by Anne Perry
“Please, just be frank with me,” he urged. “I shall not criticize either what you say or the way in which you say it. If this is a matter as serious as you intimate, then it would be an unfortunate time to find fault in so small a subject.”
“Thank you, you are most understanding. It will take a love of justice and a courage which puts that love before comfort and convenience. Such people are not as common as one would wish.”
“Just so,” he said sadly. “It is a grim reflection of our times. What, precisely, is it you wish me to do?”
“To find out what happened to Sir Arthur Desmond the afternoon he died …”
“But surely that was either an accident, or a suicide.” He pulled a very slight face. “To take one’s own life was not the act of a Christian, or of a gentleman, unless he had debts he could not pay or had committed a grave dishonor. Or suicide,” he finished.
“No, no, Mr. March! That is exactly the point, it was most certainly murder … for reasons I shall not go into now.” She leaned forward, facing him with an intense look. “It is not unconnected with the death of Mrs. Chancellor.” She ignored his look of amazement.
“And with members of the Colonial Office I am not free to name. Indeed, I only know the veriest fraction which I have overheard, but matters where England’s interest, and those of the Empire, may have been jeopardized.” Now his face was agog and his round eyes wide.
“Sir Arthur was murdered because he drew attention to matters which exposed certain people to suspicion and eventually ignominy,” she finished.
“Good gracious! You don’t say so!” He drew a deep breath. “Dear lady, are you perfectly sure you have this quite right? It seems …”
“Mrs. Chancellor is dead,” she pointed out. “And now Mr. Chancellor also. Can you doubt the matter is profoundly serious?”
“No. No, of course not. But the connection …?”
“Is to do with Africa. Will you help me?”
He hesitated only a moment. How could he refuse, and deny himself the opportunity for such gallantry, a noble part in such a matter, perhaps a small place in history?
“Of course,” he said enthusiastically. “When shall we begin?”
“Tomorrow, about lunchtime?” she suggested. “Of course, I cannot come into the club….”
“Good gracious no!” he agreed with a look of alarm. Such a thing would be tantamount to sacrilege.
“So I shall be obliged to wait outside in the street,” she said with as little irritation as she could manage, although it called for more self-control than she thought she possessed. It was absurd. Why on earth should they all be so appalled at the idea of a woman coming into the club? Anyone would think that they were all sitting around naked! That idea was so amusing she contained her laughter only with difficulty.
He noticed her expression, and his face filled with alarm.
“I hope you are not considering …”
“No!” she said sharply. “No, of course not. I shall wait in the street, I assure you. If nothing else will convince you, remember that Thomas has been promoted. I have every interest in behaving with the most perfect decorum to see that I do not in any way embarrass him.” That was a major stretching of the truth, but she felt Eustace would believe it.
“Of course, of course.” He nodded sagely. “I apologize for having doubted you. Now tell me what information it is you wish?”
“To begin with, to know precisely who was there that afternoon, and where they were sitting, or standing, or whatever it is gentlemen do in their clubs.”
“That sounds very simple. Surely Thomas would have learned that from the stewards,” he said with satisfaction.
“No, apparently they are so terribly busy waiting on people they don’t notice,” she responded. “Anyway, people tend to avoid speaking to the police if they can, especially if they fear it might compromise their friends unjustly.”
“I quite see the point….” He was dubious.
“But you will not be talking to the police, you will simply be telling me,” she pointed out.
She wondered whether she ought to mention Farnsworth’s opposition to Thomas’s working on the case at all, and decided it was too big a risk to take. Eustace was very impressed by authority. Apart from that, he might conceivably be in the same ring of the Inner Circle, and that would never do.
“Yes, that is certainly true,” he agreed, apparently calmed by the thought. After all, who was she, that anyone should mind? “Right.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then we shall begin tomorrow morning, shall we say outside the Morton Club at eleven o’clock?”
