Supping With Panthers (19 page)

‘I have thought,’ he answered as he turned the key, ‘and there is no other way.’ He opened the door, and hurried me in. Quietly, he closed the door behind us and turned to face me. ‘Do you believe that Lucy was telling the truth?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘Then we are justified in what we do, Stoker – I fear that there may be some great evil abroad. These are deep waters we are in. Believe me, we have no choice but to break in to this place.’ He looked about him. The room was just as it had been described to us. It was opulent, decorated with great refinement and taste, and yet there was a lushness – almost, dare I say it, a
decadence
about it – so that its beauty seemed overheated, like that of an orchid too ripely in bloom. I felt oddly nervous and Eliot too, glancing around the room, seemed to flinch. I followed his gaze. He gestured towards the front wall where there were two bay windows looking out on to the street ‘That is where George would have been standing when Lucy saw him,’ Eliot murmured. Taking a small eye-glass from his pocket, he walked along the edge of the wall and fell to his knees. Having studied the carpet with minute attention, he frowned and shook his head, then moved across to the second window. Again, he bowed his head and studied the floor. I joined him. The carpet was thick and brightly coloured, but I could see at once that it was quite unstained. Then suddenly I heard Eliot breathe in sharply. ‘Here!’ he whispered, pointing at the wainscot. ‘Stoker! What do you make of this?’

I looked. There was a spot of something, so tiny that it was scarcely visible to the naked eye, and above it a couple more spots. Eliot peered at them. He scratched at one, then held his finger up to the light; the nail’s edge was coloured a rusty brown. He frowned, then dabbed at the nail with the tip of his tongue. ‘Well?’ I asked impatiently. Eliot glanced round. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it is certainly blood.’

I turned pale. ‘So Lucy was right,’ I whispered. ‘The poor fellow was murdered after all.’

Eliot shook his head. ‘But she saw his face quite damp with blood.’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. I frowned. ‘So what is your point?’

‘That whoever the blood on that cloth had come from, it could not have been from a serious wound to George.’ He pointed at the panelling. These tiny stains are hardly consistent with the flow of blood that would have been necessary to soak a piece of fabric. The very fact that the marks are still here suggests that no serious wound was inflicted at all.’

‘But why?’ I asked.

‘Because,’ said Eliot impatiently, ‘the stains were not wiped away. They were overlooked, not just by Lucy but by whoever lives in this flat. Observe the carpet. Lucy was quite right. There are no marks of blood there – or at least, none that can be distinguished. No,’ he said, shaking his head and rising to his feet, ‘these traces of blood only make the case more intractable. On the one hand, they prove that George could hardly have bled to death. But on the other, they suggest that Lucy was not imagining things when she saw him smothered by a cloth damp with blood. It is all most perplexing.’

He looked about him, then rose to his feet. He crossed to the door on the far side of the room, opened it, and I followed him through into the passageway beyond. Like the front room, this corridor was richly furnished, and the rooms which it led to seemed as luxurious as the rest. I was struck, though, by the absence of a bedroom, and commented on this peculiarity to Eliot.

‘Clearly,’ he answered, ‘this flat is not employed as a place of residence.’

‘Then as what?’

Eliot shrugged. ‘It must serve its owners as a convenience stop, a place of rest or refuge in the centre of the capital. Where their principal abode lies, we cannot yet be sure.’

‘It must be somewhere exceedingly refined,’

‘Oh?’ Eliot looked at me sharply. ‘Why do you think that?’

I stared at him, surprised. ‘Well, only because the expense that has been lavished on this flat is so remarkable,’ I replied.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it is more than remarkable, it is baffling, and it is precisely that which leads me to doubt that our suspects live openly anywhere.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

Eliot gestured impatiently. ‘Look around. Yes, Stoker, you are right – money has been spent with great abandon here. But why on this place? Why on a flat above a shop? Even if it
is
Bond Street. Surely they could afford somewhere better than this? It all seems most implausible. Unless …’ He paused and stared about him again, and his face seemed to lighten as though with a sudden flush of hope. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘it is clear that we shall find no dead body here. Perhaps there are other avenues we can search more profitably,’ He clapped me on the arm. ‘Come, Stoker. I need your help in an experiment.’

We returned to the entrance door which Eliot opened. ‘You will notice,’ he said, pointing down, ‘how very thick the stairway carpet is. I observed it at once. It was that to which I attempted to draw your attention downstairs.’

