Supping With Panthers (20 page)

‘And so you would point them in his way?’

‘If you like, sir. It was good business; he always gave me a decent return.’

‘And Sir George? He was one of those you pointed down to Rotherhithe, then?’

‘Yes, sir. Quite specific about it, Mr Polidori was. “Get me Sir George,” he said. “Whatever he comes in and asks for – tell him you haven’t got it. Send him down to me.”‘

‘You didn’t find this surprising?’

‘No, sir, why should I have done?’

‘Because Sir George, so far as I am aware, has never been a collector of jewellery in his life. Why would your colleague have been interested in him?’

Mr Headley smiled faintly beneath his moustache. ‘He may not collect it for himself,’ he said, ‘but there’s plenty of others he collects it for.’ He winked. ‘If you get my meaning, sir.’

‘Yes,’ said Eliot shortly. He did not smile in return. ‘Yes, I think I do.’

The old man looked suddenly worried. ‘You won’t take what I just said the wrong way, I hope, sir,’ he stammered.

‘Wrong way?’

‘Well …’ The jeweller swallowed. ‘I do realise, sir, that Lady Mowberley must be worried, and I do feel for her, really I do.’

‘Indeed, Headley? And why is that?’

The old man frowned. As he looked up and stared into Eliot’s face, he seemed suddenly quite hostile again, and when he spoke his voice was measured and cold. ‘I think, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘that if you need to ask…’

‘Yes?’ pressed Eliot impatiently.

‘Then I shouldn’t tell you.’ Mr Headley was unblinking, his face set like a stone. ‘Not if you don’t know already, sir. I am sorry’ – he paused, then spoke the word with offensive dullness – ‘sir.’

Eliot raised a hand to reach into his pocket.

‘Don’t you go trying with your bribes,’ the old man said. ‘You won’t get me that way again.’

Eliot slowly lowered his hand again. ‘Very well,’ he said. His face, I was surprised to observe, seemed suddenly good-humoured and almost relieved. ‘At least tell me this, then,’ he asked.

The jeweller stared at him, but didn’t reply.

‘You have seen Sir George recently? Within the past week or two?’

Still the old man made no reply.

‘I must be honest with you,’ said Eliot ‘I am indeed working for Lady Mowberley. I am sorry that I felt it necessary to deceive you. But she wishes only to know if Sir George is still alive – nothing more. She is a wife, Mr Headley – you are married yourself, I know. So please’ – he stared straight into the old man’s eyes – ‘I appeal to you. Have you seen Sir George during the past two weeks? Please, Mr Headley,’ He paused. ‘Lady Mowberley is very concerned.’

The jeweller looked away. He stared out at the street, then he turned back to face Eliot.

‘When?’ Eliot asked.

Still Mr Headley did not blink.

‘Out on the street? You saw him there?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Good.’ Eliot paused. ‘When?’

The jeweller sighed. ‘Two days ago,’ he said at last.

Thank you, Mr Headley,’ Eliot paused, then smiled. ‘You must be very fond of Sir George,’ he observed.

‘Always have been,’the old man replied gruffly. ‘Ever since he was a babe.’

Eliot nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is a relief to witness.’

‘A relief, sir?’

‘Yes, Mr Headley, a relief.’ He turned to me, and his face did indeed seem mobile with precisely that emotion. ‘Come, Stoker. We have completed our business here,’ He glanced down at the card which he still held in his hand. ‘I shall call on Mr Polidori in due course. But for now’ – he raised his hat – ‘good morning to you, Mr Headley. You have been of great assistance. Thank you for your time.’ And with that, he turned and left the shop.

I followed him out into the street. ‘Well, Eliot,’ I asked impatiently, ‘what did you make of him?’

That he was honest and loyal.’

‘Yes, loyal to Sir George, certainly. But were you expecting him not to be?’

‘I wasn’t sure.’

‘Why, what did you suspect?’

Eliot paused in his walk and turned back to gesture at the building we had just left. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that the Headleys not only occupy the shop but also live on the second floor. Anything out of the ordinary that happens in that building is bound, in the due course of time, to come to their attention. That much was clear even from Lucy’s narrative.’ He turned and began to walk again, speaking as he did so in a low urgent voice. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘suppose that Headley had been suborned. Suppose that he had been part of a conspiracy against Sir George. How much blacker would our case seem then! For it is evident, I think, that whatever it was that Lucy witnessed in that flat, it was not some sudden catastrophe but rather an episode in a sequence of events, stretching back probably for several months. Headley himself must have been aware that
something
was going on – it staggers credibility to think that he was not.’

