Supping With Panthers (13 page)

Dear Lucy, imagine how crestfallen I was! ‘So you will not help me, then?’ I asked.

‘Please,’ he answered, ‘do not be upset. I have merely been warning you, Lady Mowberley, that my ability to aid you must be doubtful in the extreme.’

‘Why? Because you are out of practice?’

‘In the field of criminal detection – yes.’

‘But such a skill might be recaptured, surely?’

Dr Eliot rested his chin on his fingertips. ‘Really, Lady Mowberley,’ he said after a slight pause, ‘you would be best advised to turn to the police.’

‘But it
might
be recaptured?’ I insisted, ignoring him.

Dr Eliot made no reply to this at first, but continued to fix me with his glittering stare. ‘Possibly,’ he said at last.

I felt then, dear
Lucy,
that he was sorely tempted, and I resolved to tempt him just that little bit more, for it seemed to me that his reticence might in truth be vanity and that all he needed was some chance to display his powers. ‘What can you see in me?’ I asked him suddenly. ‘What can you read from my appearance now?’

‘As I have warned you, my reasoning may be faulty.’

‘No, Dr Eliot, your results may be but not your reasoning, surely?’

He smiled faintly at this.

‘So,’ I pressed him, ‘what can you tell?’

‘Oh, nothing much, beyond the features which struck me as obvious when I first saw you sitting here.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘And what would they be?’

‘Oh, merely that you are from a wealthy but non-noble family, that your much-loved mother has recently died, and that you hardly ever venture out from your home, having a morbid fear of High Society. All that is clear enough. In addition, I would hazard the suggestion that you have journeyed abroad within the past year or so, possibly to India.’

I laughed. ‘Until your last comment, Dr Eliot, I was afraid that you were cheating and that my husband had written to you describing me.’

His expression was one of the utmost disappointment. ‘I was wrong, then?’ he asked. ‘You have not been abroad?’

‘Never.’

He slumped back in an attitude of despair. ‘You see then what I mean? My powers have faded hopelessly.’

‘Not at all,’ I assured him. ‘Your previous descriptions were utterly correct. But before you explain them to me, I would be interested to know why you thought I had been abroad?’

‘On your neck,’ he replied, ‘I noticed a couple of blemishes which seemed to me very like mosquito bites. I have often observed that such bites, if they were ever once septic, will endure as faint marks on the skin for a couple of years. Obviously, if my diagnosis had been correct you would at some stage have had to have been abroad. India I guessed because of your necklace and earrings. They are of a very distinctively Indian make; I would not have thought that such jewellery was common here in England.’

‘Hearing such an explanation,’ I replied, ‘I almost feel that I should have been abroad. However my life, I am afraid, has been far too mundane for that. The blemishes you noticed are merely an allergy to the filthy London air.’

‘You were brought up away from the metropolis, then?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘near Whitby, in Yorkshire. I spent my first twenty-two years there, and have only been in London since my marriage to George some eighteen months ago.’

‘I see.’ He was studying the marks on my neck again, and frowning. I trusted that he was not too mortified. ‘And the jewellery?’ he asked at length.

I reached up to touch my necklace. You have surely seen it, dear Lucy? – the most beautiful thing, formed of wondrously crafted droplets of gold, but of a value to me far greater than its price. ‘The jewels were given to me,’ I said, ‘by my dearest George.’

‘A wedding present, perhaps?’

‘No, sir,’ I replied, ‘they were a birthday gift.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I saw them in the window of a shop. I was on George’s arm at the time and he must have remembered my enthusiasm.’

‘How perfectly charming.’

I realised, of course, that I was boring him. His eyes were hooding over once again, and I was afraid that I would lose the advantage I had gained when I persuaded him to offer those other deductions which proved so remarkably exact. ‘The previous points you made,’ I asked hurriedly, ‘could you tell me how you arrived at them?’

‘Oh, they were simple,’ he replied.

‘My lack of noble blood is evident then, I suppose?’

Dr Eliot chuckled to himself. ‘Your breeding, Lady Mowberley, is exquisite in every way. One thing, however, betrays you. You wear a brooch with the Mowberley coat of arms, and a bracelet round your wrist with the very same design. Clearly the ornaments have not been recently made. Therefore they must be heirlooms, a part of George’s inheritance and not your own, and yet you seem most attached to the memory of your own family. Why then do you not wear jewels inherited from them? Probably, I would suggest, because such jewels do not bear a coat of arms, and you are seduced by the novelty of wearing ornaments that do.’