‘I am sorry,’ I replied, ‘but I still fail to see its significance.’

Eliot looked surprised. ‘Why, Stoker, a thick carpet muffles the sound of feet!’ he exclaimed. He glanced up at the floor above. ‘Now – perhaps you would care to ascend to that balcony there, and then come back downstairs, past this door and then on down the next flight of stairs. But, please! – tread as quietly as you possibly can.’

‘Quietly?’ I replied. ‘I am not a light man on my feet, I am afraid.’

‘Exactly,’ said Eliot, shutting the door in my face so that I was left alone by the balcony. Seeing his point at last – I am afraid you will think me a little slow! – I did as he had requested. Once I had finished my descent I waited by the front door, but then, when Eliot did not reappear, I climbed back up the stairs. As I did so I walked with my normal tread, and at once the door to the flat was flung open. ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Eliot, coming out to join me. ‘Now that you are walking like an elephant again, I can hear you perfectly, but during your descent there was not so much as a tiny creak. Most suggestive, I think you will agree.’

He locked the door to the flat after him, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. ‘You think that it was the Indian, then, who was the murderer?’ I asked, following him.

‘We are merely amassing possibilities,’ answered Eliot. ‘But we have destroyed our Rajah’s alibi, for although he was heard
ascending
the stairs, that does not prove that he came in from the street. Yes, I think he could have quite easily hidden himself while Lucy fetched the police, and then retreated back down to the front door as quietly as he could.’

‘But what would he have done with the corpse?’ I asked.

‘That is the mystery,’ Eliot replied. He removed his eye-glass from his pocket again, and bent down. He studied the carpet carefully, but after a few minutes he shook his head and stood up again. ‘There are no traces of blood. They could have been washed away subsequently, of course, but I think even so we would notice the marks. No,’ he said, shaking his head again, ‘this narrows down the possibilities.’

‘You have a theory, then?’ I asked.

‘It would certainly seem,’ he replied, ‘that we are approaching a solution,’ He paused suddenly and his nostrils widened, as though struck by the scent of a possible trail. When he looked up at me, I saw that his eyes were gleaming like burnished steel. ‘Come, Stoker,’ he said, turning and making for the stairs. ‘Let us go now and visit the jeweller’s shop.’

We did so at once. As my companion pushed open the door, a small, white-haired man came up to him. ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked, rubbing his hands as though soaping them.

Eliot glanced at the shopkeeper with great
hauteur,
then perused the shelves and cabinets. Several seconds passed. ‘I believe,’ said Eliot at length, drawling slightly, ‘that you are Mr Headley, the jeweller to Lady Mowberley.’

‘Yes,’ replied the man uncertainly. ‘I have that honour.’

‘Very good,’ Eliot turned his gaze upon him. ‘Some time ago, I dined with her and Sir George. It was in honour of her birthday. Lady Mowberley was wearing some striking jewels which were purchased, I believe, from this very shop. They had then been presented to his wife as a gift from Sir George.’

Mr Headley frowned and scratched his head. ‘If you would care to wait, sir, I will consult my books.’

He began to shuffle towards the counter, but Eliot shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said impatiently, ‘there is no need to look. You will remember the jewels, I am sure. They were quite distinctive. Earrings and a necklace, from the region of India named Kalikshutra.’ Eliot pronounced the last word with great emphasis; when he spoke again, there was an edge to his voice. ‘You will remember them,’ he said slowly. ‘I am certain you will.’

The shopkeeper looked uneasily between the two of us. They were never my property,’ he said at last.

Eliot frowned. ‘But they were in your shop window, were they not?’ He paused, then slowly nodded his head. ‘Yes, I seem to remember Lady Mowberley being quite definite on the matter. She had seen them in your display whilst out walking with Sir George, and he came here subsequently to purchase them. I am certain it was this shop.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘It could have been no other. You were after all, were you not, Sir George’s valet?’

The old man had started to twist his hands again, clearly agitated. ‘It is quite true,’ he said in a querulous voice, ‘that Sir George and Lady Mowberley saw the jewels in my display. But I repeat, sir – they were not mine to sell. By the time Sir George came back here, they had been returned to their place of provenance.’

Eliot shook his head impatiently. ‘Place of provenance? I don’t understand.’

‘They had been loaned to me.’

