“It doesn’t explain why the Horse Guards or anyone else should pay for the rooms.”
“We have only a hotel clerk’s word for that. They lied to us about everything else. Soames is trying to wrap the mess up in clean linen, to save your feelings,” my aunt decided.
I just looked at her. “If Papa was a spy for his country, it is hardly a case of dirty linen
,
Auntie. Remember, the Horse Guards took Papa’s body to London.”
“But was it for
his
country, or for the French?” she asked, in a rhetorical spirit. I was dreadfully depressed to hear her state my own worst fear aloud. “I don’t say your father was guilty. I believe he was Snoad’s dupe. That is what
I
think.”
“Surely not! Snoad was devoted to Papa.” Yet I had never thought so until last night, when Snoad had changed his whole personality so drastically that he had seemed a different man entirely. Had he done it to cozen me?
“Before you call me a fool, stop and think a minute,” my aunt continued. “When did your father’s interest in pigeons run out of all control? When Snoad moved in. Before that, it was just a little hobby. Once Snoad took over, your father suddenly began receiving all manner of strange callers. It was Snoad who arranged for customers, you must know.”
“He told me he didn’t know who Papa was coming to see in Brighton!”
“Of course he told you that, ninny. Now that he’s managed to get your father killed, he wants to distance himself from the business. Birds were always arriving and leaving at a great rate once Snoad moved in. He was using Harold’s racers to deliver messages across the Channel to France. The birds delivered to the loft by those strange callers would be from France, to return bearing information. Snoad would keep an eye on the coast, and send back word of what troops were building up. We have any number of military bases in the neighborhood. The Gracefield birds the Frenchies took away would be sent back with requests for what information they required.”
“But if Papa only came to Brighton to visit Mrs. Mobley
...
and why should the Horse Guards pay for his rooms?” I asked, trying to make sense of the senseless.
“We don’t know that they did. Someone paid by cash enclosed in a letter, is what Soames said. It could have been the Frenchies. Don’t think there aren’t Frenchies in London.”
“Why did Papa bring pigeons then, and why was he killed? He always told us he was going to his Pigeon Society meetings in London.”
“Aye, but where he was coming was to Brighton. He discovered in some manner that Mobley was here. She wrote him, no doubt. The pigeon meetings were his pretext to get away and visit Mobley. He knew I would have something to say if I learned he was seeing that creature. I daresay Snoad just took advantage of the visits. He would be happy enough to have Harold do some of the business away from home. It diverted suspicion from himself—from Snoad I mean. Snoad might have been concealing messages in with the birds in some manner. If the Horse Guards caught on to it, they would have assumed your father was the culprit, and had him assassinated.”
“I hope Bunny finds Depew, for there are a
dozen
questions I want to ask him,” I said, trying to figure out if my aunt had solved the case, or only complicated it further. Depew was the one who could tell us whether Papa was spying for England, or against it.
“I almost hope he does not,” Mrs. Lovatt said. “As things stand, we have only questions to worry us.”
“I should prefer to have those questions answered, Auntie. Papa must have wondered why he was getting his room free.”
Mrs. Lovatt made no reply, but her worried frown suggested that she was pondering the possibility of Papa’s deeper involvement in the spying scheme. After a long moment she said, “Harold always had a reckless streak in him. He was used to letting the smugglers land at his cove. It worried your mama to death.”
And smugglers from France, presumably, might easily provide a line to French spies. Snoad had a foreign air about him. Not in his speech, but his coloring was Gallic. Was there not a sort of French passion in his talk of the pigeons the other night as well? We English are more phlegmatic.
We were interrupted by a discreet tap at the door. I felt as if a murderer might be standing outside, ready to pounce in and shoot us. My aunt admitted the caller. My spirits soared to hear the polite accents of Lord Fairfield.
He entered smiling. His eyes swerved at once in my direction, where they seemed to find considerable pleasure. “I hope I am not intruding, ma’am,” he said, with an exquisite bow.
“Not at all. Pray have a seat, milord.”
He waited until Mrs. Lovatt was seated before taking a chair himself. “Mr. Soames has just been telling me the shocking news of your room being broken into. I came to assure myself you are unharmed,” he said. Using this excuse, his darting eyes examined me minutely. His especial concern appeared to focus on my bosom and ankles.
