Edwardian Murder Mystery 03; Sick of Shadows emm-3 Read online

  Rose leaned back in her chair and listened to the sugary strains of the orchestra playing “Poor Wandering One” from The Pirates of Penzance. Did Harry ever think of her? she wondered.

  “There’s something here,” said Daisy. “It doesn’t say Roger Dallow, but it says there’s someone called Sam Duval and he’s billed at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as The Singing Blacksmith.”

  “I wish we could go this evening but we are invited to the Pocingtons for dinner.”

  “You could have a headache.”

  Rose smiled. “So I could. My parents are so pleased with my engagement that they will not mind me having one night off. The minute they leave, we can take a hansom to Fulham Palace.”

  Daisy was excited. If they found out anything, surely Rose would want to tell Harry and Kerridge.

  When they climbed into the hansom that evening, Daisy twisted around and peered out of the back window.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Rose.

  “Funny,” said Daisy, turning back. “I thought I saw two men standing under the trees opposite the house.”

  “That is odd. Some time ago I looked down into the square and saw Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow standing there.”

  “I wish you were still engaged to the captain,” fretted Daisy. “He would have come round and lain in wait for them and demanded to know what they were doing.”

  “I’m sure Sir Peter will do the same thing should I ask him.”

  “He’s not frightening enough,” said Daisy. “The captain is.”

  “Oh, do stop talking about Captain Cathcart. That part of my life is finished.”

  “So you say,” muttered Daisy sulkily.

  ♦

  They had to pay for a box at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as all the seats had already been booked.

  There was to be a guest appearance of George Chevalier, famous for his song “My Old Dutch.”

  Rose fidgeted restlessly while Daisy heaved a sentimental sigh as Chevalier sang:

  “We’ve been together now for forty years,

  An’ it don’t seem a day too much;

  There ain’t a lady livin’ in the land

  As I’d swop for my dear old Dutch.”

  Then came the comedians, the jugglers, and a conjurer, all followed by a massive corseted lady who sang, “I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” The first half was over.

  Rose saw various members of the audience staring up at the box and lowered her veil. But to Daisy, who had been on the halls herself, it was all fascinating.

  The second half opened with a man with his performing dogs. Rose stifled a yawn. And then Sam Duval came on. He was an exceptionally good-looking man with dark curly hair and a strong figure. He was dressed in a blacksmith’s costume and standing by a “forge” and looking at an empty birdcage on a table in front of the footlights. He sang in a clear tenor voice:

  “She’s only a bird

  In a gilded cage,

  A beautiful sight to see,

  You may think she’s happy

  And free from care,

  She’s not

  Tho’ she seems to be.

  ‘Tis sad when you think

  Of her wasted life,

  For youth cannot mate with age,

  And her beauty was sold

  For an old man’s gold,

  She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”

  There was a throb in his voice while he sang. There was a brief silence when he finished and then there was a roar of applause. Daisy clapped until her hands were sore. Then she nudged Rose. “Come on. I’m sure that’s him. Let’s get round to the stage door.”

  Frost glittered on the pavement outside the theatre, shining under the stuttering gaslights, as they made their way round to the side of the building.

  Rose presented her card to the stage-door keeper. “Follow me,” he said, and winked at her. Oh dear, thought Rose. He thinks I’m the female equivalent of a stage-door Johnny.

  They followed the stage-door keeper up narrow stairs and along a passage. “That’s him,” he said, jerking his hand at a door. He turned and left them.

  “Here we go,” said Daisy. She rapped at the door and a voice called, “Come in.”

  They entered a small dressing-room which smelled strongly of dog. The Singing Blacksmith was sitting in front of a mirror.

  He stared in the mirror at them. “Who are you?”

  Rose stepped forward. “I am Lady Rose Summer and this is Mrs. Levine. Are you really Roger Dallow?”

  “So what’s it to you?”

  “I was briefly a friend of Miss Dolly Tremaine. I am trying to find out what happened to her.”