She rose to her feet. “I am enormously grateful to you, Mr. March. Thank you very much. I have taken the liberty of writing a short description of the principal suspects,” she added hastily, passing him a piece of paper. “I am sure it will be helpful. Thank you so much.”
“Not at all, dear lady, not at all,” he assured her. “In fact I am quite looking forward to it!”
He was not nearly so certain that that was how he felt at ten minutes past eleven the following day when he was actually in the main sitting room of the Morton Club, looking for a place to sit down and wondering how on earth he was to begin such an extraordinary undertaking. To start with, in the cold light of a public place, he realized it was in the most appallingly bad taste. One did not question a fellow member about his acts, whatever they were. It simply was not done. The very essence of the purpose of having a club was in order to remain unquestioned, to have both company and privacy, to be among people of one’s own thought, who knew how to behave.
He sat down where Charlotte had told him Sir Arthur had died, feeling a complete fool, and quite sure that his face was scarlet, even though no one took the slightest notice of him. But then people never did in a decent club. He should not have undertaken this, whatever Charlotte Pitt had said! He should have declined politely and kindly, pointing out the impossibility of it, and sent her on her way.
But it was too late now. He had given his word! He was not cut out to be a knight errant. For that matter, Charlotte was not really his choice of a damsel in distress. She was too clever to be satisfactory, much too sharp with her tongue.
“Good morning, sir. May I bring you something?” a discreet voice said at his elbow.
He started in surprise, then saw the steward.
“Oh, yes, er, a small whiskey would be excellent, er …”
“Yes sir?”
“Sorry, I was trying to recall your name. Seems I know you.”
“Guyler, sir.”
“Yes, that’s right. Guyler. I, er …” He felt hopelessly self-conscious, a complete ass, but it had to be done. He could not possibly go back to Charlotte and tell her he had failed, that he had not even had the courage to try! No shame here could be worse than that. To confess such cowardice to any woman would be appalling; to her it would be intolerable.
“Yes sir?” Guyler said patiently.
Eustace took a deep breath. “Last time I was here, very end of April, I was talking to a most interesting chap, been all over the place, especially Africa. Knew the devil of a lot about settlement there, and so on. But can’t remember his name. Don’t think that he ever said. Sometimes one doesn’t, you know?”
“Quite, sir,” Guyler agreed. “And you were wishing to know who it was?”
“Exactly!” Eustace said with intense relief. “See you understand completely.”
“Yes sir. Where were you sitting, sir? That might help. And perhaps if you could describe the gentleman a little. Was he elderly? Dark or fair? A large gentleman, or not, sir?”
“Er …” Eustace racked his brains to think of how Charlotte had described the main suspects. Unfortunately they were quite unalike. Then a brilliant idea occurred to him. “Well, the gentleman in question was quite bald, with a powerful nose and very clear, pale blue eyes,” he said with sudden conviction. “I remember his eyes especially. Most arresting …”
“Africa, yo
u said?” Guyler asked.
“That’s right. You know who I mean?”
“Would you have been in the reading room, sir?”
“Yes, yes, possibly.” Deliberately he looked uncertain.
“Then that was likely Mr. Hathaway, sir.”
“He was here that day?”
“Yes sir. Not for very long though.” Guyler’s face clouded. “He was taken unwell, as I recall. He went to the cloakroom, and then I think he went home without coming back into the reading room, and was never in this room at all. Most unfortunate. So maybe it wasn’t him, sir. Did you speak with him for long, this gentleman who knew so much about Africa?”
“Well, I rather thought it was a while.” Eustace let his imagination loose. He had never lied about anything before. He had been brought up to tell the exact truth about everything, regardless of how unpleasant, or how completely tedious it might be. To invent, with a free conscience, had the sweet taste of forbidden fruit. It could be rather fun! “Actually I think there was another gentleman there with considerable knowledge. In fact he had only lately returned from his travels. Very sunburned, he was. Fair hair, don’t you know, but weathered complexion. Tall, lean fellow, military type of bearing. German name, I think, or possibly Dutch, I suppose. Sounded foreign to me, anyway. But English fellow, naturally!”
