Murder on a Summer's Day (25 page)

A stout porter opened the door of a room on the second floor of the Dorchester. Lydia stepped inside the sumptuous room, and for a moment stood still and drank in the luxury while James, Chana and I looked on from the doorway.

We followed her in, to make way for a second porter who brought a trunk.

Lydia delved in her handbag and produced a key ring. ‘Well, here we are, quite a party. Never thought you’d find yourself in my hotel room, did you, Mr Chana?’

Chana looked at James. ‘May we proceed?’

James handed Lydia a piece of paper. ‘Miss Metcalfe, this is an order taken out by Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer, requiring you to open your trunks in the presence of the maharajah’s representative, Mr Chana.’

As she studied the paper with great care, James looked a little embarrassed. ‘Perhaps you are tired after your journey and would like to have tea, or take a rest before we begin?’

Chana let out something like a muffled groan.

Lydia studied the paper. ‘This says the hotel manager must be present.’

James and Chana exchanged a look.

‘Well?’ Lydia demanded.

There was a tap on the door. Another porter struggled in with a second trunk.

James turned to him. ‘Please ask the manager to attend urgently.’

The porter stared, as if he could not believe his ears.

‘Urgently,’ James repeated.

When the man had gone, Lydia handed the paper back to James. ‘It does not say how many trunks you wish me to open.’

‘You sent two trunks from Bolton Abbey.’

‘Ah yes, but I have another forty-eight trunks stored in the basement. What if I have colluded with a member of staff and a jewel of inestimable worth is folded in a nightgown and tucked in one of those forty-eight trunks?’

Mr Chana attempted to look through her. ‘We will see all forty-eight trunks.’

‘Fifty,’ Lydia corrected. ‘Must try harder in arithmetic, Mr Chana.’

Three hours later, Lydia opened the fiftieth trunk.

She took out writing paper and envelopes, holding up each envelope separately, to prove it contained nothing. She shook out a hand towel, embroidered with the Ritz Hotel initials; a hand towel embroidered with the Dorchester’s initials. She held out a used tablet of soap for inspection. Picking up a packet of tea, she announced it to be Darjeeling, opened it and carefully emptied the contents into a large glass ashtray, allowing it to overflow onto the walnut dressing table. Over each theatre programme and each signed photograph of an actor, singer or dancer, she lingered. There were trinkets she must have had since childhood, cheap glass beads, a copper bracelet, an imitation pearl pendant. She waved a menu from the SS
Malwa
. Finally, she picked up a packet of sanitary towels, ripped it open and, with a flourish, placed pad after pad on the bed. She shook out a pair of stockings, which brought a flicker of interest. She examined the toe of one, and discarded the pair in the waste basket.

‘I need new stockings.’ She smiled bewitchingly. ‘Sorry to disappoint you all, but as you see, I am unable to produce the Gattiawan diamond, or any diamond. If you intend to dismantle the trunks for false bottoms, please reassemble and repack.’

Mr Chana gave a curt nod to James and to me, and marched from the room.

The manager gazed at the mess of Lydia’s life that was strewn on the bed, chairs, dresser and across the floor. ‘Regarding the storage fee for the trunks, Miss Metcalfe…’

Lydia ignored him. She wiped her brow in melodramatic fashion, pushed a couple of shoeboxes from a small velvet covered chair and sat down.

James asserted his authority. ‘Not now. Miss Metcalfe is fatigued. She may like tea?’

‘Oddly enough, I would. Thank you, Mr Rodpen. You are a gent.’

The manager hesitated for a moment before leaving in what I suppose might be called high dudgeon, but being a man used to controlling his feelings the dudgeon was not as high as it might have been.

‘Miss Metcalfe. I am very sorry to say that after you have had your tea, I must invite you come to Scotland Yard to answer some questions.’

‘Did you slip out and join the Metropolitan Police while my back was turned?’ Lydia smiled sweetly.

James reddened.

‘Thought not. Then go take a running jump, but before you do, send a chambermaid to pack this lot. If you are all very lucky, I won’t press charges.’

James has a terribly pompous manner when he wishes to adopt it, and I wish he would not.

‘Very well. But I have orders. I shall reluctantly fetch a policeman.’

‘Good. Fetch two.’

James turned to me, to see if I would follow.

I did not.

‘Watch me.’ She caught him by the sleeve.

She strode back and forth across the room, swaying provocatively. ‘Well?’

James stared at her. He blinked a couple of times, and blinked again. ‘Well what?’

‘Could I walk like that if the diamond is where you think it is?’

James left, quickly.

I surveyed the wreck of the room.

A chambermaid knocked. ‘You sent for me, madam?’

