Death in a White Tie (7 page)

Lord Robert asked Mrs Halcut-Hackett if she would “take a turn” with him once round the room. She excused herself, making rather an awkward business of it:

“I fancy I said that I would keep this one for — I’m so sorry — Oh, yes — here he comes right now.”

Captain Withers had come from the farther side of the ballroom. Mrs Halcut-Hackett hurriedly got up and went to meet him. Without a word he placed his arm round her and they moved off together, Withers looking straight in front of him.

“Where’s Rory?” Lord Robert asked Lady Alleyn. “I expected to find him here tonight. He refused to dine with us.”

“Working at the Yard. He’s going north early tomorrow. Bunchy, that was your Captain Withers, wasn’t it? The man we saw at the Halcut-Hacketts’ cocktail-party?”

“Yes.”

“Is she having an affair with him, do you suppose? They’ve got that sort of look.”

Lord Robert pursed his lips and contemplated his hands.

“It’s
not
malicious curiosity,” said Lady Alleyn. “I’m worried about those women. Especially Evelyn.”

“You don’t suggest Evelyn—?”

“Of course not. But they’ve both got the same haunted look. And if I’m not mistaken Evelyn nearly fainted just then. Your friend Davidson noticed it and I think he gave her the scolding she needs. She’s at the end of her tether, Bunchy.”

“I’ll get hold of her and take her into the supper-room.”

“Do. Go after her now, like a dear man. There comes my Sarah.”

Lord Robert hurried away. It took him some time to get round the ballroom and as he edged past dancing couples and over the feet of sitting chaperones he suddenly felt as if an intruder had thrust open all the windows of this neat little world and let in a flood of uncompromising light. In this cruel light he saw the people he liked best and they were changed and belittled. He saw his nephew Donald, who had turned aside when they met in the hall, as a spoilt, selfish boy with no honesty or ambition. He saw Evelyn Carrados as a woman haunted by some memory that was discreditable, and hag-ridden by a blackmailer. His imagination leapt into extravagance, and in many of the men he fancied he saw something of the unscrupulousness of Withers, the pomposity of Carrados, and the stupidity of old General Halcut-Hackett. He was plunged into a violent depression that had a sort of nightmarish quality. How many of these women were what he still thought of as “virtuous”? And the débutantes? They had gone back to chaperones and were guided and guarded by women, many of whose own private lives would look ugly in this flood of hard light that had been let in on Lord Robert’s world. The girls were sheltered by a convention for three months but at the same time they heard all sorts of things that would have horrified and bewildered his sister Mildred at their age. And he wondered if the Victorian and Edwardian eras had been no more than freakish incidents in the history of society and if their proprieties had been as artificial as the paint on a modern woman’s lips. This idea seemed abominable to Lord Robert and he felt old and lonely for the first time in his life.

“It’s the business with Donald and this blackmailing game,” he thought as he twisted aside to avoid a couple who were dancing the rumba. He had reached the door. He went into the lounge which opened off the ballroom, saw that Evelyn Carrados was not there, and made for the staircase. The stairs were covered with couples sitting out. He picked his way down and passed his nephew Donald who looked at him as if they were strangers.

“No good trying to break that down,” thought Lord Robert. “Not here. He’d only cut me and someone would notice.” He felt wretchedly depressed and tired, and was filled with a premonition of disaster that quite astonished himself. “Good God,” he thought suddenly, “I must be going to be ill.” And oddly enough this comforted him a little. In the lower hall he found Bridget O’Brien with a neat, competent-looking young woman whose face he dimly remembered.

“Now, Miss Harris,” Bridgie was saying, “are you sure you’re getting on all right? Have you had supper?”

“Well, thank you so much, Miss O’Brien, but really it doesn’t matter—”

Of course, it was Evelyn’s secretary. Nice of Evelyn to ask her. Nice of Bridgie to take trouble. He said:

“Hullo, m’dear. What a grand ball. Has your mother come this way?”

“She’s in the supper-room,” said Bridget without looking at him, and he realized that of course she had heard Donald’s side of their quarrel. He said:

“Thank you, Bridgie, I’ll find her.” He saw Miss Harris was looking a little like a lost child so he said: “Wonder if you’d be very nice and give me a dance later on? Would you?”

Miss Harris turned scarlet and said she would be very pleased thank you, Lord — Lord Gospell.

“Got it wrong,” thought Lord Robert. “Poor things, they don’t get much fun. Wonder what
they
think of it all. Not much, you may depend upon it.”

He found Lady Carrados in the supper-room. He took her to a corner table, made her drink champagne and tried to persuade her to eat.

“I know what you’re all like,” he told her. “Nothing all day in your tummies and then get through the night on your nerves. I remember mama used to have the vapours whenever she gave a big party. She always came round in time to receive the guests.”