‘But why then would he not reveal it to us?’

‘Because, as we have just agreed, he believes he is being loyal to Sir George himself – which in turn implies that he has not thought Sir George to be in any danger during this time.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I remembered what the old man had been hinting at. ‘He seemed to be saying that Sir George was having an affair.’

Eliot nodded. ‘I cannot say I was surprised by his suggestion. When Lady Mowberley first came to me, the suspicion struck me immediately. George was always ill-disciplined with the fairer sex. Naturally, I have not imparted this theory to Lady Mowberley herself.’

‘So what are you saying, Eliot, that you still think it possible?’

‘Oh, more than possible, I would think it certain he has been having a romance of some kind.’

‘So why then was he killed?’

‘I do not believe that he was killed.’

‘But…’ I stared at him in astonishment. ‘Lucy said – she saw him being…’

‘No, no,’ said Eliot, shaking his head as he interrupted me, ‘it is quite impossible. You saw the carpets with your own eyes. No blood-letting took place in that room, no slicing of anyone’s throat. And yet we have a mystery. George was seen there by Lucy from the street, but when she entered the room he was gone. Where to? What had happened to him?’

‘I confess, I am baffled.’

‘Surely not, a man of your keen wit?’

I thought. ‘I have it!’ I cried. ‘Sir George was throttled, and his corpse hidden away in the Headleys’ flat!’

‘Very good,’replied Eliot, a thin smile on his lips, ‘but unlikely. We have just agreed on Headle,’s loyalty to his old master. He would be unenthusiastic, I suggest, about harbouring anyone who had Sir George’s corpse in tow.’

‘You are right, of course.’ I shrugged and shook my head.

‘Come, Stoker, think! Two solutions present themselves immediately.’

‘They do?’

‘Yes, as clearly as day,’ Eliot glanced at me, and his glittering eyes were those of an expert with a challenge worthy of his skills. The first, I regret to say, is by some way the least likely of the two, but it is possible, I would conjecture, that the Rajah is Sir George himself. The idea struck me during Lucy’s narrative. Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, seeing me open my mouth to object, ‘I have already agreed it is improbable. Lucy saw the Rajah and spoke to him. She is remarkably observant, and knows Sir George well; she would not be a person easily deceived. Also – it leaves unexplained what she saw at the window of the flat. However, we are agreed that Sir George has been conducting an affair; if we are correct, he would then have the motive for disguising himself. Our theory would also explain the Rajah’s presence at the theatre last night – he had come to see his ward’s first night. So I am unwilling to discount the idea altogether. I would prefer first to observe the Rajah for myself.’

I shook my head. ‘I am not convinced, Eliot. The difficulties of the theory seem to me far to outweigh the advantages.’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I agree with you. But we must wait. Who knows what time and careful observation may yet unearth for us?’

‘You mentioned a second possibility.’

‘Yes.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Ah,’ said Eliot, his gaunt face seeming visibly to darken before my eyes, ‘we move now into darker territory.’

‘Are you able to tell me?’ I asked, for I had detected a hint of reserve in his voice.

‘Not every detail,’ he replied, ‘for there are aspects of this affair which touch on great matters of state, and if they do indeed lie behind Sir George’s disappearance – as I fear they may – then we are up against a dangerous and terrible conspiracy. That is why I cling to the hope that the Rajah may yet prove to be Sir George; the alternative, that the Rajah of Kalikshutra is indeed who he claims to be, is too grim to contemplate.’

‘But why?’ I asked, both appalled and intrigued. ‘What is this plot which you seem to suspect?’

‘You will remember,’ he answered, ‘that my interest in this case was first attracted not by Lucy, but by Lady Mowberley. She has suggested to me – and this is what I find so disturbing – that Sir George’s disappearance is linked to Arthur Ruthven’s death.’

‘Good Lord,’ I exclaimed. ‘Linked, Eliot? How?’

‘By a very peculiar circumstance. Both men were insulted by anonymous messages. The first was almost comical. Arthur, who I believe held more rare coins than any man in London, was told that his collection had been surpassed and rendered worthless. The second message, which came some time after the first, was more obviously offensive. Lady Mowberley, who has loved her husband from a tender age, was informed that George was an adulterer.’