‘By whom?’

The jeweller swallowed. ‘By a man who wished to enter into business with me.’

‘So he is the one with the jewels from Kalikshutra?’

‘Yes, but if you are interested I have jewellery from other regions of India, and indeed from all around the world…’

‘No, no,’ interrupted Eliot, ‘it must be Kalikshutra. If you don’t have the jewels, then I must go to the man who does. How am I to get in touch with him?’

Mr Headley frowned. ‘Who are you?’ he asked with sudden suspicion.

‘My name is Dr John Eliot.’

‘A friend of Lady Mowberley, you said?’

‘And is there any reason why I should not be?’ Eliot replied. A look of sudden alertness had blazed up in his eyes, for I could tell this last comment had interested him greatly. But he did not pursue its implications; instead, he leaned forward on the counter and, when he spoke, did so in a tone of perfect affability. ‘We are both of us, Mr Stoker and myself, keen collectors of artefacts from the Himalayas. Stoker, please give Mr Headley your card.’ Eliot paused as the old man inspected my address; then, without saying a word, he pushed a guinea over the counter and into Mr Headley’s hands.

‘Now,’ said Eliot, when the jeweller had taken the coin, ‘we are keen to trace your colleague. Perhaps, first of all, you could tell us what your own relationship is with him – just so that we know how we ought to proceed.’

The old man creased his brow. ‘He came to me – oh – about six or seven months ago, it would have been.’

Eliot nodded. ‘Good. And what did he propose?’

Again, the old man frowned, and looked suspiciously between us as though still not certain of our purpose with him.

‘Please, Mr Headley,’ said Eliot. ‘What did he propose?’

‘He proposed,’ replied the old man, ‘he proposed … an agreement.’

‘Well, naturally,’ said Eliot coldly, ‘it would hardly have been a marriage. Come, Mr Headley, you are not being straight with us.’

‘All in good time,’ muttered the jeweller, blinking up at us defiantly. ‘He told me – this colleague of mine – he said he had top-grade jewellery. I didn’t believe him at first – you get all kinds of nonsense in my line of trade, as I’m sure you can appreciate – but as it turned out… well, sir, you’ve seen some of it yourself hung around Lady Mowberley’s throat – beautiful, it was, really beautiful. He had a small shop, he said, down by the docks…’

‘Where, exactly?’ Eliot asked.

‘Rotherhithe, sir.’

‘You have his address?’

Mr Headley nodded, bent down and pulled out a drawer. ‘Here, sir,’ he said, handing up a card. Eliot took it. ‘“John Polidori,” he read. “Three Coldlair Lane, Rotherhithe.”’ He looked up at the old man. ‘He is Italian, then, this Mr Polidori?’

‘If he is,’ replied the shopkeeper, ‘then he speaks English better than any foreigner that I’ve ever heard.’

‘There was a John Polidori,’ I said, ‘who was Lord Byron’s personal physician for a while. He wrote a short story which we adapted once for the Lyceum.’

Eliot glanced at me. ‘You are surely not suggesting he might be the same man? How old would he be now?’

‘Oh, no,’ I replied, ‘Lord Byron’s Polidori killed himself, I believe. No, I’m sorry, Eliot, I only mentioned it because of the coincidence.’

‘I see. How fascinating you are, Stoker, with your theatrical reminiscences.’ Eliot turned back to the old man. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we have been quite distracted. Where were we? Yes. This Mr Polidori came to you. He had jewellery.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what did he want with you?’

Mr Headley smiled. ‘He had a problem. He had the goods – but that was basically all he had. I mean, who’s going to go down to Rotherhithe? Not your real nobs, not your gentlemen with money to spend. If you’re going to set up shop in a serious way, well, sir, it’s got to be Bond Street’

Eliot nodded. ‘And so that was where you came in?’

‘Yes, sir. He’d supply the goods to me, and I’d display them.’

‘And the jewels from Kalikshutra – why didn’t he leave you to sell those particular items yourself?’

‘As I mentioned, sir, he has a shop of his own. That’s the address, on that card you’ve got.’

‘Very well,’ said Eliot, his eyes starting to gleam again. ‘What of it?’

‘Sometimes, with certain customers, he’d want them to come and visit him.’

‘Why?’

‘It was those who he thought had a special interest in jewellery – collectors, if you like. He preferred to deal with them direct.’