Murder on a Summer's Day, page 24
part #5 of Kate Shackleton Series
‘Hello, Lydia.’ In spite of not being Freddie, I marched up to the table.
Lydia glared at me. ‘Where did you spring from?’
A quick lie was called for. ‘Your mother said I’d find you here. I know how much you value your jewellery so I thought I’d pop in and let you know that one of your emerald earrings rolled under the bed at the Cavendish Arms.’
‘Where is it then?’
‘Waiting for you at the Dorchester.’
Lydia scowled.
The older woman pursed her lips and widened her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, ‘Oooh, hark at that, eh? You don’t even miss an emerald now, Liddy.’
In for a penny, in for a pound. I smiled at the woman. ‘You must be Lydia’s aunt Emily. Your sister says hello.’
‘Does she now? Well you better sit down, Mrs…’
‘Shackleton.’
‘… and name your poison.’
‘I’ll have what you’re having, Mrs Mudge.’ There was a cheap tin tray on the table, etched with an image of the Taj Mahal. ‘That’s nice.’
Just keep on lying, I told myself.
The aunt picked up the tray. ‘Isn’t it? My present from India. Best out of harm’s way.’ She carried it to an overcrowded sideboard and slid it to stand at the back, behind flowers under a glass dome, candlesticks, a fruit bowl and a china dog.
‘India. Doesn’t it make you melt when Liddy talks about it?’ She turned to her niece. ‘Does your friend know about your palace, Liddy?’
Lydia smoothed her hair. ‘I might have mentioned it.’
‘Tell her. Tell her about the marble halls, the satin cushions embroidered with gold, the silk bedding, the parrot, the sunken bath. Tell her about the journey to the hills in the hot weather. Tell her about the elephants. She loves it there, don’t you? It’s become her spiritual home, and we’re all going to visit one fine day.’
‘It’s true. India gets under your skin. I shall go back. That palace and everything in it is mine.’
‘Tell her about how the maharajah gave you the pick of the treasure and…’
‘Not now, Auntie. What about that drink?’
The aunt walked to the door that led to the bar. ‘You never know, I might meet a prince myself, when your uncle isn’t looking.’ She hoisted her skirt above her knees. ‘But I’ll need them stockings you promised me.’
‘You’ll have to wait until I go to Paris, Auntie.’
The door to the bar swung closed behind her aunt.
Lydia whipped round to face me. ‘All right, what d’you want?’
‘You. At the Dorchester.’
‘Why?’
‘You left the farm without telling anyone.’
‘And is that a crime?’
‘You were asked not to leave the area pending investigations into the missing diamond.’
‘I have diamonds of my own. Why would I take that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘You’d like that wouldn’t you?’
‘Lydia, what are your plans?’
‘To go out on the town with Freddie. You want to know a lot don’t you?’
‘If I don’t ask you, someone else will. Scotland Yard is involved, and the India Office.’
She snorted, ‘The India Office. The Indians might kowtow. I won’t.’
‘So is Freddie someone you can safely pass a diamond to?’
‘He’s a dancer, and a good pal. We were in the chorus together at the Little Theatre, my first job. And don’t look at me like that. People swallow their grief in different ways. I take mine neat. And I haven’t got their bloody diamond.’
‘Is it true that you’re going back to India?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? I have my palace there.’
‘Without your maharajah to protect you, the establishment will have you turned back at the port.’
‘Let them try.’
‘The Indian Civil Service, the police, they will find some way of keeping you out.’
‘I have as much right to be in India as anyone else. An Indian maharajah loved me. Can the British government say that? I don’t think so.’
Her aunt returned with a tray holding a glass and bottles of Beefeater gin and dry vermouth. ‘No sign of Freddie.’
‘He’s always late.’
The aunt placed the glass in front of me.
I took a sip. ‘Don’t know why you need curlers. This is strong enough to give you a permanent wave.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, your friend’s a card. You know how to pick ’em, Liddy.’ When she had stopped laughing, she said, ‘There’s a copper outside, trying to play the invisible man. If Freddie sees him, he’ll get the wind up. He hasn’t been the same since that business blew up over his brush with big Albert in the back passage. All a shameful misunderstanding if you ask me.’
Lydia glanced at me. ‘Is the copper with you?’
‘Absolutely not. I’ve never had a police escort in my life. Not important enough.’
Mrs Mudge laughed. ‘She’s a card, your friend.’
‘Nice gin. What are the cocktails like in the bar at the Dorchester? I’ve never had the pleasure.’
Lydia stood, ‘Well then, since you were so kind as to find my lost earring, I’ll stand you a treat there. Auntie, tell Freddie I’ll see him another day.’
The woman’s face became a picture of disappointment. ‘Poor Freddie.’
‘He shouldn’t be late then, should he?’
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.
Thirty-Five
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.