‘That much at least, then, was true.’

‘The truth of the insult is irrelevant. What matters is the point of correspondence between the two messages.’

‘They seem quite different to me.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Eliot, ‘they are very similar. Do you not see, Stoker? They both challenge their target to prove himself.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Arthur Ruthven’s case is clear enough, I take it? Good. Then let us look at George’s. Stoker – you are a married man. Imagine the following scenario. Your wife is told that you are unfaithful to her. What would you do?’

‘I would try to persuade her that I was still true to her.’

‘Of course you would – you would seek to prove yourself. But consider further – it is your wife’s birthday in only a few days’ time. What else might you do?’

‘Buy her something, a wonderful gift?’

‘A scintillating reply! Exactly so!’

‘Jewels. Of course. He bought her the jewels.’

‘As he does all his women. You remember that Headley told us so. They clearly knew and worked on that.’

‘They?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘they.’ He paused, and his thin face grew dark and intense with thought ‘The forces behind this conspiracy,’ he murmured, ‘how cunning they have been! How deeply laid their plots!’

‘You think, then, that this Polidori…’

‘Oh, he is clearly a scoundrel.’

‘Why?’

‘All this rigmarole about shops in Rotherhithe, and fabulous jewellery! If he owns such priceless works, and is not dishonest, then why did he not just buy up Bond Street himself? Why this preposterous skein of arrangements? No, no, it is patent villainy! Clearly his aim was to lure George down to Rotherhithe, to a quite specific place, namely’ – he glanced down at the card – ‘Three, Coldlair Lane. But why?’ His frown deepened. ‘Why, Stoker, why?’

‘You had a theory, you said?’

He glanced at me; then, as though suddenly decided on something, he took me by the arm. We had reached the environs of Covent Garden by now; I was led down a narrow alley, away from the bustle of the vegetable stalls, where the yellow mists that were rising from the Thames served further to muffle our voices and forms. ‘You will remember,’ Eliot said, in an even lower voice than before, ‘how the jewellery lent by Polidori came from a region of India?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘from Kalikshutra.’

‘Very well, then,’ nodded Eliot, ‘here are some interesting facts. Sir George Mowberley is the minister responsible for the ordering of our Indian frontier. Arthur Ruthven, before his disappearance and death, was the senior diplomatist handling the bill. Kalikshutra, I know from personal experience – for I was until recently resident there – is the most troublesome kingdom on the whole frontier. You yourself, Stoker, will recollect how poor Edward Westcote’s mother was murdered there. You will agree, I am certain, that the coincidences seem rather to be mounting up?’

‘You believe there is an attempt to suborn the process of the bill?’

‘Let us say, it seems possible.’

‘But Arthur Ruthven – he was found murdered…’

‘Yes – his body drained white.’

‘Then surely – I am sorry to have to say this – shouldn’t we expect Sir George to have been murdered as well?’

‘Not necessarily. Not if he proved more amenable.’

‘Amenable?’

Eliot sighed. For a long time, he stared into the swirlings of the fog. ‘I mentioned,’ he said at last, ‘that I was in Kalikshutra myself.’ He closed his eyes and his gaunt face seemed suddenly very tired. “There is a terrible disease there,’ he murmured. ‘Amongst other symptoms, it attacks the mind…’

‘Good Lord, what are you saying?’ I exclaimed.

Eliot shrugged. ‘I wonder – I wonder …’ His voice trailed away, as though dampened by the taste of yellow fog in his throat. ‘Is it not possible,’ he asked eventually, ‘that Sir George has somehow been enslaved by this disease? After all, it might explain what Lucy witnessed from the street. George was not being killed; rather, when the cloth was placed over his face it was further to reduce his already weakened self-control. It would then have been an easy matter for the Rajah to have led his victim up the stairs, where the two of them could have waited motionless.’

‘Because Sir George had been placed under the Rajah’s power?’

‘Exactly. Reduced to the state of a zombie, if you like.’

I considered this possibility. ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding slowly, ‘yes, that would almost fit the facts.’

Eliot frowned. ‘Almost?’

‘The cloth – the one that was placed over Sir George’s face – you are suggesting that it might have been chloroform, or something of that kind?’