Murder in Pug's Parlour (21 page)

‘The sandwiches,’ went on Auguste disregarding this, ‘they are a signal to a lover that the lady is ready to – er – receive.’

Rose looked outraged. He and Mrs Rose had never needed plates of sandwiches. He was only too well aware of the seamier aspects of sexual relationships between men and women, but this delicate soufflé of passion was alien to his world.

‘Mr Didier,’ he said severely, ‘of course, you’re a Frenchman – that sort of thing may happen in France but not in England, I assure you.’

‘Perhaps not, Inspector,’ murmured Auguste diplomatically.

Rose was satisfied, having put Auguste in his place. He had not yet had time to examine the bundle of papers he had taken from the Duke’s safe.

Half an hour later a pale, unconscious but living Edward Jackson was tucked up swathed in bandages in Mrs Hankey’s bed, a makeshift bed having been made up for the nurse. Mrs Hankey had reluctantly agreed to banishment. Outside the door stood a sleepily reluctant Constable Perkins, dragged from his slumbers yet again, in order to forestall night intruders.

The upper servants sat in armed truce in Pug’s Parlour. The thought that Edward was hovering between life and death a few feet away and that this was his territory they were now invading depressed them all. Hobbs did not stand on the same ceremony as Greeves. Indeed he welcomed the company, having been used to it all his working life. They were interrupted by a knock, and one of the Freds put his head round the door.

‘Beg pardon, Mr Hobbs, Edward’s aunt, Mrs Robins. Bin to see the inspector, sent her down here.’

A timorous woman of about sixty came in, red-eyed from weeping. She seemed overawed by the panoply of people waiting her. Mrs Hankey rose to do the honours, Ethel murmured of a nice cup of tea. They sat round awkwardly, not knowing what to say. At last feeling that effort was called for on her part, Mrs Robins vouchsafed that: ‘’E’s a good lad, really.’

There was a chorus of assent.

‘’E’s had a hard life, Edward.’

This time the chorus was not so enthusiastic as they took this as an implication that the hardness was inflicted at Stockbery Towers.

She hastily made amends. ‘In London that was. Afore ’e came here. You’ve been good to ’im, I know that. He used to tell me on ’is day off once a month. “That Miss Gubbins, Auntie, she’s nice to me”.’

Mrs Hankey looked put out. It was
her
privilege to be spoken of kindly by subordinates.

Stepping into the awkward silence Auguste asked politely: ‘How long has he lived with you, Mrs Robins?’

‘’Bout two years now. ’E was a telegraph boy, like what he was ’ere before His Grace took him on. Didn’t like it though. Right ill ’e was when ’e came to me. White-faced little thing just like ’e is now . . .’ And, thinking of the still white figure she had just seen swathed in bandages, she began to weep silent tears as they looked on helplessly.

Word speedily went round Hollingham village. Ten good men and true, already summoned for their second inquest in a week, scratched their heads and dwelt on thoughts of a double inquest. Indignation gradually took over. That Greeves was one thing, and Mrs Hartham was another – up from London, from another world. But Edward Jackson was a different matter. He lived with his aunt Maidstone way, and had done these two years. He was almost a man of Kent. They took it as a personal insult and, for the first time in three centuries, the peaceful village began to mutter against the establishment of the Duke of Stockbery. It was not generally considered that His Grace himself had crept up in the middle of the night and bashed the steward’s boy over the head, but nevertheless it was
his house and there were some right funny goings-on.

Rose was partaking of a hearty breakfast in the front schoolroom, even if kedgeree and devilled kidneys were not precisely what Mr and Mrs Rose usually began their working days with. Unfortunately their effect was considerably spoiled by Rose’s preliminary perusal of the bundle of papers from the Duke’s safe.

What he found there was stronger meat for a delicate stomach than anything even Mrs Rose could produce. Taken aback after glancing at the first four letters from the Duchess to the Prince
and
to the Duchess from his predecessor, a well-known explorer of the unknown continent, he set them on one side, and strengthened his resolve by finishing his coffee.

By the time he had done so, Bladon had arrived, eager not to miss anything now that responsibility had passed to another.

‘Look at this, Bladon,’ said Rose gloomily, abruptly. He tossed across with scant respect the last of the Duchess’s letters. Bladon was half fascinated, half thinking it
lèse majesté
to be thus conducted into the inner life of the Duchess of Stockbery.

