A Donation of Murder (19 page)

Pike handed his top hat, gloves and coat to an effeminate butler who could have stepped straight from one of London's more risqué clubs. Gilt-framed paintings of naked women adorned the hall walls. A bronze statue of a woman fornicating with a goat stood on a table, and the mosaic floor depicted scenes from a Roman orgy. What was he letting himself in for, he wondered, as the footman led him to a reception room via a curling flight of stairs.

‘Mr Charles Kilner of Boston,' the butler announced, swishing open the double doors.

At least this room wasn't as confronting as the hall. One wall was lined with shelves of books that Pike suspected to be facades. The sofas, upholstered in a garish floral fabric, looked comfortable. Wing-backed chairs of various colours and patterns were scattered between them, as if the decorator had not been able to make his mind up and had chosen one of each.

Several men in evening dress stood as he entered the room. John Giblett, whom Pike pretended not to recognise, clapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand.

Giblett introduced himself. ‘Welcome back to England, Charlie — you don't mind if I call you Charlie, do you? I feel as if we're old pals.'

‘I like to think we are, John,' Pike replied. ‘What with the correspondence that's been going on between us and all.'

Giblett's gaze travelled up and down Pike's body. ‘Have you got the err . . .'

‘The money, yes,' Pike said, patting the money belt beneath his tailcoat. ‘Not that I'm necessarily going to spend it, you understand. I need to be satisfied with the goods first. There's plenty of other shopping opportunities in London.'

‘I plan an after-dinner showing. I'm afraid you're not the only punter interested,' Giblett said, cocking his head toward several men standing just out of earshot.

‘No, of course not,' Pike said. ‘I didn't expect I would be. That was quite a feat, John, that operation of yours. Congratulations. When you first wrote me about it I wasn't expecting to hear of your success.'

‘You've been out of the country too long, Charlie, otherwise you'd know: I don't fail.'

Pike chuckled. ‘You were just a whipper-snapper when I left. I suppose someone had to fill the void.'

A frown passed across Giblett's face. Pike had achieved what he had intended — he'd put a burr under the man's saddle. It would be unrealistic to imagine no rivalry between the two thieves.

As Pike walked towards the grouped men, he whispered to his host, ‘Just so you know, I still have mates in this country, and several know where I'm going tonight, and what this,' he patted his stomach, ‘is for. If something should happen to me, or the money . . .'

‘I'd do the same myself, no hard feelings,' Giblett muttered. In a louder voice he said, ‘Over here chaps, come meet Pianner Charlie.'

Pike found himself surrounded, clapped on the back, his hand crushed in grips so hard he had to pull away and flex his fingers. He recognised some of the names, but not all. There was O'Sullivan from Ireland, infamous around the Dublin racetracks. The Irishman had refused to relinquish his coat at the front door and an exasperated footman was still trying to wrest it from him.

‘Leave him be,' Giblett said to the footman. ‘He's caught a chill and wants to stay warm.'

There was also one-eyed Jerry Hartwell, ex-leader of the Forty Thieves, standing next to the notorious fixer, Jackie Lambert. Pike doubted any of the men he met were serious contenders for the necklace, and suspected Giblett had only invited them to boost numbers and conjure up interest. The one man he felt could be a rival bidder was a balding French jeweller called Monsieur Roy who carried a crocodile-skin attaché case. Before they shook hands Roy transferred it from his right to his left hand, maintaining a knuckle-white grip on its handle. No need to guess where this man kept his money.

Pike had had nothing to do with any of the men before and felt confident his cover was safe.

The ladies joined them and introductions were made again. Their appearance lightened the atmosphere in the room and relaxed all the men but Pike, who did his best to appear at home. He managed to ration his intake of Krug, even though the champagne flowed like water, tipping a glass into a handy pot plant when no one was looking.

Pike was introduced to Giblett's fiancée, a tall woman with fiery red hair. Margaret Doyle. So this striking creature was the woman who'd captivated Dody, and her ‘John' was undoubtedly John Giblett. Pike recalled the document from the record room he'd read earlier. ‘Diamond' Peggy Doyle, daughter of Irish immigrants now deceased. No jail time and no convictions, although she was thought to have fallen in with the Whistlers. No doubt that was how she'd come by the earrings she'd given Dody. It was suspected that she had been involved with the Selfridges heist herself, but a sound alibi had meant that the police could go no further with it.

When he took her hand she stared as if she knew him. He held her eye and tried to ignore the prick of his winged collar against his reddening neck. Her eyes were a perfect match to the stone she wore on her left hand, and her exquisite satin gown. The milky white rise of her breasts was emphasised by the low-cut bodice. Pike made a conscious effort to keep his eyes on her face as they exchanged pleasantries.

‘I hope you will do me the honour of escorting me into the dining room when dinner is served,' she said.

‘It will be my pleasure, Miss Doyle,' he replied with a small bow.

She excused herself. His gaze followed her as she glided across the room to greet O'Sullivan.

A voice that sounded as if its owner had been licking tarmac whispered close to his ear. ‘Bad luck, Charlie, she's taken.' Pike turned to find Malcolm James standing nearby, his lopsided grin matching his lopsided nose. His shiny black hair was slicked on either side of his central parting like crow's wings.

