Kitty (19 page)

“Now, my Lord,” said Mr. Grange in a grim voice. He signaled to a policeman by the door who took out his notebook.

“Oh, put that away just now,” said Peter wearily. “This is going to be hard enough for me to talk about without that great oaf writing down every word I say.”

“All right, then,” said the detective. “Begin at the beginning.”

And Peter Chesworth did, leaving nothing out, while Veronica Jackson sat as if turned to stone. Everyone—the detective, the policeman, and Veronica—were aware that they were hearing an honest confession of a man’s growing love for his wife.

“I have no alibi for Hadsea because obviously someone was hired to saw through the balcony,” said Peter. “But I have a definite alibi for the time she was at the underground station.”

“Someone could have been hired on that occasion as well,” said the detective. “But I’ll tell you something, my Lord. I believe you and this lady here. But someone is trying to kill your wife. For the moment, Mrs. Jackson has made one attempt and it’s up to your wife whether she wishes to press charges or not.

“In any case, I am taking you both back to London with me. I want whoever it is to be convinced that you both have been found guilty.”

“What good will that do?” said Peter. “And who will be here to protect her? You’re taking me away and leaving my wife with her murderer.”

“Exactly, my Lord. Your wife will be well guarded at all times. I will have two good plainclothesmen introduced into the staff here and they will watch every step she takes. This is the one way we will get the murderer to show himself—or herself.”

Emily Mainwaring found Kitty standing by the window of her bedroom watching the party leaving for London in the driveway below. In the light of the carriage lamps, her husband’s white face looked up toward her bedroom. She turned from the window and flung herself on the bed, crying as if her heart would break.

“He didn’t do it. I just know he didn’t do it,” said Emily Mainwaring over and over again, patting Kitty in an ineffectual way on the shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter what he’s done,” sobbed Kitty. “He’s with
her
. They planned it all between them. She said so. And you should have seen the look on Peter’s face.”

“Nonsense!” said Emily stoutly. “I just
know
it was Veronica all along. But you’re safe now, anyway. Are you going to press charges?”

“Yes—no. Oh, I don’t know. I wish I were dead,” wailed Kitty. “I don’t want to stay here with all these—all these—
tickey
people.”

“You shall no more,” said a voice from the doorway. It was Lady Henley, a massive shadow in the darkening room. She lumbered forward. “Your mama asked me to get you out of this. I’ve a little place along the coast. You can potter about a bit and get your nerves in order and Emily can tell your husband where to find you… if you think that’s wise.”

Kitty thought of all the people downstairs, the Thackerays with their silly jokes, Cyril Lawton who had heard her “confession,” and the rest of the guests all knowing that her husband had been having an affair with Veronica Jackson. Still she hesitated.

“I also thought you ought to know, Henry Dwight-Hammond has just driven up in that motorcar of his,” said Lady Henley.

That clinched it. “I’ll go,” said Kitty wearily. “But don’t tell my husband. I need time to think.”

Mr. Albert Grange was thinking much the same thing as he turned the key in the door of his cozy home in Fulham. He needed time to think.

Veronica Jackson had been warned not to leave town and a policeman had been, stationed outside her house. The same applied to Lord Chesworth. Albert Grange kissed his wife and followed her into the bright kitchen with a frown on his face. His wife, Amy, sighed. For the hundredth time, she wished her husband had a normal job like some of the other neighbors’ husbands. For years Albert had been telling her that he would take their savings out of the bank and buy a snug little pub in the country, but there always seemed to be one more case that he must solve—and then one more. So for the hundredth time, she laid the table, poured her husband a glass of beer, and said, “Why don’t you talk about it, love?”

Albert sipped his beer and began with a weary sigh, to outline the case to his wife. “On the face of it,” he said, after he had finished his summary, “it should be a conspiracy between my lord and Mrs. Jackson. But I swear the man is honestly in love with his wife. On the other hand, I’m sure it’s one of these here creem passionellies.”

His wife kissed him on the nose. “Now then, Albert Grange, I think you’re getting carried away by love in high society. You always were one for telling me that once you got out of the working classes, money was the biggest motive.”

“Well, that’s true for sure,” said Albert. “But Lord Chesworth got his wife’s money by way of a marriage settlement and she, Lady Chesworth, don’t get the bulk of her mama’s fortune until Mrs. Harrison dies.”