  He swung round. “I remember your name now. It was in the newspapers.”

  “Was Miss Tremaine going to join you?”

  “Yes. I stood outside the house and she dropped a note out of the window. She said she would join me. She said she couldn’t bear it any longer because they were forcing her to marry some old man. She said I was to meet her the following day at the Shaftsbury Monument in Piccadilly at four in the afternoon. The following day, I waited and waited, but she didn’t come. Then I heard the newsboys calling out about some murder. I bought a paper. I can’t read very well but enough to know she had been murdered.”

  “Did she ever tell you she was frightened of anyone?” asked Rose.

  “I wasn’t allowed to go near her in the village after someone reported we’d been seen together. I got a whipping from my dad. I wouldn’t have run away but then I heard Dolly had been taken off to London. I don’t earn much here but it would have been enough for us to live simply.” He buried his head in his hands. “I loved her.”

  “The police have been looking for you,” said Rose. “May I tell them we found you?”

  “No!” he cried. “I’d nothing to do with it, but if the police come round here and take me away for questioning, innocent or not, I won’t have a job when I get back.”

  “What’s the awful smell in here?” asked Daisy, wrinkling her nose.

  “I’ve got to share with the dog act. He’s taken them out for a walk.”

  “So you have no idea at all who might have killed her?” asked Rose.

  “Who would want to kill Dolly except that Lord Berrow? Maybe he got mad when she told him she wouldn’t marry him.”

  “I do not think she would be allowed to do anything other than accept his proposal,” said Rose.

  “Someone tried to kill you, didn’t they?” asked Roger.

  “Yes, the police now think it was some hired assassin. I will not tell the police about you.”

  The dressing-room door opened and a pretty chorus girl came in. “Nearly time for the curtain call, darling.” She perched on Roger’s knee and gave him a hearty kiss. Roger threw a sheepish look at Rose.

  “Who’re they?” asked the chorus girl.

  “Nobody, really,” said Roger.

  Rose and Daisy left.

  “So much for undying love,” said Rose. “He seems to have found someone new pretty quickly.”

  “It’s been months since the murder,” said the ever-pragmatic Daisy. “Life goes on.”

  Rose brooded on Harry on the journey back. She had never thought until that moment that Harry might fall in love and get married. The idea depressed her.

  Daisy broke into her thoughts. “Going to tell the captain about Roger?”

  “No.”

  “He might have done it.”

  “He hasn’t enough money to pay an assassin. Don’t tell Becket anything.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  ♦

  Harry had been visiting a house a few doors away from the earl’s town house to report that he had managed to quash a scandal.

  As he left, he suddenly stopped on the front stairs. Two men were looking up at the earl’s house. When they saw Harry, they moved away.

  Berrow and Banks, thought Harry. Why are they spying on Rose? I don’t like this at all.

/>   They were walking away quickly, but he caught up with them. “Stop!” he shouted. “What were you doing watching Hadfield’s house?”

  Cyril stared at him insolently. “We stopped to have a cigar.”

  “You were not smoking.”

  “See here,” said Berrow, shoving his fat and florid face at Harry, “you’re a cheeky upstart. You’ve betrayed your class. How dare you question me!”

  “I’m warning you,” said Harry, “if I catch you here again, I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, and if either of you had anything to do with the murder of Dolly Tremaine, I’ll find out.”

  They backed away from him, turned, and walked rapidly out of the square.

  “Needs to be taught a lesson,” growled Berrow. “Have you seen that motor of his? He’s making a fortune out of his grubby business. I’d like to punish him. Are you sure Lady Rose really fancies you? I mean, she got engaged to Petrey.”

  “And we all know what Petrey is. I tell you, Lady Rose was all over me. Think of her fortune. Think of getting the Ice Queen into bed. But I’ve got to get rid of Petrey and I’ve thought of a way.”