Pike shrugged. ‘For now, maybe.'

‘Ha, you haven't changed.'

Pike paused and stared at the man. ‘What do you mean by that? You don't know me at all,' he said with a threatening edge to his voice.

‘I reckon I know you better than you think, mate.'

Pike held his breath. Had James spotted his tail from De Keyser's after all?

‘Your reputation lived on long after you scarpered to America,' James explained. He looked at Pike through suspicious eyes then nodded towards the grand piano in the corner of the room. ‘How about giving us a tune?'

‘After dinner's for singsongs. Now's hardly the time.'

‘Oh, but I think it is. How about your signature tune? I can't remember its name, but you know the one I mean.'

‘I don't have a signature tune,' Pike said, keeping his expression blank.

James smiled then raised his voice to the room. ‘C'mon everyone, Charlie's going to play us a tune.'

Everyone clapped and urged him on. Pike had no choice. He took a seat at the piano and blew on his fingers. A woman laughed. He sat for a moment and stared at the keys.

James took a step towards him. ‘Forgotten, have you?'

With his eyes fixed on James, Pike ran his fingers up the scale and down.

‘Key of C,' he called out. ‘Join in if you know the words.'

He played the first few bars. Feet began to tap when the song was recognised. Even Malcolm James smiled.

‘Do you know the words?' Pike asked Margaret, who stood at the piano next to him. She nodded and smiled. ‘And you?' he added to James, standing just beyond her.

James's answer was the first verse, which he sung in a strong baritone.

                              
Now my name is Samuel Hall,

                              
Samuel Hall, Samuel Hall

                              
Oh my name is Samuel Hall, Samuel Hall

                              
Oh my name is Samuel Hall,

                              
and I hate you one and all

                              
You're a bunch of fuckers all

                              
Blast your eyes.

                              
You're a bunch of fuckers all

                              
Blast your eyes.

The crowd roared and stamped their feet.

‘My turn,' Margaret said, leaning against the piano, giving Pike an unobstructed view of her cleavage. Her alto complimented James's baritone perfectly.

                              
Now I killed a man they said

                              
So they said, so they said

                              
Oh I killed a man they said

                              
Yes they said

                              
I killed a man they said

                              
And I left him layin' dead

                              
Cause I bashed his bloody head

                              
Blast his eyes.

                              
Caused I bashed his bloody head

                              
Blast his eyes. Oh it's swingin' I must go

                              
I must go I must go

‘You again,' Margaret said to James.

The tension between them was palpable. As if there was no one else in the room, they sang only to each other. Love or hate, Pike could not tell what passions were stirring, but whatever they were, they translated into an uncomfortable tingle on the back of his neck.

James skipped over a few verses and reached the last. Pike upped the tempo, amazed by the relish with which the verse was sung. Had James any idea that he might be singing about himself — or was that the point?

                              
I must hang until I'm dead

                              
Til I'm dead, Til I'm dead

                              
I must hang until I'm dead

                              
I must hang until I'm dead

                              
Caused I killed a man they said

                              
And left him layin' dead

                              
Blast his eyes.

                              
And left him layin' dead

                              
Blast his eyes.

Pike ended the song. When the cheers and whistles died, James turned away and raised his hand for silence.

‘Any tips for the Irish cup, O'Sullivan?' he called out.

‘Why, planning on stealing it, are you, laddie?' O'Sullivan replied to hoots of laughter. The Irishman walked over to James and thumped him on the arm. James winced.

‘Sorry, carrying an injury, are you, Malcolm?' O'Sullivan asked.

‘Got spiked last night. Nothing serious.'

‘Got spiked by a
woman
,' Giblett added, smiling.

O'Sullivan roared with laughter. James scowled.
What's that all about
? Pike wondered as he left the piano in search of a drink.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned.

‘You look thirsty, here.' Margaret Doyle took his empty glass and swapped it with a full one from a passing waiter. ‘I don't know about you, but James always makes me reach for the bottle.'

‘He has a good singing voice, but he's a bit short on charm, isn't he?'

‘And dangerous. You need to be careful of him.'

Pike shrugged. ‘Maybe I'm dangerous, too.'

‘We'll see then, won't we? When the bidding starts.'

Pike was glad when the butler entered the room and announced that dinner was served. The sooner this night ended the better.

Margaret slipped her arm through his and walked him to the dining room, taking great delight in showing him the central table decoration she had crafted herself. He made the right noises as she showed him to his seat, before taking hers at the other end of the huge table.

The dinner was a strange affair, like none Pike had ever been to before. He'd endured all kinds of meals in all kinds of cultures, from the highest echelon of British society to its lowest, not to mention a variety of barbarous foreign cuisines in between. Never had he come across such a contradiction of table manners as he saw here. Several of the women failed to remove their gloves. They were loud and vulgar and helped themselves to wine before the host or butler offered it, elevating their little fingers as they swilled from the cut-glass crystal. Most of the men ate with their napkins stuffed down their shirtfronts, pulling their spoons towards them through their soup like over zealous rowers. O'Sullivan still refused to remove his overcoat, saying he was cold despite the blazing fire. The men swore like sailors in front of the women and often lapsed into rhyming slang.