‘Bugger off. I can pack my own trunks.’ The chambermaid left. ‘They’re all light-fingered.’ She began to scoop up her belongings, throwing them any old how into the nearest trunk.

James opened the door again. ‘Mrs Shackleton, please remain with Miss Metcalfe until I return with the police officer who is waiting downstairs.’

He closed the door gently behind him.

‘Lydia, if you know anything about the diamond, tell me now.’

She picked up a silk kimono. ‘You bugger off as well. They have a little power and it goes to their heads, and every other bit of their body. Well let them do their worst. If they get on my wrong side, they’ll never see their precious diamond again, not this side of paradise.’

‘For heaven’s sake, put a stop to this. If you know where the diamond is, say so. If not, stop pretending you do know. It won’t do you any good.’

There was a tap on the door.

I opened it to a burly man in a crumpled suit, accompanied by a plain, slender woman in tweeds. He brought out his card. ‘I’m Inspector Barker, CID, and this is Sergeant Wyles.’ He looked beyond me to Lydia. ‘Miss Metcalfe, I would like you to come along with us.’

‘Will you give Miss Metcalfe a moment or two to repack her trunks, Inspector?’

A moment or two? We could be here for hours.

The inspector stared at the jumble of clothing, shoes, hotel and theatre memorabilia, lip rouge, powder, ships’ menus and dance cards. ‘Sergeant Wyles, please supervise this… activity. I shall wait on the landing.’

Wyles stood back for a moment, then gave a small sigh.

She and I began to pick up the debris of Lydia Metcalfe’s life and place it in trunks with much greater care than did Lydia herself.

Was I envious when I saw the bag from the shop in Paris where Lydia bought her stockings? Perhaps, just a little.

When Lydia had left with the sergeant, I picked up a few odds and ends that had not found their way into the trunks; a receipt, a menu from the Paris Ritz, a ticket for the Folies Bergère, a kid glove stained by rain. There was something touching about the amount of useless stuff Lydia had held onto, taking up unpaid for space in the basement of the Dorchester. I guessed there might be hotels in Paris, Rome, Amsterdam and Delhi where she had done the same. Perhaps there would be trunks in the attics of the Earl of Ellesmere in Bethnal Green.

And one of them might, just might, contain the Gattiawan diamond.

James and I watched from the hotel entrance as Lydia Metcalfe was discreetly escorted from the Dorchester by burly Inspector Barker and the slender Sergeant Wyles. Lydia turned to look at us before climbing into the waiting motor. Her make-up had worn off. She looked younger than her years. Her attempt at defiance frayed at the edges.

James and I exchanged a look. He sighed. ‘One thinks of the sledgehammer and the nut, eh old girl?’

‘I do believe you have a soft spot for her.’

‘You have to give credit where it’s due. She played a blinder. The lady has style.’

Slowly, James and I made our way out of the hotel.

‘Where is Mr Chana?’

‘Gone to the Ritz to pick up something for the maharani. He’ll take a train back this evening.’

We waited at the entrance while the doorman hailed a taxicab.

Usually when I come to London, I stay with Aunt Berta, James’s mother, so when we entered the taxi, James gave me one of his quizzical looks.

‘It isn’t over yet. We had better stay together for now.’

He nodded. ‘Connaught Square, driver.’

We travelled in silence, unable to speak about what must now be happening to Lydia Metcalfe, and not in the mood for small talk.

‘Far side of the square, driver.’

He paid the fare.

We walked up the familiar steps.

James’s elderly butler, once my uncle’s footman, greeted us. He had put on a little weight since I last saw him and his grey hair was thinner on top. In his own reserved fashion, Cooper liked me. His way of making a fuss was to say, ‘Well, madam, here you are at last. Cook will be pleased.’

We had an early meal of comfort food, meat and potato pie and rice pudding.

Later, in the drawing room, James poured sherry. We sat on either side of the fireplace. I kicked off my shoes. There was something about this house that I never liked. The place echoed silence. On my occasional visits to James and Hope, I had watched them glide about like a pair of ghosts.

Now that Hope had gone to exchange pleasantries with her maker, the house, more than ever, had the atmosphere of a hollow tomb, awaiting the arrival of its first cadaver. It was the kind of dwelling that needed children, eccentric relations, hangers-on, cats, dogs, and canaries to expel the dreariness. I used to imagine something very bad must have happened here once.

James was oblivious to my feelings and I was careful not to say how gloomy the place made me feel.

He ambled across to a contraption in the corner. ‘Did I tell you I have a wireless? It works on a thermionic valve. I can see if there’s a transmission if you like.’

