Lord Foxbridge Butts In (21 page)

“Good morning,” he said after we’d lain in blissful afterglow for a few minutes.

“Good morning,” I answered back, “Did you sleep well?”

“Extremely well,” he sat up and stretched his arms over his head, “You?”

“I always sleep well,” I scooted back against the pillows and watched him stretch his neck and his spine, then his legs; it was like watching a cat stretching after a nap, “I can sleep sitting up in a third-class train compartment; in a bed I always go out like a light and stay out for hours and hours.”

“Lucky,” he punctuated his exercises with a jaw-cracking yawn, then smiled sweetly at me, “I’m a terrible light sleeper, every little noise wakes me. But it’s so quiet here. You wouldn’t think you were in London at all.”

I don’t know if Pond heard us, or if he just had an infallible sense for when I was ready for coffee, but he appeared just as I was about to holler for him; his tray bore a number of silver pots, containing my coffee as well as tea, cocoa, and Ovaltine, plus the matching pots for the milk and sugar that I never used.

“I did not know if the gentleman takes coffee or tea in the morning,” Pond placed the tray on the bedside table and trickled quickly out of the room without looking directly at either of us. This was his usual behavior when I had an overnight guest, so I didn’t notice it, though Gabriel thought it very funny.

“He’s an odd one, that Reggie,” Gabriel giggled while he poured himself a cup of tea and dumped an incredible amount of sugar into it.

“That was Pond,” I corrected him, taking my own cup and inhaling the fragrance, “Reggie would have made a tart observation, Pond just brings the tray and evaporates.”

“Surely they’re the same person,” Gabriel frowned at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I grinned at him, “They occupy the same body, but they’re distinct personalities. Like an actor playing two roles in turn.”

“What for?” he asked, still confused by the turn of conversation.

“I’ve no idea. It’s just his way. You look awfully pretty in the morning, by the way.”

“Oh, go on with you,” he ducked his head and blushed charmingly.

“No, really,” I insisted, reaching out to touch his gold hair, which was tumbled and tousled and made him look like a child again, “I like looking at you.”

“You’re not so hard to look at, either,” he returned, a little bit awkwardly, as if coquettishness were a new garment he was trying on.

“Oh, we both know we’re pretty,” I said seriously, looking at him closely, “But I’m surprised I
like
you so much. I usually go for men a little older than myself.”

“I
always
go with men older than myself,” he said, taking a sip of his tea, “Not many young men want to pay.”

“If you weren’t on the game,” I was suddenly sobered by the reminder of his profession, “what would you want to do instead?”

“You think prostitution was my first choice?” he arched an eyebrow at me, a little annoyed.

“No, but you must know you can’t go on like this forever,” I reasoned, “What are you planning to do when you get too old?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” he said after a moment’s silence, a fearful, hunted look surfacing on his angelic face, then submerged again, “I’m only seventeen. I can probably work another five or six years before I start to lose my looks.”

“I didn’t mean to be hurtful,” I reached over and clasped his hand, “I just want to know how I can help you.”

“You’re already doing more than enough,” he put down his cup and leaned over to kiss me.

“I mean it, Gabriel,” I edged away from him, not wanting to be distracted, “What would you like to do? If you had a choice?”

“I really don’t know,” he replied, moving closer, “What difference does it make?”

“Will you tell me? When you’ve had time to think about it?”

“Why are you being so serious?” he sounded annoyed again, and confused. I realized that this was not the kind of conversation he was accustomed to having in a bed — beds were a workplace for him, it was like asking a dentist personal questions while he was poking around at your teeth.

“Gabriel, I like you a lot,” I slid away from him, out of the bed and into my dressing-gown, which I knotted decisively, “And while I would like nothing better than to spend the day in bed with you, I don’t want to have a professional relationship with you.”

“This isn’t for money,” he was obviously hurt, tears starting in his big green eyes, “I like you too, Sebastian.”

“I just don’t feel right doing this with you,” I explained further, gesturing at the mussed sheets, “This morning was very nice, but I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“I don’t understand,” he sobbed a little.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I relented and sat beside him on the bed, taking him into my arms, “I don’t want to be your lover, I want to be your friend. I want to take care of you, but I want to be a brother to you, the kind of brother you deserve to have, not a client like you have had. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he murmured into my shoulder, “I get it. Do you want me to go?”

“Of course not,” I pulled back and looked into his face, planting a friendly kiss on his nose, “I want to have breakfast. Pond probably has it ready by now. Put on your dressing-gown and come along.”

He shook his head sadly, but did as I asked and followed me into the sitting-room, where Pond had indeed just finished laying out a hearty breakfast for two. We ate in a comfortable silence, which is my preferred way to start a day, then I glanced over the morning papers, handing sections of it over to Gabriel when I was done with them.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Pond stepped into the room with his tray, looking a little rattled, “Are you at home to Sergeant Paget?”

“Of course,” I looked up in some surprise, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The Sergeant informs me that he is here in a professional capacity, my lord. There is a constable with him.”

“Oh!” I saw the problem: Gabriel and I
en deshabille
over a breakfast-table might look a little peculiar to a constable, “Well, no matter, shove them both in.”

Twister came in alone, however, telling the constable to wait in the corridor — using a tone that suggested one of us might try to escape that way. When he stepped into the room, his face looked like thunder, and I became alarmed.

“Have the two of you been here all night?” he demanded without preliminaries.

“Come in, won’t you, Sir Oliver?” I asked somewhat archly, hiding my fear in a joke, “Would you care for some tea?”

“Answer the question,” he snapped brutally.

“Yes, we have,” I said, standing up, “What’s going on?”