“Would that be Mr. Kreisler, sir? It sounds uncommonly like him. He was here. I recall it especially because that was the day poor Sir Arthur Desmond died, right here in this very chair you are sitting in. Very sad, that was.”
“Oh very,” Eustace agreed with alarm. “And yes, you are right, that sounds like the name I recall. Did he know Sir Arthur?”
“Ah, no sir. Sir Arthur was only in this room, and as far as I know, Mr. Kreisler never came out of the reading room. Actually he was there quite a short while anyway. Came to see someone, and then left just after luncheon.”
“Never came in here?” Eustace said. “Are you quite sure?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Guyler replied with conviction. “Nor Mr. Hathaway either, so I suppose it must have been neither of those two gentlemen. It doesn’t seem as if I can be of much assistance, sir. I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, don’t give up yet,” Eustace said urgently. “There were one or two other fellows around who might know him. One was remarkably well read, as I recall, could quote anything, but as plain as you like, short, heavyset, face melted right into his neck.” He was using Charlotte’s words, and felt artificial doing it. It was not a description he would have chosen. “Round eyes, fat hands, excellent hair,” he gabbled, feeling the heat burn up his cheeks. “Good voice.”
Guyler looked at him curiously. “Sounds not unlike Mr. Aylmer, sir. And he certainly knows about Africa. He works in the Colonial Office.”
“That’d be him!” Eustace said eagerly. “Yes, sounds exactly right!”
“Well he was here that day….” Guyler said thoughtfully. “But seems to me he only came in and went right out again….”
“Ah, but at what time?” Eustace demanded.
“About … about noon, sir. Could that not have been him?”
Eustace was warming to this. He was really rather good at it. The evidence was piling up. Come to think of it, it seemed he had something of a talent for it. Pity it was all negative, so far.
“Well, there was another fellow there,” he said, looking at Guyler with wide eyes reflecting absolute candor. “Speaking to you reminds me of him. Tall fellow, dark wavy hair, distinguished looking. Gray a bit.” He touched the sides of his own graying head. “Can’t quite think of his name.”
“I’m sorry, sir, that description fits rather a lot of our gentlemen,” Guyler said regretfully.
“His name was …” Eustace furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. He did not want to lead Guyler too obviously. Lying, of course, was sinful, but invention was rather fun. “Something to do with feet, I think …”
“Feet, sir?” Guyler looked confused.
“Reminded me of feet,” Eustace elaborated. “Not sounded like feet, you understand?”
Guyler looked utterly confounded.
“Understand …” Eustace repeated the word as if it were deeply significant in itself. “Understand … stand … stand …”
“Standish!” Guyler said excitedly, and so loudly that several of the somnolent gentlemen in nearby chairs turned and glared at him. He blushed.
“Astounding!” Eustace said with admiration. “By jove, that’s exactly it. How clever of you.” Flattery was also a sin, but it was a remarkably useful tool, and it was surprising how the ordinary chap responded to it. And women, of course, were slaves to it. Flatter a woman a trifle, and she could swallow it like cake and do anything for you. “That’s absolutely right,” he went on. “Standish was his name. Indubitably.”
“Well, Mr. Standish was in and out that day, sir,” Guyler said with a flush of pleasure at being praised so heartily. “Can’t say that I have seen him since then. But if you would care for me to find him, sir, I am sure Mr. Hathaway is in the club today. He does occasionally come in for luncheon.”
“Ah …” Eustace was momentarily caught. “Well …” His brain raced. “Er, before you trouble Mr. Hathaway, was Mr. Standish in this room on that day, would you know?”
Guyler hesitated.
“Rather a difficult question, I know,” Eustace apologized. “Long time ago now. Hate to press you. Asking rather a lot.”