He chattered away, eating a good deal himself and getting over his own unaccountable fit of depression in his effort to help Lady Carrados. He looked round and saw that the supper-room was inhabited by only a few chaperones and their partners. Poor Davidson was still in Lucy Lorrimer’s toils. Withers and Mrs Halcut-Hackett were tucked away in a corner. She was talking to him earnestly and apparently with great emphasis. He glowered at the table and laughed unpleasantly.

“Lor’!” thought Lord Robert, “she’s giving him his marching orders. Now why’s that? Afraid of the General or of — what? Of the blackmailer? I wonder if Withers is the subject of those letters. I wonder if Dimitri has seen her with him some time. I’ll swear it was Dimitri’s hand. But what does he know about Evelyn? The least likely woman in the world to have a guilty secret. And, damme, there is the fellow as large as you please, running the whole show.”

Dimitri had come into the supper-room. He gave a professional look round, spoke to one of his waiters, came across to Lady Carrados and bowed tentatively and then went out again.

“Dimitri is a great blessing to all of us,” said Lady Carrados. She said it so simply that he knew at once that if Dimitri was blackmailing her she had no idea of it. He was hunting in his mind for something to reply when Bridget came into the supper-room.

She was carrying her mother’s bag.

Everything seemed to happen at the same moment. Bridget calling gaily: “Really, Donna darling, you’re
hopeless
. There was your bag, simply preggy with banknotes, lying on the writing-table in the green boudoir. And I
bet
you didn’t know where you’d left it.” Then Bridget, seeing her mother’s face and crying out: “Darling, what’s the matter?” Lord Robert himself getting up and interposing his bulk between Lady Carrados and the other tables. Lady Carrados half-laughing, half-crying and reaching out frantically for the bag. Himself saying: “Run away, Bridget, I’ll look after your mother.” And Lady Carrados, in a whisper: “I’m all right. Run upstairs, darling, and get my smelling-salts.”

Somehow they persuaded Bridget to go. The next thing that happened was Sir Daniel Davidson, who stood over Evelyn Carrados like an elegant dragon.

“You’re all right,” he said. “Lord Robert, see if you can open that window.”

Lord Robert succeeded in opening the window. A damp hand seemed to be laid on his face. He caught sight of street lamps blurred by impalpable mist.

Davidson held Lady Carrados’s wrist in his long fingers and looked at her with a sort of compassionate exasperation.

“You women,” he said. “You impossible women.”

“I’m all right. I simply felt giddy.”

“You ought to lie down. You’ll faint and make an exhibition of yourself.”

“No I won’t. Has anybody —?”

“Nobody’s noticed anything. Will you go up to your room for half an hour?”

“I haven’t got a room. It’s not my house.”

“Of course it’s not. The cloakroom, then.”

“I — yes. Yes, I’ll do that.”

“Sir Daniel!” shouted Lucy Lorrimer in the corner.

“For Heaven’s sake go back to her,” implored Lady Carrados, “or she’ll be here.”

“
Sir Daniel
!”

“Damn!” whispered Davidson. “Very well, I’ll go back to her. I expect your maid’s here, isn’t she? Good. Lord Robert, will you take Lady Carrados?”

“I’d rather go alone. Please!”

“Very well. But
please
go.”

He made a grimace and returned to Lucy Lorrimer.

Lady Carrados stood up, holding her bag.

“Come on,” said Lord Robert. “Nobody’s paying any attention.”

He took her elbow and they went out into the hall. It was deserted. Two men stood just in the entrance to the cloakroom. They were Captain Withers and Donald Potter. Donald glanced round, saw his uncle, and at once began to move upstairs. Withers followed him. Dimitri came out of the buffet and also went upstairs. The hall was filled with the sound of the band and with the thick confusion of voices and sliding feet.

“Bunchy,” whispered Lady Carrados. “You must do as I ask you. Leave me for three minutes. I—”

“I know what’s up, m’dear. Don’t do it. Don’t leave your bag. Face it and let him go to the devil.”

She pressed her hand against her mouth and looked wildly at him.

“You
know
?”

“Yes, and I’ll help. I know who it is. You don’t, do you? See here — there’s a man at the Yard — whatever it is—”

A look of something like relief came into her eyes.

“But you don’t know what it’s about. Let me go. I’ve
got
to do it. Just this once more.”

She pulled her arm away and he watched her cross the hall and slowly climb the stairs. After a moment’s hesitation he followed her.

Alleyn closed his file and looked at his watch. Two minutes to one. Time for him to pack up and go home. He yawned, stretched his cramped fingers, walked over to the window and pulled aside the blind. The row of lamps hung like a necklace of misty globes along the margin of the Embankment.