‘Seems to be pretty fond of this Prince fellow,’ said the sergeant, considerably understating the case. Both men had been married for many a long year, but the contents brought a blush to both faces as they read on, steadily avoiding each other’s eyes.

Rose had first made his name at the Yard by his investigations into one of the goriest murders in London’s East End since Jack the Ripper had departed the scene, and the sexual habits of Londoners generally whether in the seamier quarters of Bethnal Green or the riper brothels of Mayfair and St James’s; he had broken up a thriving trade that, despite Mr Stead’s crusade, still thrived on child sex,
including that in the nastier bordellos both heterosexual and homosexual, culminating in the Cleveland Street scandal of 1889. He had not turned a hair throughout that investigation into this homosexual pleasure-ground for rich men and their wretched perverted boys. Nor had he paled at the sight of Mary Kelly, the Ripper’s last victim. Those were facts. Part of his job. This was something else. In theory he knew that ladies however apparently respectable might yet harbour distinctly sexual thoughts and even express them. He had once been privileged to read Miss Madeleine Smith’s letters to her lover. But even the Dilke political scandal had not convinced him that ladies of high social standing might play an active part in such affairs. To Rose, ladies had hitherto always been ladies, even if gentlemen had occasionally been blackguards.

Sergeant Bladon’s thoughts were far less complicated. He was simply shocked.

‘Well, that cook fellow was right,’ grunted Rose at last. ‘The departed was a blackmailer, and that was his blackmailing record book.’ He stared at the neatly collated piles of papers in front of him. What fools people were. Seemed the gentry were as stupid as anyone he’d come across up East. Plenty on the folks here at the Towers and quite a bit on some he’d never heard of. He sighed, foreseeing several weeks of work tracking down the people concerned once he got back to the Factory. He thought longingly of his untidy little pigeonhole in Scotland Yard. Funny how the name stuck, even though they’d moved.

There was a scandalised gasp from Sergeant Bladon. He had found a rare scrap from His Grace to Honoria. His Grace was not often given to epistolatory effusions.

‘Nothing on his fellow servants,’ Bladon pointed out.

‘Wouldn’t need it, Sergeant. If I understand you aright, this man had the power of life and death over them anyway.
He could just tell them to go, no reason given. Played around with them. I’ve met the type. That pretty girl, one who made the sandwiches, she blushed right up when I asked her what she thought of Greeves. Probably made advances to her. And he’d got those two women where he wanted them.’

The contents of the last envelope provided more of a puzzle. Rose stared at the piece of paper.

‘Bladon,’ he said finally, ‘what would you say this was?’

The sergeant looked at it, but reluctantly was forced to admit: ‘Couldn’t rightly say, sir.’ All it looked like was a series of squiggles.

‘I think,’ said Rose slowly, ‘it’s part of a ship’s plan. Possibly the engine room.’ He put down the piece of paper and reached for the little book that Auguste had found in Greeves’ bible. He studied the figures inside once more while Bladon gazed at him eagerly, transported into the world of his dreams. Ships’ plans, high society, blackmail. For a few heady moments, he saw himself uprooted from the purlieus of Maidstone and swept off to the heady heights of Scotland Yard: ‘I must have this man near me, Commissioner.’

Rose, oblivious of these plans for his future working conditions, studied the initials opposite the figures carefully. There could be no doubt now that L might well stand for Laetitia – the use of the Christian name would fit with what he had heard of Greeves. H reflected his use of Honoria Hartham’s little notes. A for Arthur Petersfield. He turned to the envelope in front of him that he had not yet opened. A handful of IOUs fell out. Rose thought for a moment. Then he pulled the bell rope. Bladon watched enviously. He could well imagine what would happen if he had pulled it, Maidstone police or no, he wouldn’t care to face one of those footmen.

‘Ask Mr Marshall to join us,’ Rose said abruptly, as though summoning His Grace’s footman was of no more import than summoning Betsy, their maid of all work at home. His response was a great deal more efficient than Betsy’s.

Typically Rose wasted little time in preliminaries when Walter arrived. ‘What do you think this is?’ he greeted him, pushing the piece of paper over to him.

Walter studied it and frowned. ‘I’ve no idea, Inspector,’ he said evenly. ‘No idea at all.’

‘Come now,’ said Rose cordially. ‘None of your “confidential government business” here. I got two murders to solve. Murders, Mr Marshall.’