  ♦

  Sir Peter Petrey was leaving The Club two days later. London was in the grip of a particularly nasty thick yellow fog. It was one of those lung-searing fogs of winter blanketing London, blotting out landmarks. He knew if he could even get a hansom, it would take him ages to get home.

  It was late afternoon and he realized he would need to walk home if he was to manage to change into his evening clothes and escort Rose to a dinner party.

  He bumped into someone in the fog. “I say, I am sorry,” he said.

  “It’s all right. Beastly weather,” said a young voice. “Do you know the way to Charles Street?”

  “I’m going there myself. Come along.”

  They walked on together. As they passed a lighted shop front, the fog swirled for a moment and thinned. Peter looked at his companion and caught his breath. He was looking at the face of an angel. Golden hair like guineas glinted under a silk hat, large deep eyes, a perfect skin, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow.

  “Are you visiting London?” he asked.

  “No, I live here. I’m going to visit friends. This is awfully good of you, sir.”

  “My name is Peter Petrey. And you are…?”

  “Jonathan Wilks.”

  “I am glad of the company on such a filthy night, Mr. Wilks.”

  “Do call me Jonathan, everyone does.”

  They talked about plays they had seen and poetry they had read. Peter began not to notice the fog. He felt he was enclosed in a golden bubble with this dazzling youth.

  Just before they reached Peter’s house, the young man stopped. “This is where I leave you.”

  “Here is my card,” said Peter. “Do call. I’ll wait to see you get in safely.”

  Jonathan knocked at the door. Then he came back down the front steps. “They don’t seem to be at home. I must have forgotten the day. This is Friday, is it not?”

  “No, it’s Thursday.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Look, come in with me and have a sherry while I dress.”

  When Peter arrived slightly late and out of breath, Rose noticed he seemed to shine with an inner glow. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I haven’t made a mistake about him. He looks like a man in love.

  Peter had never been in better form than during the dinner. He told jokes, he told gossip, and he delighted the company.

  Shrewd Daisy watched him with anxious eyes. I hope it’s Rose that has given him this extra sparkle, she thought. I hope it isn’t anyone it shouldn’t be.

  Daisy’s concerns grew when, after dinner, she heard Peter tell Rose that he was going away on Friday and would not return until the following Monday.

  “Where?” asked Rose. “Anywhere pleasant?”

  “Just visiting some friends.”

  “You will miss the ball tomorrow.”

  “Oh dear. Can you find someone to escort you? Captain Cathcart, perhaps?”

  Rose raised her brows in amazement. “Have you forgotten I ended my engagement to the captain and became engaged to you?”

  “No, my dearest. It is just that it is very important that I go away this weekend.”

  “What is so important?”

  Peter manufactured a laugh. “You sound like a wife already. Ah, there is Lady Simpson looking for me.”

  He darted off.

  Daisy joined Rose. “I heard that.”

  “Most odd,” said Rose. “Just a day ago he seemed to delight in my company.”

  “Let’s just hope he isn’t delighting in anyone else’s.”

  Peter and Jonathan went down to Oxford the following day. The fog had disappeared, but Oxford was shrouded in a hard frost. They walked along by the icy river where the last leaves hung rimed with the frost, which glinted like rubies under a hard red sun. Peter kept glancing at his companion, becoming even more and more besotted. Those large eyes that he had first seen in the fog were green with flecks of gold. His black eyelashes were thick and curled at the ends. He had a wide-brimmed hat perched rakishly on his golden curls.

  Peter considered him too perfect for any carnal thoughts. His sexual adventures had been very few and he had avoided that brothel in Westminster which catered to tastes like his own. Discretion was all-important. Discovery meant prison and hard labour.

  They had a pleasant dinner that evening at the Rose and Crown. When they had finished, Peter dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Now what shall we do?”

  Jonathan leaned forward and fixed him with a glowing look. “I know somewhere in Oxford where we can end the evening… together. It’s not much of a hotel, but it would serve our purpose.”