‘Not just now.’ He looked so crestfallen that I claimed a headache.

‘Funny that. Hope always caught a headache in this room.’

I was still trying to understand why the police thought that the humiliation of a strip search of Lydia Metcalfe at Scotland Yard would bring them any closer to finding the Gattiawan diamond. They were so clumsy, these men who thought they knew everything, that was what annoyed me. Willing to whitewash the foul play of Prince Narayan’s murder, but prepared to commit an outrage on a ‘wicked woman’. In purely practical terms, searching Lydia was ridiculous. I had to face up to the fact that we had arrived too late. There had been plenty of time for her to glad-hand the diamond to some friend or relation in the
Earl of Ellesmere.

The police would no doubt be causing ructions there, with so many places in a pub where a diamond could be concealed. I had a sudden vision of a barrel of bitter being emptied into jugs and sieved for the precious gem.

Did she have the diamond or not? Sometimes I thought yes. But if she had it, then why did she hint that she had it, instead of issuing grand denials? ‘James, do you think Lydia has the diamond?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know.’

‘Do you think they think she has it, the India Office and Scotland Yard?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And possibly not. Perhaps they simply want to teach her a lesson. She rose above her station – an upstart East End girl who hooked an exotic and wealthy mate.’

‘Many attractive girls do. My chum’s maternal aunt…’

I never heard the story about the chum’s maternal aunt because at that moment, the doorbell rang, loudly, persistently.

‘It’ll be a message from mother. She must have heard you are in London. Mark my word, one of her friends saw you at the Dorchester. She’ll want to know why you aren’t with her. She’ll arrange a supper. If you wonder why she hasn’t been trying to match-make for you of late, it’s because she’s busy arranging introductions for me.’

I know my Aunt Berta better than to imagine she would send a messenger. ‘She would have telephoned. It’s your stuffed-shirt friends who treat the telephone as though it is the invention of the devil.’

The butler brought in a card on a tray, but before James had time to take it, a tall, lean man with a lined face and grey hair appeared in the doorway. He was well into his sixties, trim and meticulously turned out.

By the way James sprang to his feet, and said, ‘Sir?’ I knew the man must be one of the high-ranking civil servants James so admires and tries to emulate.

The man was indeed a Sir. James introduced Sir Richard Hartington, Private Secretary to the Secretary of State for India.

‘My cousin, Mrs Shackleton, the lady who has helped us so much in regard to Miss Metcalfe and the sorry business.’

I did not feel I had helped in any way at all. ‘Shall I leave you gentlemen to talk?’

Sir Richard sat down opposite me. ‘Please stay, Mrs Shackleton. I wanted to inform you that we have released Miss Metcalfe from custody, without achieving any information from her with regard to the dubte suraj ki chamak. We are in a most embarrassing situation.’ He looked directly at me, his grey eyes betraying no emotion. ‘Do you believe she knows where the diamond is?’

‘I believe she would like us to think that.’

He nodded. ‘My thought also. But is she playing us along by pretending to know more than she does, or does she want us to think that she is pretending?’

Now that someone of his own sex and a higher rank had come onto the scene, James’s sherry glass did a disappearing trick. He poured two glasses of whisky and handed one to his guest. ‘Could she have passed the diamond to someone, sir?’

‘The North Riding Constabulary have overseen a search of her family farm and of the house belonging to a Mr Presthope, with no results. Thanks to a telephone call from the superintendent of the West Riding Constabulary – your father I believe, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Yes.’

‘We had a man posted at the Dorchester and at the Earl of Ellesmere even before you contacted the commander at Scotland Yard. If she has managed to conceal the diamond in either of those places then she ought to be signed up for the secret service. We are still conducting searches.’

James topped up my sherry. ‘My cousin doubts that Miss Metcalfe has the diamond. She has another theory.’

‘Oh?’ Sir Richard took a sip.

‘You won’t want to hear it, Sir Richard.’ I did not particularly want to repeat the highly speculative thoughts I had aired over the meat and potato pie.

‘Try me.’

‘Very well. I believe Miss Metcalfe had the opportunity to take the diamond. The late maharajah bought a surprise present that he would have given her on Friday evening, jewellery in the design of four-leaf clovers, emeralds and diamonds.’

Sir Richard raised an eyebrow. ‘Generous man.’

‘But there is something else.’ I recounted the story of the Indian on Bark Lane, Mr Deakin’s retraction of his story, and that I did not believe the retraction. ‘Ijahar, the valet, said that sometimes the prince wore the diamond in a pouch about his neck, perhaps as a charm, or just because he did not entirely trust it to the safe in his room. If there were a hostile presence in the area from a rival state…’

‘In the shape of an Indian on the road last Friday.’ Sir Richard finished his whisky.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have any particular princely state in mind?’ He raised a monocle to his left eye and peered at me through it.

