The Seven Dials Mystery (11 page)

This was rather a poser. Bundle shifted her ground.

“I don't see what you want to be so secretive for,” she complained.

“Nothing to be secretive about. Nobody goes there much now. It was only a craze.”

This sounded puzzling.

“One gets so out of things when one is away,” said Bundle in a sad voice.

“Oh, you haven't missed much,” said Bill. “Everyone went there just to say they had been. It was boring really, and, my God, you
can
get tired of fried fish.”

“Where did everyone go?”

“To the Seven Dials Club, of course,” said Bill, staring. “Wasn't that what you were asking about?”

“I didn't know it by that name,” said Bundle.

“Used to be a slummy sort of district round about Tottenham Court Road way. It's all pulled down and cleaned up now. But the Seven Dials Club keeps to the old atmosphere. Fried fish and chips. General squalor. Kind of East End stunt, but awfully handy to get at after a show.”

“It's a nightclub, I suppose,” said Bundle. “Dancing and all that?”

“That's it. Awfully mixed crowd. Not a posh affair. Artists, you know, and all sorts of odd women and a sprinkling of our lot. They say quite a lot of things, but I think that that's all bunkum myself, just said to make the place go.”

“Good,” said Bundle. “We'll go there tonight.”

“Oh! I shouldn't do that,” said Bill. His embarrassment had returned. “I tell you it's played out. Nobody goes there now.”

“Well, we're going.”

“You wouldn't care for it, Bundle. You wouldn't really.”

“You're going to take me to the Seven Dials Club and nowhere else, Bill. And I should like to know why you are so unwilling?”

“I? Unwilling?”

“Painfully so. What's the guilty secret?”

“Guilty secret?”

“Don't keep repeating what I say. You do it to give yourself time.”

“I don't,” said Bill indignantly. “It's only—”

“Well? I know there's something. You never can conceal anything.”

“I've got nothing to conceal. It's only—”

“Well?”

“It's a long story—You see, I took Babe St. Maur there one night—”

“Oh! Babe St. Maur again.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't know it was about her—” said Bundle, stifling a yawn.

“As I say, I took Babe there. She rather fancied a lobster. I had a lobster under my arm—”

The story went on—When the lobster had been finally dismembered in a struggle between Bill and a fellow who was a rank outsider, Bundle brought her attention back to him.

“I see,” she said. “And there was a row?”

“Yes, but it was
my
lobster. I'd bought it and paid for it. I had a perfect right—”

“Oh, you had, you had,” said Bundle hastily. “But I'm sure that's all forgotten now. And I don't care for lobsters anyway. So let's go.”

“We may be raided by the police. There's a room upstairs where they play baccarat.”

“Father will have to come and bail me out, that's all. Come on, Bill.”

Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant and they were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.

The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be. It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street; she noted the number.

A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she could have seen him before.

Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman. They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke—so much so that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was almost overpowering.

On the wall were rough charcoal sketches, some of them executed with real talent. The company was extremely mixed. There were portly foreigners, opulent Jewesses, a sprinkling of the really smart, and several ladies belonging to the oldest profession in the world.

Soon Bill led Bundle upstairs. There the weak-faced man was on guard, watching all those admitted to the gambling room with a lynx eye. Suddenly recognition came to Bundle.

“Of course,” she said. “How stupid of me. It's Alfred who used to be second footman at Chimneys. How are you, Alfred?”

“Nicely, thank you, your Ladyship.”

“When did you leave Chimneys, Alfred? Was it long before we got back?”

“It was about a month ago, m'lady. I got a chance of bettering myself, and it seemed a pity not to take it.”

“I suppose they pay you very well here,” remarked Bundle.

“Very fair, m'lady.”

Bundle passed in. It seemed to her that in this room the real life of the club was exposed. The stakes were high, she saw that at once, and the people gathered round the two tables were of the true type. Hawkeyed, haggard, with the gambling fever in their blood.

