London yesterday, so I doubt I have anything important to contribute to your investigation.’

  ‘Even so,’ he spoke slowly as if explaining to a child, ‘this is a murder enquiry. You’re required to make yourself available to the police. I also need a word with your maid.’ He flicked a glance at Sally. ‘I would have done so last night, but she refused to answer any of my questions without your permission.’

  One of the parcels tucked beneath Flora’s arm slipped and she shifted it higher, her head turned to frown at Sally, who stared back with blank innocence. This was the first Flora had heard about any refusal. No wonder Inspector Maddox was annoyed with them, he must think they had deliberately avoided him.

  ‘Well, I’m available now, Inspector.’ Flora regarded him steadily. ‘Ask me whatever you like.’

  ‘I’ll take your purchases inside, shall I, Missus?’ Sally tugged them from Flora’s hands and moved off towards their apartment door.

  ‘You don’t mind if we talk here, do you, Inspector, er— I’m sorry, what was your name?’ Flora employed a tactic her mother-in-law used on occasion to put lesser mortals in their place.

  ‘Maddox. Detective Inspector Maddox,’ he replied archly, enunciating each word as if to dare her to forget it a second time.

  ‘Of course.’ She took a seat on the sofa he had just vacated. ‘Please, do sit.’ She didn’t appreciate being told off like a schoolgirl. Nor was she going to defend herself with the fact she had waited for over an hour for his appearance that morning.

  He flicked back his overcoat and sat, knees splayed, though his raised eyebrow showed he had expected more reverence for a member of the police. Or perhaps fear.

  ‘Have you discovered the victim’s identity?’ she asked, folding her hands demurely in her lap.

  He paused in the act of producing a battered notebook and pencil from the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Er-not yet, no.’