“Not at all, sir,” Guyler denied it instantly. His memory for gentlemen’s faces was part of his stock in trade. “Difficult day to forget, sir, with poor Sir Arthur being found dead, like. I was the one who found him, sir. Dreadful experience.”
“It must have been,” Eustace sympathized. “Most unnerving for you. Amazing you recovered yourself so rapidly.”
“Thank you, sir.” Guyler squared his shoulders.
“Er … was he? Standish, I mean?” Eustace pressed.
“No sir, I rather think he played a game of billiards with Mr. Rowntree, and then left and went home to dinner,” Guyler said with concentration.
“But he was here in the late afternoon?” Eustace tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, and felt he failed.
“Yes sir, I remember that, because of poor Sir Arthur. Mr. Standish was here at the time. Saw him in the hall as he was leaving, just as the doctor arrived. I recall that plainly now you mention it.”
“But he didn’t come into this room?” Eustace was disappointed. For a moment it had looked as if he had the answer he was seeking.
“No sir,” Guyler replied with increasing certainty. “No sir, he didn’t. It must have been Mr. Hathaway you spoke to, sir, and you must have been mistaken about the place, if you will forgive me saying so. There is a corner of the green room not unlike this, the arrangement of the chairs and so on. Could it have been there that you had your discussion?”
“Well …” Eustace wanted to leave himself open for a rapid redeployment if necessary. “I daresay you could be right. I’ll try to clarify my memory. Thank you so much for your help.” He fished out a crown and offered it to a delighted Guyler.
“And the whiskey, sir? I’ll fetch it immediately,” Guyler said.
“Thank you … yes, thank you.” Eustace had no choice but to wait until the whiskey came, and then drink it without indecent haste. To do anything else would draw attention to himself as a man without taste or breeding, a man who did not belong. And that he could not bear. All the same, he was bursting to go and tell Charlotte what he had learned, and in such a remarkably short time. He felt very pleased with himself. It had been accomplished completely, and without raising the least suspicion.
He finished the whiskey, rose to his feet and sauntered out.
Charlotte was on the steps in the sun and quite a sharp breeze.
“Well?” she demanded as soon as he was out of the door and before he was halfway down to the street. “Did you learn anything?”
“I learned a grea
t deal.” He grasped her arm and linked it to his, then half dragged her to walk side by side with him up the pavement, so to a passerby they would look like a respectable couple taking a stroll. There was no point whatever in making a spectacle of oneself. After all, he was a member of the Morton Club and would wish to return one day.
“What?” Charlotte said urgently, threatening to stop.
“Keep walking, my dear lady,” he insisted out of the corner of his mouth. “We do not wish to be observed as out of the ordinary.”
To his surprise the argument seemed to sway her. She fell into step beside him.
“Well?” she whispered.
Glancing at the expression on her face, he decided to be brief.
“Mr. Standish was present that afternoon, and at the appropriate time, but the steward is positive he did not go into the room where Sir Arthur was seated.”
“Are you sure it was Standish?”
“Beyond doubt. Kreisler was also there, but left too early, as did Aylmer.” They were passed by a man in a pinstripe suit and carrying an umbrella, in spite of the pleasantness of the day.
“However,” Eustace went on, “Hathaway was present, but also not in the same room. He was apparently taken ill, and went to the cloakroom, from where he sent for a cab and was helped into it. He never went anywhere near the room where Sir Arthur was either. I am afraid it appears that none of your suspects can be guilty. I’m sorry.” Actually he was sorry, not for her, but because although it was a far more suitable answer, it was also an anticlimax.
“Well someone must be guilty,” she protested, raising her voice against the noise of the traffic.
“Then it cannot be any of them. Who else might it be?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Anyone.” She stopped, and since she was still clinging to his arm, he was pulled to a sudden halt also. A middle-aged lady on the arm of an elderly man looked at them with suspicion and disapproval. From her expression it was obvious she had supposed some domestic quarrel which no dutiful wife would have allowed to happen in public.