She and Bill stayed here for about half an hour. Then Bill grew restive.

“Let's get out of this place, Bundle, and go on dancing.”

Bundle agreed. There was nothing to be seen here. They went down again. They danced for another half hour, had fish and chips, and then Bundle declared herself ready to go home.

“But it's so early,” Bill protested.

“No, it isn't. Not really. And, anyway, I've got a long day in front of me tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That depends,” said Bundle mysteriously. “But I can tell you this, Bill, the grass is not going to grow under my feet.”

“It never does,” said Mr. Eversleigh.

Twelve

I
NQUIRIES
AT
C
HIMNEYS

B
undle's temperament was certainly not inherited from her father, whose prevailing characteristic was a wholly amiable inertia. As Bill Eversleigh had very justly remarked, the grass never did grow under Bundle's feet.

On the morning following her dinner with Bill, Bundle woke full of energy. She had three distinct plans which she meant to put into operation that day, and she realized that she was going to be slightly hampered by the limits of time and space.

Fortunately she did not suffer from the affliction of Gerry Wade, Ronny Devereux and Jimmy Thesiger—that of not being able to get up in the morning. Sir Oswald Coote himself would have had no fault to find with her on the score of early rising. At half past eight Bundle had breakfasted and was on her way to Chimneys in the Hispano.

Her father seemed mildly pleased to see her.

“I never know when you're going to turn up,” he said. “But this will save me ringing up, which I hate. Colonel Melrose was here yesterday about the inquest.”

Colonel Melrose was Chief Constable of the county, and an old friend of Lord Caterham.

“You mean the inquest of Ronny Devereux? When is it to be?”

“Tomorrow. Twelve o'clock. Melrose will call for you. Having found the body, you'll have to give evidence, but he said you needn't be at all alarmed.”

“Why on earth should I be alarmed?”

“Well, you know,” said Lord Caterham apologetically, “Melrose is a bit old-fashioned.”

“Twelve o'clock,” said Bundle. “Good. I shall be here, if I'm still alive.”

“Have you any reason to anticipate not being alive?”

“One never knows,” said Bundle. “The strain of modern life—as the newspapers say.”

“Which reminds me that George Lomax asked me to come over to the Abbey next week. I refused, of course.”

“Quite right,” said Bundle. “We don't want you mixed up in any funny business.”

“Is there going to be any funny business?” asked Lord Caterham with a sudden awakening of interest.

“Well—warning letters and all that, you know,” said Bundle.

“Perhaps George is going to be assassinated,” said Lord Caterham hopefully. “What do you think, Bundle—perhaps I'd better go after all.”

“You curb your bloodthirsty instincts and stay quietly at home,” said Bundle. “I'm going to talk to Mrs. Howell.”

Mrs. Howell was the housekeeper, that dignified, creaking lady who struck terror to the heart of Lady Coote. She had no terror for Bundle, whom, indeed, she always called Miss Bundle, a relic of the days when Bundle had stayed at Chimneys, a long-legged, impish child, before her father had succeeded to the title.

“Now, Howelly,” said Bundle, “let's have a cup of rich cocoa together, and let me hear all the household news.”

She gleaned what she wanted without much difficulty, making mental notes as follows:

“Two new scullery maids—village girls—doesn't seem much there. New third housemaid—head housemaid's niece. That sounds all right. Howelly seems to have bullied poor Lady Coote a good deal. She would.”

“I never thought the day would come when I should see Chimneys inhabited by strangers, Miss Bundle.”

“Oh! one must go with the times,” said Bundle. “You'll be lucky, Howelly, if you never see it converted into desirable flats with use of superb pleasure grounds.”

Mrs. Howells shivered all down her reactionary aristocratic spine.

“I've never seen Sir Oswald Coote,” remarked Bundle.

“Sir Oswald is no doubt a very clever gentleman,” said Mrs. Howells distantly.