‘I would have to talk to Lord Medhurst, my superior—’

‘Murders, Mr Marshall. Want another, do you? You heard a boy’s been knocked on the head. Think that has nothing to do with it? If he dies, that’s three. How many more do you want?’

‘Very well, Inspector,’ said Walter at last. He glanced at Sergeant Bladon doubtfully. Rose followed his glance.

‘Go and see how that boy’s faring, Bladon,’ he said kindly.

Bladon, deflated and reluctant, departed.

‘You were right to think this paper important,’ said Walter. ‘Have you heard of the Rivers papers?’

‘Ah,’ said Rose with satisfaction, ‘thought it might be.’

‘They went missing, as you know, last June. After Lord Brasserby’s house party at Chivers. Thomas Rivers, the designer of our future battleships, had given the papers to Lord Brasserby of the Admiralty for Saturday to Monday because there were rumours of a planned break-in at the Foreign Office and no risks could be taken. They turned out, of course, to be false rumours planted deliberately. The real plan was to take them at Chivers. They have not
been seen since. Even this is not the original – you can see it is a copy, it is too poorly executed for anything else. But here, Inspector, is one vital plan for a battleship of the future.’

‘And it turns up in His Grace’s safe,’ said Rose. ‘Significant.’

‘More significant than you think, Inspector. These weren’t just any old state papers – they were
naval
papers. And, as you know, it was remarked on the new Kaiser’s last visit to England that he had displayed an over-keen interest in our naval plans. He is jealous of our navy. Some say so long as Queen Victoria rules England will be safe, for he is in awe of her, but the Queen cannot live for ever. It is our Prime Minister’s view, and that of most Conservatives, that England has nothing to fear from Germany, for she is anxious to be our ally; that she has signed one alliance and will others; that the Kaiser is the Queen’s grandson, the son of her favourite daughter; and that our enemies are still France and Russia, and it is against them we must defend our shores. So it might be that the Rivers papers found their way to Paris or to his Tsarist Majesty – were it not for von Holstein.’

‘Baron Friedrich von Holstein?’

‘You’ve heard of him?’ Walter eyed Rose with respect.

Rose nodded. ‘Did Bismarck’s dirty work for him. We get a few history lessons at the Yard.’

‘Von Holstein is still behind the strings of German diplomacy, the most dangerous man in Europe, we Liberals think,’ said Walter soberly. ‘He holds no high office, no obvious pomp, but
he
decides who shall be Germany’s allies, who her enemies. All our diplomacy is going towards making sure that Germany and Russia do not enter into an alliance, but for the wrong reasons. For fear of Russia, not Germany. It was rumoured that Bismarck signed such an
alliance – and von Holstein started life under Bismarck’s instruction. Bismarck still lives, though no longer in office. Perhaps his policy lives also. With Germany and Russia in alliance, the balance of power is gone for ever. The British navy will need every battleship she has. And the reason, my dear Inspector, that the Liberals fear Germany, not Russia, is that there is a Machiavelli behind the scenes – and the Rivers papers disappeared.’

‘Very interesting, Mr Marshall, highly interesting. Now, I’ll tell you something even more interesting. Equally confidential. When these papers disappeared suspicion fell on Brasserby’s guests, and do you know which we decided it was? I’ll tell you. It weren’t no German. It was a Frenchman, a Monsieur François Pradel. And most interested I was to come here and find that same Frenchman a guest.’

Walter gasped. ‘François? But no, you must be mistaken. He does not have the—’ He stopped, for he realised he did not know what Francois was like. He was the Marquise’s secretary. That was all.

‘Father’s an admiral, you see. It all fitted. We never proved anything.’ And there had been nothing in the book, either, Rose thought regretfully. Not unless the P. F. he’d taken to be Prince Franz was a transposition of F. P.

‘Prince Franz is at the German embassy in London. Who more likely to be von Holstein’s spy?’ said Walter slowly.

‘At the Yard,’ said Rose, ‘it was thought a Baron von Elburg at the London embassy was behind it. Prince Franz’s name did not come up.’

‘He is answerable to von Elburg,’ said Walter. ‘His secretary.’

‘Ah,’ said Rose. ‘Now, one other thing I’ll show you,’ he went on, pushing the other envelope to Walter across His Grace’s Georgian desk.

Walter looked at the slips of paper that fell out. His face remained impassive.