“Indeed we are fine,” I assured him. “We were out at the time, and did not discover the break-in until our return.”
“My valet took the key down as soon as I left you. No doubt someone picked it up from the desk and came to see if he might find a purse or jewelry lying about.”
“If that was his aim, he was disappointed,” Mrs. Lovatt replied, pretending to accept this taradiddle.
Regarding Lord Fairfield, I was much struck with his noble mien and broad shoulders. Such a gentleman, from the highest walk of life, would have access to information that was denied ladies of mere gentility. I felt a strong urge to throw all my troubles on his shoulders and ask his help. If there lurked at the back of my mind that a damsel in distress customarily won a proposal from her savior, I did not acknowledge it at the time, even to myself.
When Lord Fairfield inclined his head toward me and said, in a very concerned way, “Is something troubling you, ma’am? You look worried,” I was within ames’ ace of opening my budget to him.
Auntie, perhaps sensing my mood, said, “We are just tired from the trip, milord.”
He rose at once. “It is unconscionable of me to be imposing on you at this time. There is a matter I wished to discuss with you, but it must wait till later.”
No sane possibility of what this matter could be occurred to me, but I said, “I am not at all tired.”
Lord Fairfield had just resumed his seat and adjusted his body to a comfortable position in the chair when another tap came at the door. “That will be Smythe,” Mrs. Lovatt said, and rose to admit him.
Her sharp intake of breath was audible across the room, but it was soon overborne by the loud and common accents of a female. “G’day, Mrs. Lovatt. I spotted you on the Marine Parade a short while ago and saw you enter the hotel. I have come to pay my condolences on Harold’s death.”
Lord Fairfield blinked in astonishment at the apparition who elbowed Mrs. Lovatt aside and strode into the chamber, amidst a reek of toilet water. She was a full-blown blond woman of heroic proportions. Her natural color was assisted by a generous application from the rouge pot. She was outfitted all in violet, from the swirling feathers of her high poke bonnet to the tips of her kidskin gloves and kid slippers. If this liberal use of violet was meant to indicate half mourning, it failed miserably. She looked like an actress decked out for a mourning scene, whose performance she was enjoying immensely.
“Such a shock for you, Miss Hume,” she said, rushing up to me. “Happening away from home and all, and under such queer circumstances. You must have wondered what had hit you.” As she spoke, her eyes flashed with keen interest toward Lord Fairfield.
I was obliged to perform the introduction. “Lord Fairfield, this is an old neighbor from Hythe, Mrs. Mobley.”
“Not that old!” Mrs. Mobley assured him, with a playful nudge and something dangerously close to a wink.
Fairfield had risen to his feet upon her entrance. He made a very civil bow, and said, “Charmed, madam.”
Mrs. Mobley, with a deal of commotion, arranged her reticule, umbrella, and a bag of something she had been carrying on the table beside her. She then turned to me. “Have you found out what carried off your father?” she demanded, with the avid eagerness of the born gossip.
I was acutely aware of Lord Fairfield’s eyes upon me. I was glad Mrs. Mobley didn’t know Papa had been shot. It seemed a vulgar way to die. “That is why we have come, but we have not learned anything yet. And how are you liking Brighton, Mrs. Mobley?” I asked hastily, hoping to divert the conversation to harmless topics. “I heard you had gone to Ireland.”
“Ireland is a wonderful climate—for potatoes,” she said. “I stuck it out for as long as I could. I much prefer Brighton. It’s lively. It is. Between Prinney’s visits and bathing and boating, and of course, your father’s visits, I have been well entertained.”
Mrs. Lovatt’s spine stiffened, as if a poker had suddenly been inserted up it. “I had not realized you were on terms with the Prince Regent,” she said, with awful irony.
Mrs. Mobley emitted a raucous bark of laughter. “Good gracious, Mrs. Lovatt, I have not
met
him. I simply meant it is good fun to watch the old walrus carrying his belly along the streets. Mind you, I have not entirely given up on scraping an acquaintance, for he is partial to mature ladies, and has no love of string beans.” A condemning eye raked Mrs. Lovatt’s ladderlike frame. “When a lady reaches our age, she must give up on either her face or her figure. If you try to lose a pound, the first place it goes is the face.”