“Fog in June,” muttered Alleyn. “This England!”

Out there in the cold, Big Ben tolled one. At that moment three miles away at Lady Carrados’s ball, Lord Robert Gospell was slowly climbing the stairs to the top landing and the little drawing-room.

Alleyn filled his pipe slowly and lit it. An early start tomorrow, a long journey, and a piece of dull routine at the end of it. He held his fingers to the heater and fell into a long meditation. Sarah had told him Troy was going to the ball. She was there now, no doubt.

“Oh, well!” he thought and turned off his heater.

The desk telephone rang. He answered it.

“Hullo?”

“Mr Alleyn? I thought you were still there, sir. Lord Robert Gospell.”

“Right.”

A pause and then a squeaky voice:

“Rory?”

“Bunchy?”

“You said you’d be at it till late. I’m in a room by myself at the Carrados’s show. Thing is, I think I’ve got him. Are you working for much longer?”

“I can.”

“May I come round to the Yard?”

“Do!”

“I’ll go home first, get out of this boiled shirt and pick up my notes.”

“Right. I’ll wait.”

“It’s the cakes-and-ale feller.”

“Good Lord! No names, Bunchy.”

“ ’Course not. I’ll come round to the Yard. Upon my soul it’s worse than murder. Might as well mix his damn’ brews with poison. And he’s working with — Hullo! Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Is someone there?” asked Alleyn sharply.

“Yes.”

“Good-bye,” said Alleyn, “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thank you so much,” squeaked the voice. “Much obliged. Wouldn’t have lost it for anything. Very smart work, officer. See you get the reward.”

Alleyn smiled and hung up his receiver.

Up in the ballroom Hughie Bronx’s Band packed up. Their faces were the colour of raw cod and shone with a fishy glitter, but the hair on their heads remained as smooth as patent leather. The four experts who only ten minutes ago had jigged together with linked arms in a hot rhythm argued wearily about the way to go home. Hughie Bronx himself wiped his celebrated face with a beautiful handkerchief and lit a cigarette.

“OK, boys,” he sighed. “Eighty-thirty tomorrow and if any — calls for ‘My Girl’s Cutie’ more than six times running we’ll quit and learn anthems.”

Dimitri crossed the ballroom.

“Her ladyship particularly asked me to tell you,” he said, “that there is something for you gentlemen at the buffet.”

“Thanks a lot, Dim,” said Mr Bronx. “We’ll be there.”

Dimitri glanced round the ballroom, walked out and descended the stairs.

Down in the entrance hall the last of the guests were collected. They looked wan and a little raffish but they shouted cheerfully, telling each other what a good party it had been. Among them, blinking sleepily through his glasses, was Lord Robert. His celebrated cape hung from his shoulders and in his hands he clasped his broad-brimmed black hat. Through the open doors came wreaths of mist. The sound of people coughing as they went into the raw air was mingled with the noise of taxi engines in low gear and the voices of departing guests.

Lord Robert was among the last to go.

He asked several people, rather plaintively, if they had seen Mrs Halcut-Hackett. “I’m supposed to be taking her home.”

Dimitri came up to him.

“Excuse me, my lord, I think Mrs Halcut-Hackett has just left. She asked me if I had seen you, my lord.”

Lord Robert blinked up at him. For a moment their eyes met.

“Oh. Thank you,” said Lord Robert. “I’ll see if I can find her.”

Dimitri bowed.

Lord Robert walked out into the mist.

His figure, looking a little like a plump antic from one of Verlaine’s poems, moved down the broad steps. He passed a crowd of stragglers who were entering their taxis. He peered at them, watched them go off, and looked up and down the street. Lord Robert walked slowly down the street, seemed to turn into an insubstantial wraith, was hidden for a moment by a drift of mist, reappeared much farther away, walking steadily into nothingness, and was gone.

In his room at the Yard Alleyn woke with a start, rushing up on a wave of clamour from the darkness of profound sleep. The desk telephone was pealing. He reached out for it, caught sight of his watch and exclaimed aloud. Four o’clock! He spoke into the receiver.

“Hullo?”

“Mr Alleyn?”

“Yes.”

He thought: “it’s Bunchy. What the devil—!”

But the voice in the receiver said:

“There’s a case come in, sir. I thought I’d better report to you at once. Taxi with a fare. Says the fare’s been murdered and has driven straight here with the body.”

“I’ll come down,” said Alleyn.

He went down thinking with dismay that another case would be most unwelcome and hoping that it would be handed on to someone else. His mind was full of the blackmail business. Bunchy Gospell wouldn’t have said he’d found his man unless he was damn certain of him. The cakes-and-ale fellow. Dimitri. Well, he’d have opportunities, but what sort of evidence had Bunchy got? And where the devil was Bunchy? A uniformed sergeant waited for Alleyn in the entrance hall.