‘Dear me!’ I lamented. ‘You seem to have a low opinion of my character.’

‘Not at all,’ laughed Dr Eliot good-humouredly. ‘But was my reasoning exact?’

‘Perfectly,’ I replied, ‘though I blush to confess it. You made it seem quite simple. However, I do not understand how you knew of my attachment to my family’s memory. Perhaps you were informed of that by George?’

‘Not at all,’ answered Dr Eliot. ‘I merely observed your umbrella.’

‘My umbrella?’

‘You will permit me to compliment you again, Lady Mowberley, when I observe that your dress perfectly reflects your wealth and taste. Your umbrella, however, seems out of place. It is clearly old, for its handle has a couple of cracks which have been expensively repaired, and the initials carved into the wood are not your own. It is ridiculous to assume that you cannot afford a new umbrella – therefore the one you carry must have some sentimental value, and when I observe the thin strip of black still tied in mourning round the handle, the probability is hardened into fact. Whose umbrella had it been, then? A woman’s, clearly, and someone older than you, for the umbrella itself seems almost antique. I deduced, therefore, that it must have been your mother’s.’ He paused suddenly, as though embarrassed by the rational coolness of his tone. ‘Please accept my apologies, Lady Mowberley, if my words have caused you pain.’

‘No, no,’ I replied. I paused fractionally, to compose myself and be certain that no catch would betray me when I spoke. ‘I have had almost two years now,’ I told him, ‘to grow accustomed to my loss.’

‘Indeed?’ He frowned. ‘That is a great pity, then – your mother never saw you married.’

I shook my head. And then – I was feeling a little emotional, perhaps – I told him the full story of my marriage to George: of how we had been pledged to each other since he was sixteen and I was twelve, he as the son of a peer of the realm, I as the daughter of a wealthy self-made man. ‘For George’s family, you must know,’ I told him, ‘had lost much of their wealth, and for the sake of my own they were prepared to overlook the meanness of my birth.’

Dr Eliot smiled sardonically at this. ‘I am quite sure they were,’ he said. ‘But – forgive me if I seem to pry – you were content with this arrangement yourself?’

‘Oh yes, indeed!’ I replied. ‘You must understand, Dr Eliot, that George has been my sweetheart for as long as I can recall. When my mother died, to whom else could I turn?’

‘But George, surely, had left Yorkshire a long time before? Had you seen him at all since then?’

‘Not for six or seven years.’

‘A period which you had spent entirely near Whitby?’

‘Yes. My mother, Dr Eliot, had grown very sick in that time. She needed me to attend on her, for she was nervous and infirm.’

He nodded gently. ‘Yes, well,’ he replied, ‘that would explain it, I suppose.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘Explain what?’ I inquired.

‘You well recall,’ he said, a faint smile on his lips, ‘how I observed that you did not seem fond of High Society?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, remembering that he had indeed. I frowned for a moment, and then I smiled ruefully. ‘But of course – you deduced from your knowledge of my secluded youth in Yorkshire that I would be ill at ease amongst the salons of the metropolis. How very simple.’

‘Yes, exceedingly so.’ Dr Eliot smiled. ‘Except, of course, that when I made my observation I knew nothing of your youth.’

‘You did not? But…’ I stared at him, startled, as I realised the truth of what he had just said. ‘But how then did you know?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it is even simpler than you presumed.’ He gestured languidly. ‘Your arm, Lady Mowberley.’

‘My arm?’

‘Your right arm, to be precise. There are splashes of mud on your shoulder and sleeve. Clearly you have been leaning against the side of a hansom cab. A lady of your position, however, might surely have been expected to ride in a carriage of her own. The fact that you do not admits of only one explanation – you do not consider the expense of maintaining such a vehicle worthwhile. Evidently, then, you are not in the habit of making many excursions or calls.’

‘Remarkable!’ I exclaimed.

‘Commonplace,’ he replied.

‘It is quite true,’ I admitted – and you will know this all too well for yourself, dear Lucy – ‘that I have not yet adjusted well to city life. It is all so different from the country existence I knew as a child. My allergic response to the filthy London air, and my natural shyness, have combined to render me a virtual recluse.’