I tried not to laugh at his antique gesture. ‘I thought of Kalathal.’

‘The Maharajah of Kalathal is at Bolton Abbey now.’

‘So I understand.’

Sometimes James should keep quiet. ‘That could signify a reconciliation, a putting aside of differences in the face of tragedy.’

Sir Richard ignored James. ‘Did you know that the diamond has been in the Halkwaer family for seven generations?’

I did, but only because Indira had told me, so I pretended ignorance.

He continued. ‘And do you know what state originally owned the diamond and was prevailed upon to make it part of a dowry in exchange for promises that were never kept?’

I did not know, but could guess.

James provided the answer. ‘Kalathal?’

‘Yes.’

‘A motive for murder, Sir Richard?’ I took a sip of sherry.

‘No one has been murdered, Mrs Shackleton. The coroner’s jury made that entirely clear. Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer died as a result of a tragic accident. Accidents happen.’

James, somewhat ineptly, tried to offer me support. ‘My cousin, being an investigator, is inclined to suspect foul play.’

Sir Richard waved his empty glass at James. ‘Shooting accidents are sadly more common than most ladies suppose.’

‘Well that makes it very simple.’

‘My dear Mrs Shackleton, you were asked for your expertise in finding the prince, and find him you did.’ Sir Richard straightened his bow tie. ‘Your suggestion gives us food for thought. We shall shortly enter discussions with the Maharajah of Kalathal. However, if you would care to assist us in another way…’

He waited.

So did I.

After a good half minute, he continued. ‘When Miss Metcalfe has had time to sleep on the matter, I believe she will see sense. She appears to have taken a liking to you, and given how uncooperative she was this evening perhaps another approach may be more productive. I should like to be able to rule her out as a suspect in relation to the diamond. You might gain her confidence. We also need an assurance from her that she will not return to India.’

‘Sorry, Sir Richard. Reluctant as I am to turn down an assignment from His Majesty’s government, my heart would not be in it.’

He nodded graciously, acknowledging defeat, and then turned to James. ‘Did you also strike up a rapport with the lady in question?’

James blanched. ‘Not a bit of it.’

‘Odd. She spoke flatteringly of you while she was in custody. Said that you were a gentleman.’

‘I hardly had anything to do with the woman, offered her a cup of tea that is all, allowed her to take her time, no more than the normal civilities.’

‘Still, we may ask you to keep an eye on her.’

Terror struck James. ‘Isn’t that a police matter?’

‘Oh she can smell police a mile off, so she tells them, and I have no reason to doubt her.’

It was the first time I had spent a night under James’s roof. The wallpaper in the bedroom was William Morris. On the windowsill sat an arts and crafts vase which held silk violets. I remembered Hope talking about it, and how pleased she was with her choice. She had sworn me to secrecy about the silk flowers as my aunt holds imitation flowers to be the height of vulgarity, and poor Hope lived to please.

After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, I felt quite cheerful. This was because I had made a decision. Last night, I had telephoned Aunt Berta and arranged to meet her, for shopping and lunch. Later, I would take the train back to Bolton Abbey, and seek an audience with the maharani. I would apologise to Indira for not finding the diamond. Whether I would voice suspicions against the Maharajah of Kalathal was another matter. That was not my concern. After having lost possession of the gem for seven generations, perhaps it was Kalathal’s turn to have the diamond back.

At 8 a.m., the maid brought my morning tea. She drew back the curtains on a bright sky. My tranquillity lasted less than ten minutes.

James knocked and opened the door without waiting for a reply. He stood in the doorway, looking dismayed, as when bigger boys went on an adventure without him.

‘She’s gone.’

‘She? Lydia Metcalfe?’

He nodded.

‘Well what did you expect? She’s hounded, bullied, taken into custody, humiliated, threatened, and followed. What would you have done?’

‘That’s ridiculous. I would never be in that sort of position to begin with.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you would.’

He plonked himself on the bottom of my bed. ‘But where has she gone?’

‘When did they find out that she is missing?’

‘Ten minutes ago. She slept in her room at the Dorchester. There was a constable posted on the landing. They had to force the door when she didn’t answer the chambermaid’s knock. She’d left the key in the lock.’

‘She climbed out of the window?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘Not exactly a locked room mystery then.’

‘But it was the second floor.’

‘She’s a dancer, James. That means she’s agile. She was brought up in a pub by her aunt and her uncle the tightrope walker. If she’d been on the tenth floor, she would have left via the roof.’