Amy Grange rattled the dishes thoughtfully. “But you say Mrs. Harrison’s not in good health and someone is trying to kill her daughter. So who gets the money then? They haven’t any children.”

Albert Grange looked at her with a startled expression. “Now why didn’t I think of that. Although the old girl looks so crazy these days, she might have left the whole lot to a home for aging cats.”

“Now eat your supper and forget about the whole thing until tomorrow,” said his wife.

Albert rubbed his thinning hair so that the oiled strands stood up in spikes. “I can’t, Amy. I better run down to the Yard and get a message to Cowes. I’ve got to find out the name of Mrs. Harrison’s solicitor.” And he rushed out of the kitchen, leaving his wife to look at another ruined meal.

It was late by the time Mr. Grange left the Yard. But the little detective did not go home. Instead, he walked along the Embankment, his head sunk in his collar. The participants in the case danced through his head like the lights on the water. He would just call on Lord Chesworth. For some reason he trusted that young man.

His lordship was in the library, sunk in melancholy, reflecting on his disastrous marriage and worried to death about his wife. He practically dragged the little detective into the room. “Any news of my wife?”

“Her ladyship is all right as far as we know,” said Mr. Grange. “But my good wife has just come up with a bit of an idea.” He outlined Amy’s suggestion about the will. “Like I see it, my Lord, I don’t know as I should be talking to you like this. If the money goes to you, then you’re in trouble.”

“I can set your mind at ease,” said Peter. “Mrs. Harrison hates me. She would never leave me a penny.”

“Maybe your Lordship would like to accompany me to the solicitor tomorrow. We should have his name by then.”

“Of course,” said Peter. “I only wish we didn’t have to wait until then. It’s going to be a long night.”

Albert Grange groaned. “Give me a good old knifing in the Mile End Road any day, my Lord. These high-society crimes are a pain in the neck. I’ve got the Commissioner breathing down my neck every step of the way. ‘Got to handle these people with kid gloves,’ he says. Pah! Murder is murder whether it’s in Limehouse or Mayfair.”

After the detective had left, Peter Chesworth sat looking out at the dark, London sky. What if Mrs. Harrison hadn’t made a will? Then they would be back where they started. Unless the murderer were found, his marriage was finished. He picked up a book and prepared to sit out the night.

It was after nine o’clock the following morning before the little detective appeared. “I’ve got it,” he said bursting into the library without ceremony. “Her solicitors are Fordyce, Fordyce & Bramble of Cheapside. Grab your hat and coat, my Lord, and let’s go.”

Peter Chesworth called for his carriage and the two men sat tense and silent on the road to the city. What a lot of confounded traffic there was, thought Peter Chesworth savagely. Fleet Street seemed to be jammed from the Temple to Ludgate Circus with buses and hansoms and four-wheelers. If he ever got out of this mess he would buy a motor car and to hell with tradition!

But at last they reached Cheapside. Mr. James Fordyce himself would see them. Peter Chesworth realized why the astute detective had brought him along. Mr. Fordyce was inclined to hem and haw about disclosing the contents of his client’s will to a “person” from Scotland Yard. Peter Chesworth realized with some surprise what a lot of social snubs people like Albert Grange had to put up with. But the little detective ignored it and said, “I’m sure Lord Chesworth—you know Baron Reamington, I’m sure—will support me when I say that it is a matter of life and death.”

An oily smile creased the lawyer’s unlovely features. “I did not realize we had such distinguished company, my Lord. But of course if you say it is all right, my Lord, then, my Lord, I see no reason to hesitate.”

He rang a bell on his desk and told the clerk to bring the Harrison papers. “What an unconscionable time the old fool was taking coming to the point,” thought Peter savagely. The lawyer hemmed and hawed and “yes—yessed” for what seemed an age and then he suddenly looked up.

Ignoring the detective he said, “What it amounts to, my Lord, is that all Mrs. Harrison’s fortune goes to her daughter in the event of her death. If her daughter should die childless, then the whole estate goes to… Lady Amelia Henley.”

He stared in surprise as the two men sat as if turned to stone. “Yes, yes,” he said fussily. “It’s all here…‘to my dear friend and companion, Lady Henley.’”

The detective and Lord Chesworth got to their feet as if rising from a dream. Then Mr. Grange sprang into action. “The railroad station, my Lord, quick!”