  Peter’s mouth went dry. “Y-you c-can’t mean…” he stuttered. That beautiful mouth smiled at him lazily.

  “Oh, but that’s exactly what I mean.”

  Rose sat at the ball and watched the dancers. Now that she was engaged to Peter and seemed happy with him, the heiress-hunters of society had decided to leave her alone.

  The next dance, a waltz, was announced. She looked at her dance card. Nothing for the next dance and then a few dances with elderly friends of her father.

  She looked up and found Harry bowing before her. “Lady Rose, may I have the honour?”

  They moved together on the dance floor. “Have you any more news about Dolly’s death?” asked Rose.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. Have you?”

  Rose thought of Roger but decided to remain silent. She shook her head.

  “Where is your fiancé tonight?”

  “He has gone off to see friends.”

  “That is surely most unlike him. I would have thought him a dutiful escort.”

  “He usually is.”

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this marriage? Don’t you want children?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Daisy told me that you know exactly what I mean. Peter is not interested in your sex.”

  “There is no proof of that,” said Rose, her face flaming. “In any case, all I want is an arranged marriage. I would have my own household and I would have freedom. I owe you an apology. I only found out later that you had been the hero of that terrible train crash.”

  “On another matter, I found Berrow and Banks outside your house. I warned them off. What are they up to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “While we had our pretend engagement, at least I could feel I was protecting you.”

  “Fiddlesticks. You were never there.”

  “I could change,” he muttered.

  “What did you say?” demanded Rose, but the waltz had finished and an elderly partner was waiting for her.

  She danced impatiently, wanting to speak to Harry again, wondering if he had really said he could change, and what had he meant by that?

  When the dance was over, her eyes searched the ballroom, but there was no sign of Harry.


  Peter and Jonathan lay side by side, naked, on a bed in a seedy hotel in Oxford’s Jericho district. Jonathan was smoking a Russian cigarette and blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.

  “That was beautiful,” said Peter in a choked voice.

  “I can make it more exciting.” Jonathan stubbed out his cigarette and then fished on the floor on his side of the bed. He brought up a leather mask. “If I put this on, it will titillate you even more.”

  “I am in love with you,” said Peter in a stifled voice. “I do not need to play silly games.”

  “You’ll love it. See!” Jonathan put the mask on and then wound his arms around Peter. “Indulge me.” Then he raised his voice. “I have the mask on!”

  The bedroom door burst open and a magnesium flash blinded Peter. The man behind the flash was holding a camera. He, too, was masked. The cameraman snapped at Jonathan, “You’ve done your work. Now get out of here.”

  Jonathan scooped up his clothes and darted from the room. Peter struggled out of bed and ran to the door, which was slammed in his face. He hurriedly dressed and ran downstairs and into the street.

  He looked frantically up and down. No one. He went back to the hotel. “Who was that man with the camera?” he demanded.

  The man at reception looked at him with flat eyes. “I never saw nobody with a camera.”

  “You’re lying,” howled Peter.

  The man smiled at him. “Want to go to the police?”

  “That is what I am going to do,” said Peter, knowing miserably that that was the very last thing he could do.

  He could only assume that whoever took that photo meant to blackmail him. Then he thought of detective Harry Cathcart, who was famous for covering up scandals. But would Harry report him to the police?

  It was either that or kill himself.

  Harry had gone to visit his father, Baron Derrington, a duty call he had been putting off for ages, and so Peter had to fret and worry all weekend.

  When Harry arrived at his office on Monday morning, it was to find Peter waiting for him.

  “How can I help you, Sir Peter?” asked Harry.

  “May I talk to you in private?” Peter cast a nervous look at the secretary, Ailsa.

  “By all means,” said Harry. “Come into my office.” He cast a shrewd look at the trembling and sweating Peter and said to his secretary, “Miss Bridge, would you please go to Fortnum’s and buy me some chocolates? A large box. Take the money out of the petty cash.”