Dr Eliot bowed his head. ‘I am sorry to hear it’

‘I have very few friends in town, and no one in whom I could confide or trust’

‘You have your husband.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I nodded, and then lowered my head. ‘I had my husband.’

Not an emotion could be traced across Doctor Eliot’s gaunt, impassive face. Fingertip to fingertip, he arched his hands and then slumped back into the depths of his chair.

‘You will understand, of course,’ he said slowly, ‘that I cannot promise anything.’

I nodded wordlessly.

‘Very well then,’ he said, gesturing with his hand. ‘Please, Lady Mowberley. Draw up your chair, and give me the facts surrounding George’s disappearance.’

‘It is an extraordinary tale,’ I told him.

He smiled faintly. ‘I am certain it is.’

I cleared my throat. Relieved and full of sudden hope as I was, I felt nervous too – nervous, dear Lucy, as I feel nervous now, for what I told Dr Eliot then I must repeat in my writing to you, and I am afraid that the details may cause you great pain. My story touches on your brother’s death. Do not blame George for having kept the details from you, dearest Lucy, for his motives, I am confident, will grow clear from my account. Indeed – I only tell you the details now because I fear that a similar horror may have overtaken him. But read on – you have the courage, I know, to learn all which has hitherto been kept from you.

‘My husband,’ I told Dr Eliot, ‘had always had great ambitions to rise in politics.’

‘Ambitions,’ Dr Eliot murmured, ‘but not the application, as I recall.’

‘It is true,’ I admitted, ‘that George sometimes found the day-to-day business of political life tiresome. But he had hopes, Dr Eliot, and noble dreams, and I always knew that were he given the chance he would make a great name for himself on the national stage. But although George struggled manfully to advance his own career, his hopes always seemed doomed to frustration, and I know he felt his failure very keenly. He would never admit it to me, but I know that his despair was compounded by the parallel success of your mutual friend and contemporary, Arthur Ruthven. Arthur’s career in the India Office, I need hardly tell you, was a glittering one, and although barely thirty he was already spoken of as one of our most brilliant diplomatists. Clearly the precise details were kept from me, but he was responsible, I knew, for numerous missions of great delicacy and trust’

‘Always within the India Office?’ Dr Eliot interrupted me.

I nodded.

‘Very good,’ He shut his eyes again. ‘Proceed.’

‘Arthur Ruthven,’ I continued, ‘was a very good friend – you will hardly need me to tell you that. He was perfectly aware of George’s desire to rise in the Government, and I am sure that he did his best to help. Do not misunderstand me, Dr Eliot. Arthur was always the soul of propriety. He would have done nothing unworthy of his position of trust. But he may have had words with his Minister, he may have dropped the occasional hint. Nothing more than that, I am certain – nothing more. Suffice it to say, however, that some two years ago, shortly before our wedding, George finally entered the Government.’

‘In the India Office?’ Dr Eliot asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What were his responsibilities?’

I frowned. ‘I am not certain. Does it matter?’

‘If you don’t tell me,’ he replied sharply, ‘how can I possibly decide?’

‘I do know,’ I said slowly, ‘that he has a Bill to pilot through the House this summer. Obviously he has never talked about it much to me, but I believe it is related to the Indian frontier.’

‘Indian frontier?’ To my surprise, Dr Eliot seemed suddenly awakened by this news. He leaned forward and his eyes, I noticed, were glittering again. ‘Elaborate,’ he said impatiently. ‘Which aspect, exactly, of the Indian frontier?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ I answered helplessly. ‘George never talks to me about his work. I am his wife, Dr Eliot, after all.’

He slumped back into his chair with a sign of evident frustration. ‘But this parliamentary Bill,’ he asked, ‘for which George has the responsibility – do you know if he was working on it with Arthur Ruthven?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am certain of that much, at least?’

‘George as the Minister and Arthur as the diplomatist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He folded his hands again. ‘Then that is suggestive.’

I frowned. ‘I don’t understand you,’ I said.

He gestured disdainfully. ‘Clearly, Lady Mowberley, if Arthur Ruthven’s fate
has
overtaken your husband – forgive my bluntness, but we must consider the possibility – then we shall need to establish what it is which might link the two men. They were both working on this Bill and it is concerned with the Indian frontier. That is a topic of some sensitivity, I would have thought. You see, Lady Mowberley, what a fruitful line of inquiry at once opens up?’