They caught the train just as it was moving out. Peter sank back in the carriage and stared at his companion. “But that fat old glutton. It’s incredible!”

But Mr. Grange felt on his home ground. The bizarre case had taken on a comfortable everyday appearance.

“I was a bit confused because of all the society people involved, my Lord, but when you get down to it, this sort of murder happens all over London. Greed for money knows no social barriers, my Lord.”

His lordship suddenly smiled at the little detective. “Since we’re going to be spending a bit of time together, you may as well call me ‘Peter.’”

Mr. Grange scratched his head under his bowler hat in perplexity. “Well, it’ll seem a bit strange and forward-like but well—here goes. Peter.”

“That’s the ticket, Albert,” said Peter, dazzling the detective with his most charming smile and picking up his newspaper.

Albert Grange sat sucking on his empty pipe and staring into space. A lifetime of social snubs melted before his eyes. “Peter.” Just wait till he told Amy.

Lord Chesworth tried to concentrate on the headlines of the
Daily Telegraph
but they seemed to dance before his eyes. He put down the paper with a groan.

“Pray to God we’re in time, Albert. Just pray to God we’re in time.”

Lady Henley sat up in her bed at the Thackerays’ Cowes home and watched her maid, Jenkins, packing the trunks.

“Can’t you move any faster, girl?” she snapped.

“I’m doing that best I can, my Lady,” said Jenkins sulkily.

Lady Henley stuffed another slab of toast into her capacious mouth. “I don’t know what servants are coming to these days,” she said grumpily.

“Nor I, my Lady,” said Jenkins, eager to impart gossip and turn attention from herself. “They’ve got two new footmen downstairs and you never saw the like.”

Lady Henley put down her cup and surveyed her maid with interest. “Something strange about them?”

“Oh, definitely, my Lady. They don’t do any work and just lounge about the place asking questions. The butler wanted them fired on the spot but Mr. Thackeray, he says to leave them alone.”

The bedclothes started to fly in all directions as the huge mass that was Lady Henley heaved herself out onto the floor.

“Get me dressed immediately, girl. And then finish that packing in double-time. And if you can’t do it fast enough, get one of the housemaids to help you.”

Jenkins began to dress her mistress, wondering if she would ever get over the feeling of distaste that this part of her job caused her. First the huge corsets which must have taken every bone out of a whole whale had to be fitted on and the sagging fat pushed into place. Then the lacing which strained every muscle. Then the silk stockings had to be strained onto the massive legs and the suspenders stretched down over the bulging thighs to meet them. And then at last the enormous drawers of crepe de chine and the worst was over, bar the arranging of Lady Henley’s hank of thin, greasy hair.

Jenkins dreamt of finding a job with a slim, young, fashionable mistress but she knew it was impossible. She had done time in Holloway Prison for theft and Lady Henley had found her through some charitable organization which helped women prisoners to find work on the outside. In return for this, Jenkins had to suffer being treated like a dog for a yearly pittance. But at least she was housed and fed, particularly well fed, since Lady Henley spent all her money on food.

Having decided at last that her hairstyle was satisfactory, Lady Henley crammed an enormous crimson toque down on it and waddled from the room.

She found Kitty in her bedroom arranging her own packing and sobbing over a cravat of her husband’s.

“Now, my dear,” said Lady Henley, “you must pull yourself together for your husband’s sake. I’m sure he is innocent. Let me ring for a couple of girls to do this packing and we’ll be on our way.” She rang the bell and bustled about with surprising energy.

Kitty was too numb with misery to take any part in the proceedings. In no time at all, she was hustled out of the house and into the carriage which was directed to the railroad station.

“I thought we were just going along the coast,” said Kitty in surprise, surfacing briefly from her despair.

“And so we are,” said her large companion. “I’ll tell you why we’re going this way when we get on the train. Leave the baggage in the carriage.”

Kitty complied and Jenkins looked at her mistress thoughtfully. She had been witness to an interesting scene in the kitchen before she left. The butler, harassed by complaints about the new footmen from the other servants, had finally called them all together and confided that the two new servants were in fact gentlemen from Scotland Yard who were employed to guard the Baroness. Jenkins had noticed the two gentlemen in question following them in another carriage at a discreet distance, and felt oddly reassured.