“Your face has certainly not lost its bloom,” Mrs. Lovatt retorted, staring at the rolls of fat around the lady’s middle.
“Harold thought I was just the right size.” She smiled. “Speaking of Harold, I daresay it was his heart that carried him off?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lovatt replied, with a warning glance in my direction.
“He mentioned those palpitations when we were—” She came to a coy pause, and smiled at Lord Fairfield. “When we were engaging in any strenuous activity.”
“He found walking fatiguing,” Mrs. Lovatt said, her voice like ice. “You ought not to have let him exert himself, Mrs. Mobley.”
“Try if you could stop him!” she said, and laughed merrily. Her next embarrassments were directed to Lord Fairfield, from whom she hoped to obtain an invitation to the Royal Pavilion. “As you are a fine lord, I daresay you are putting up at Prinney’s place?” she asked.
“I am staying here at the Royal Crescent,” he answered civilly.
“Just a social visit? Will you be visiting the prince?”
“I am here on business, actually.”
“Feel free to call on me, if you have an hour at your disposal. I live on German Street, just off the Marine Parade. A tidy little red cottage. You’ll know it by the daffodils around the gate. I’m sure any friends of the Humes are friends of mine.”
Mrs. Lovatt bridled in frustration at this impertinence.
“You are very kind,” he said, trying to conceal his astonishment. Then he rose. “I know you ladies are tired, so I shan’t trouble you further. May I return later this evening to discuss that matter I mentioned, ladies?”
“We plan to return to our room immediately after dinner,” I replied.
“I look forward to seeing you then.” He bowed all around, and left.
“A new beau, Miss Hume?” Mrs. Mobley asked.
“I only met Lord Fairfield today.”
“But your papa knew him,” the dame said knowingly.
“I don’t believe so.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen him chatting to Harold, though I was never presented to him before. They exchanged letters once, I think. Harold used to meet an odd assortment of men. When was it now?” She gave a frowning pause. “Yes, it was during Harold’s Christmas visit that I spotted his lordship. We had been shopping—Harold bought that dainty little gold locket for you, Miss Hume. We stopped here at the hotel for tea. Harold excused himself and had a word with Fairfield. He didn’t mention the lad’s name, but I am not likely to forget a face like that. Handsome as can stare.”
I was on thorns to learn how Papa had known Lord Fairfield, and was aware, too, of her confirmation that Papa had indeed been coming to Brighton all along. Mrs. Mobley could not know he had given me that little gold locket at Christmas unless she had been with my father when he bought it. I was incensed to realize that Papa had been pulling the wool over our eyes, and with this ill-bred creature.
“And what did he buy for you, Mrs. Mobley?” Mrs. Lovatt asked, in a sharp tone.
“Not a wedding ring, if that is what’s got your back up. Marriage didn’t suit me, though we discussed it. He could not leave Gracefield, and I had no wish to go there.” Her gimlet gaze said as clear as words who it was she objected to.
“It is strange Papa never mentioned Lord Fairfield,” I said.
“Aye.” Mrs. Mobley nodded sagely. “There were odd things aplenty going on with your father. I don’t know what it was; he said it would be safer for me not to know. It was a great secret. One would think he was a spy, the way he carried on,” she laughed. “Would you have any notion at all what brought him here, Miss Hume? He’d been coming half a year before I bumped into him.”
“It was bird business,” Mrs. Lovatt said.
“Still racing his pigeons, was he? That explains all those odd-looking men he used to meet.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“Why, you may be sure they were fixing the races. Arranging amongst themselves whose bird was to win, and laying bets on it. That sort of thing goes on all the time. I wish he had told me. I am not a gambler, but I wouldn’t have minded picking up a few pounds on a sure thing. But then, we had more interesting things to talk about. Well, I must be trotting along. I just wanted to pay my respects. Nice chatting to you again.”
Not a word was said to detain her. She heaved herself from her chair, assembled her belongings, and I showed her to the door, with a few insincere expressions of gratitude.
“Hussy!” Mrs. Lovatt exclaimed when the door was closed. “Wouldn’t you know she would have to land in when Lord Fairfield was here. What must he think of that creature? At least she didn’t mention her suspicion that Harold was a spy.” She stopped and emitted a gasp. “Good gracious, Heather. Do you think Mrs. Mobley could be in on it?”