“Funny sort of business, Mr Alleyn. The gentleman’s dead all right. Looks to me as if he’d had a heart attack or something, but the cabby insists it was murder and won’t say a word till he sees you. Didn’t want me to open the door. I did, though, just to make sure. Held my watch-glass to the mouth and listened to the heart. Nothing! The old cabby didn’t half go off pop. He’s a character.”

“Where’s the taxi?”

“In the yard, sir. I told him to drive through.”

They went out to the yard.

“Dampish,” said the sergeant and coughed.

It was very misty down there near the river. Wreaths of mist that were almost rain drifted round them and changed on their faces into cold spangles of moisture. A corpse-like pallor had crept into the darkness and the vague shapes of roofs and chimneys waited for the dawn. Far down the river a steamer hooted. The air smelt dank and unwholesome.

A vague huge melancholy possessed Alleyn. He felt at once nerveless and over-sensitized. His spirit seemed to rise thinly and separate itself from his body. He saw himself as a stranger. It was a familiar experience and he had grown to regard it as a precursor of evil. “I must get back,” cried his mind and with the thought the return was accomplished. He was in the yard. The stones rang under his feet. A taxi loomed up vaguely with the overcoated figure of its driver standing motionless by the door as if on guard.

“Cold,” said the sergeant.

“It’s the dead hour of the night,” said Alleyn.

The taxi-driver did not move until they came right up to him.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn, “what’s it all about?”

“Morning, governor.” It was the traditional hoarse voice. He sounded like a cabby in a play. “Are you one of the inspectors?”

“I am.”

“I won’t make no report to any copper. I got to look after meself, see? What’s more, the little gent was a friend of mine, see?”

“This is Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, daddy,” said the sergeant.

“All right. That’s the stuff. I got to protect meself, ain’t I? Wiv a blinking stiff for a fare.”

He suddenly reached out a gloved hand and with a quick turn flung open the door.

“I ain’t disturbed ’im,” he said. “Will you switch on the glim?”

Alleyn’s hand reached out into the darkness of the cab. He smelt leather, cigars and petrol. His fingers touched a button and a dim light came to life in the roof of the taxi.

He was motionless and silent for so long that at last the sergeant said loudly:

“Mr Alleyn?”

But Alleyn did not answer. He was alone with his friend. The small fat hands were limp. The feet were turned in pathetically, like the feet of a child. The head leant sideways, languidly, as a sick child will lean its head. He could see the bare patch on the crown and the thin ruffled hair.

“If you look froo the other winder,” said the driver, “you’ll see ’is face. ’E’s dead all right. Murdered!”

Alleyn said: “I can see his face.”

He had leant forward and for a minute or two he was busy. Then he drew back. He stretched out his hand as if to close the lids over the congested eyes. His fingers trembled.

He said: “I mustn’t touch him any more.” He drew his hand away and backed out of the taxi. The sergeant was staring in astonishment at his face.

“Dead,” said the taxi-driver. “Ain’t he?”

“ — you!” said Alleyn with a violent oath. “Can’t I see he’s dead without—”

He broke off and took three or four uncertain steps away from them. He passed his hand over his face and then stared at his fingers with an air of bewilderment.

“Wait a moment, will you?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Alleyn at last. “Give me a moment.”

“Shall I get someone else, sir?” asked the sergeant. “It’s a friend of yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “It’s a friend of mine.”

He turned on the taxi-driver and took him fiercely by the arm.

“Come here,” he said and marched him to the front of the car.

“Switch on the headlights,” he said.

The sergeant reached inside the taxi and in a moment the driver stood blinking in a white flood of light.

“Now,” said Alleyn. “Why are you so certain it was murder?”

“Gorblimy, governor,” said the driver, “ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ower bloke gets in wiv ’im, and ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ower bloke gets out at ’is lordship’s ’ouse dressed up in ’is lordship’s cloak and ’at and squeaks at me in a rum little voice same as ’is lordship: ‘Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate’? Ain’t I driven ’is corpse all the way there, not knowing? ’Ere! You say ’is lordship was a friend of yours. So ’e was o’ mine. This is bloody murder, this is, and I want to see this Mr Clever, what’s diddled me and done in as nice a little gent as ever I see, swing for it. That’s me.”

“I see,” said Alleyn. “All right. I’ll get a statement from you. We must get to work. Call up the usual lot. Get them all here. Get Dr Curtis. Photograph the body from every angle. Note the position of the head. Look for signs of violence. Routine. Case of homicide. Take the name, will you? Lord Robert Gospell, two hundred Cheyne Walk—”