“You can
swear
that you’ve not been out of each other’s sight since we spoke in Wardour Mews yesterday evening?”

“Yes, of course! Now tell me what’s up!” I snapped back.

“You may be called upon to tell it to a judge,” Twister said, shaking his head sadly, “But I’m glad you can vouch for Mr. Baker’s whereabouts. Otherwise he’d be a suspect. Old lady Nazerman has been killed, and her shop robbed.”

“Oh my God!” Gabriel gasped and went white.

“When did this happen?” I asked, sinking back into my chair.

“Fairly early this morning,” Twister replied, finally taking off his hat, “Around six or seven, near as we can tell. The shutters were still up.”

“Why would Gabriel be a suspect?” I wondered.

“Among the items stolen, aside from all the money in the till and a good deal of jewelry, was her ledger. The ledger that I was going to ask to see when I went to visit her this morning. The one that would have revealed the identity of the person who’d redeemed that paper-knife. Smash-and-grab thieves don’t generally make off with the paperwork, so I have to assume the robbery was a secondary motive, the break-in was meant to silence Mrs.
 Nazerman as a witness.”

“Oh, that poor woman,” Gabriel sobbed, “She was always so kind to me.”

“Are you sure this is the
only
avenue of investigation?” I thought aloud, “Mrs. Nazerman, despite her airs and graces, was a receiver of stolen property. A
fence
, to put it plainly. Mightn’t one of her other customers have done this?”

“Might have,” Twister conceded, “But I don’t think so. She trusted whoever killed her enough to let him into the shop before opening hours, and to turn her back on him. She was struck from behind, with a heavy stick or a pipe. She wouldn’t turn her back on a known thief.”

“That’s awful,” I said, after sitting in an uncomfortable silence for some time, “I can understand someone killing Mike Baker, but to kill poor old Mrs. Nazerman as well? That’s just not right.”

“
No
murder is right,” Twister said with a good deal of asperity, “regardless of the nature of the victim.”

“Of course,” I agreed hastily, though I still considered the distinction valid, “But it puts a different complexion on the case, don’t you think? Stabbing a man might be done in the heat of the moment, but sneaking up on an old woman takes a different state of mind. Malice aforethought, as they say.”

“Well, yes,” he conceded, “But murder is murder. There are degrees of severity, but they’re all
wrong
.”

“Yes, I understand you,” I regarded Twister closely, wondering why he was making such a to-do about the morality of killing. Perhaps his Norman blood was paining him: our ancestors wouldn’t have thought a thing of putting down a thieving beast like Mike Baker, but modern justice is meant to consider the lives of all persons as equally valuable, be they lord or commoner, merchant or thief, man or woman or child. All are equal in the law, or so the law would like us to believe.

However, I remained convinced that Mike Baker’s killer would not have been as energetically pursued as Mrs. Nazerman’s killer, who in turn would not be pursued with the fervour applied if a knight or peer had been the victim; Justice is blind, so she tends to stick to the well-worn paths of history rather than barking her shins on modern equality. But I did not wish to hurt Twister’s feelings by saying so.

Nevertheless, though I was not very interested in the identity of Mike Baker’s killer, and in fact would secretly applaud his heroic deed, Mrs.
 Nazerman’s murder put my back up: I was now interested in the case, when before I would have been perfectly happy to let Twister go on about his business unaided (or unhindered) by me.

“I’d better go talk to Baron van der Swertz,” I sighed, getting up from the table and heading back to my bedroom.

“I already did,” Twister smiled a crafty little smile at me, pleased to have stolen a march.

“Let me guess: he told you he had diplomatic immunity, and to bugger off,” I smiled just as craftily.

“More or less,” he laughed, “But he did answer my questions about where he was this morning.”

“Did you ask him why he was in Soho yesterday?” I wondered.

“Not relevant,” Twister frowned.

“I see. I’m going to get dressed. Gabriel, won’t you entertain Sergeant Paget while I’m gone? He takes his tea with lemon.”

Forgetting, in my excitement, that I was no longer allowed to dress myself, I had already pulled on a tennis shirt and was halfway into a pair of flannels when Pond came in and took over, vetoing my hurried wish to just throw on the necessities since I wasn’t actually going outside; instead, I was laboriously put into full gentleman’s town regalia, as if I were going to be calling on ladies in Mayfair all day. Twister was gone when I finally emerged, taking his constable with him, and leaving Gabriel sitting on the sofa with nothing to do.

“I’ll be back in a bit, love,” I leaned down and kissed the top of his head, “Get dressed while I’m gone, and we’ll go do some shopping when I get back. For goodness sake, Pond, I’m walking to the other side of the building, I do
not
need my hat and stick!”

I found the Baron just stepping out of his rooms, dressed for Westminster with his dispatch case under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He gasped when he saw me, dropped his case, dropped his umbrella when he reached for his case, dropped his gloves in confusion over the case and the umbrella, and then finally dropped his top-hat. Nilssen must have ears like a bat, since he popped out of the room and came to his master’s rescue before the hat could hit the floor.

“I am sorry, Lord Foxbridge, but I am running late,” the Baron said to me while Nilssen put him back together like the White Queen.

“I’m back to being Lord Foxbridge, am I?” I looked at the man with suspicion and surprise, “Very well, Baron van der Swertz. But before you go, I have some questions for you. And for your manservant.”

“I have already spoken to
one
policeman today,” the Baron glared at me, “I will not speak to another. And certainly not an
amateur
. If you’ll excuse me.”

Nonplussed, I stood in the hallway and watched him board the elevator, then walked slowly back to my room, where Pond was standing exactly where I’d left him, my hat and stick held out. I waved them away again and asked him to bring me more coffee, then went back into the sitting room to walk and think.