Bundle gathered that Sir Oswald had not been liked by his staff.

“Of course, it was Mr. Bateman who saw to everything,” continued the housekeeper. “A very efficient gentleman. A very efficient gentleman indeed, and one who knew the way things ought to be done.”

Bundle led the talk on to the topic of Gerald Wade's death. Mrs. Howell was only too willing to talk about it, and was full of pitying ejaculations about the poor young gentleman, but Bundle gleaned nothing new. Presently she took leave of Mrs. Howell and came downstairs again, where she promptly rang for Tredwell.

“Tredwell, when did Arthur leave?”

“It would be about a month ago now, my lady.”

“Why did he leave?”

“It was by his own wish, my lady. I believe he has gone to London. I was not dissatisfied with him in any way. I think you will find the new footman, John, very satisfactory. He seems to know his work and to be most anxious to give satisfaction.”

“Where did he come from?”

“He had excellent references, my lady. He had lived last with Lord Mount Vernon.”

“I see,” said Bundle thoughtfully.

She was remembering that Lord Mount Vernon was at present on a shooting trip in East Africa.

“What's his last name, Tredwell?”

“Bower, my lady.”

Tredwell paused for a minute or two and then, seeing that Bundle had finished, he quietly left the room. Bundle remained lost in thought.

John had opened the door to her on her arrival that day, and she had taken particular notice of him without seeming to do so. Apparently he was the perfect servant, well-trained, with an expressionless face. He had, perhaps, a more soldierly bearing than most footmen and there was something a little odd about the shape of the back of his head.

But these details, as Bundle realized, were hardly relevant to the situation. She sat frowning down at the blotting paper in front of her. She had a pencil in her hand and was idly tracing the name Bower over and over again.

Suddenly an idea struck her and she stopped dead, staring at the word. Then she summoned Tredwell once more.

“Tredwell, how is the name Bower spelt?”

“B-A-U-E-R, my lady.”

“That's not an English name.”

“I believe he is of Swiss extraction, my lady.”

“Oh! That's all, Tredwell, thank you.”

Swiss extraction? No. German! That martial carriage, that flat back to the head. And he had come to Chimneys a fortnight before Gerry Wade's death.

Bundle rose to her feet. She had done all she could here. Now to get on with things! She went in search of her father.

“I'm off again,” she said. “I've got to go and see Aunt Marcia.”

“Got to see Marcia?” Lord Caterham's voice was full of astonishment. “Poor child, how did you get let in for that?”

“Just for once,” said Bundle, “I happen to be going of my own free will.”

Lord Caterham looked at her in amazement. That anyone could have a genuine desire to face his redoubtable sister-in-law was quite incomprehensible to him. Marcia, Marchioness of Caterham, the widow of his late brother Henry, was a very prominent personality. Lord Caterham admitted that she had made Henry an admirable wife and that but for her in all probability he would never have held the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. On the other hand, he had always looked upon Henry's early death as a merciful release.

It seemed to him that Bundle was foolishly putting her head into the lion's mouth.

“Oh! I say,” he said. “You know, I shouldn't do that. You don't know what it may lead to.”

“I know what I hope it's going to lead to,” said Bundle. “I'm all right, Father, don't you worry about me.”

Lord Caterham sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He went back to his perusal of the
Field.
But in a minute or two Bundle suddenly put her head in again.

“Sorry,” she said. “But there's one other thing I wanted to ask you. What is Sir Oswald Coote?”

“I told you—a steamroller.”

“I don't mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his money—trouser buttons or brass beds or what?”

“Oh, I see. He's steel. Steel and iron. He's got the biggest steel works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn't, of course, run the show personally now. It's a company or companies. He got me in as a director of something or other. Very good business for me—nothing to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those hotel places—Cannon Street or Liverpool Street—and sit around a table where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately you needn't listen to it—and I can tell you, you often get a jolly good lunch out of it.”