The Dorset House Affair Read online

  An ostler in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, and with a jaunty brown bowler hat pushed to the back of his head, was leaning against the wall to one side of the arch, thoughtfully smoking a short clay pipe. He nodded cheerfully to Box, and then watched in silence as the inspector looked at the high containing walls on either side of the lane. A stout door was let into the rear garden wall of Dorset House. Box tried the handle, and found that the door was locked.

  ‘You looking for someone, mister?’ asked the ostler. The man’s voice was pleasant enough, but Box caught the hint of a warning behind the words.

  ‘I’m looking for no one in particular, friend,’ Box replied. ‘It’s very quiet here, isn’t it? You’d think it was in the country, wouldn’t you? Has this lane got a name?’

  ‘It’s called Cowper’s Lane,’ the ostler replied, ‘and it’s not always as quiet as this. When the field marshal’s got company at the house, you’ll see a whole line of cabs and carriages stretching along the garden wall and round into Addison Place at the far end. It’ll be like that this coming Thursday night, when Mr Maurice has his birthday party.’

  ‘I’ve seen Sir John Claygate from a distance,’ said Box. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr Maurice. What kind of a man is he?’

  ‘He’s what you could call a merry lad, fond of company of his own choosing. Minds his own business. That kind of man.’

  The ostler shifted his position against the wall, and when he spoke again Box sensed the growing wariness behind his words. He had asked too many questions.

  ‘Are you looking for someone, mister?’ he repeated. ‘I saw you trying the handle of the door to the garden passage. We don’t get many strangers down here.’

  Box withdrew his warrant card from an inner pocket, and showed it to the man.

  ‘I’m to be on duty in the house on Thursday night,’ he said. ‘I just thought it would be a good idea to take a look round beforehand. That’s my name: Detective Inspector Box. I don’t think we’ve been introduced, have we?’

  The ostler laughed, and told Box that his name was Tom Fallon. Box rattled the handle of the door in the wall.

  ‘So this is the door to the garden passage, is it, Mr Fallon?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Box, it is,’ said the ostler. ‘It’s a covered way that leads from the house along the side of the garden and out here into the lane. There’s another door at the bottom of the passage that takes you out into the garden. The idea is, that ladies and gentlemen can come down to this end of the property without getting their feet wet.’

  ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘Yes, I know it is. Do you want to have a peep inside? I’ve got a key here that’ll open it for you. There’s not much to see.’

  Fallon took a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock, which turned easily. He pushed open the door, and stood back for Box to look inside. A long covered passageway extended towards the house, its tiled floor partly covered in coir matting. It looked as though it was little used, and a number of cupboards and garden chairs had been stored there. As Fallon had told him, a second door immediately to Box’s right gave access to the rear grounds of Dorset House. That door, too, was locked.

  The stable clock in the mews struck eleven. The ostler gave a comical groan, and pulled the door shut, He locked it, and returned the key to his pocket.

  ‘Time to get back to work, Mr Box,’ he said. ‘I hope you have a good time up at the house on Thursday. I’m sure they’ll see that you get some food, and a glass of champagne to drink Mr Maurice’s health. I expect you’ll get overtime?’

  ‘I will,’ said Box, smiling at Tom Fallon’s impudent directness. ‘One and eightpence an hour. A princely sum, as you’ll no doubt agree.’

  ‘Money for old rope.’ The ostler chuckled, as he walked under the archway into the mews. ‘Nothing’s going to happen on Thursday night, Mr Box. The field marshal only wants you there for show!’

  When Tom Fallon had disappeared into the stables, Arnold Box stood for a few moments in thought. Maybe that cheerful, cheeky man was right. He almost certainly was. But unexpected things could happen in a house where coveted secrets were being traded among a vast throng of guests. Perhaps Thursday night would not be as uneventful as Field Marshal Claygate’s ostler thought.

  * Depths of Deceit

  3

  Birthday Fireworks

  Field Marshal Sir John Claygate allowed his valet to make a final adjustment to his recalcitrant white tie, and then turned to survey himself in the mirror. Really, he looked quite smart considering his seventy years. A pity that Maurice’s reception was not a military affair. He would have looked splendid in his field marshal’s rig-out, with the sash and grand cross of the Bath, the Star of India, and the insignia of a Commander of the Indian Empire. Above all, that particular uniform came with the ultimate cachet: the complete absence of any badge of rank, a distinction that he shared with every private soldier in the army.

  ‘That’ll do, Scholes,’ said Field Marshal Claygate to his valet, and when the man had left the dressing-room, he turned towards his wife, who was standing near the window. She was watching the lamplighters, who were starting their leisurely routine of lighting the many lamps in Dorset Gardens.

  ‘You’re looking very grand tonight, Margaret,’ he said. ‘With that Pompadour hairstyle, the tiara, and all those diamonds, you look like a duchess. Scholes tells me that there are dozens of people here already, and that there’s been an endless procession of carriages going down to the mews for the last half-hour. I suppose we’d better go downstairs to the grand saloon in a minute.’ He glanced briefly once more in the mirror. ‘Do you think this evening suit is a bit out of date for the nineties?’

  Lady Claygate glanced fondly at her husband. He was seventy years old, and his shock of snow-white hair was beginning to thin on top. His deep-set eyes peered out at the world from beneath bushy white eyebrows. His antique drooping moustache, which entirely covered his mouth, was also white. He was an impressive man, even in old age, and he had been wildly handsome when she had married him.

  John Claygate was ten years her senior. She had given birth to her elder child, Edwin, when she was twenty-five, but Maurice had arrived unexpectedly when she had reached her thirty-fourth year, and complications over his birth had ensured that she would have no more children.

  ‘You look very nice, dear,’ she said, absently. ‘Just think! This will be Maurice’s last birthday as a bachelor! On the fifteenth – which is what, ten days from now? – he will be married to Julia Maltravers, at St Etheldreda’s in Ely Place. One of those snobbish newspapers described him as “the most eligible parti of the season”, which is true, I suppose. Maurice has been an “eligible bachelor” ever since he was twenty-one, fresh out of Cambridge by way of Eton.’

  The old field marshal snorted in disgust. He joined his wife at the window of the dressing-room, looking out at the dusk falling over the square.

  ‘Cambridge! He should never have gone there, Meg. He did well enough at school, but as soon as he got to the university, he fell into the wrong set…. When I think of the money I had to expend in order to get him out of some of his damned scrapes! Still, he has his own income from his grandfather’s trust, now, thank goodness, and a very grand income it is! And in ten days’ time he’ll be married and off our hands.’

  ‘The trouble with Maurice, John,’ said Lady Claygate, ‘is that he is too charming, and congenitally unable to say no to temptation. He was just the same when he was a little boy. He was constantly naughty, but he’d only to give me one of his smiles, and all was forgiven. It was a great pity that the army didn’t suit his temperament—’

  ‘Temperament be damned! He couldn’t stand routine and discipline, Margaret, and it didn’t take him long to fall into the clutches of the kind of young female harpies that are attracted to garrison towns like vultures.’

  Sir John Claygate sighed, and consulted an old silver dress watch which he hauled from his waistcoat pocket.
br />   ‘Nearly seven…. It’ll be dark, soon. I had high hopes – very high hopes – of his attraction to Elizabeth de Bellefort, the daughter of the man who saved my life in the Crimea, but no, that was not to be. Of course, I’m glad that he’s marrying Julia, but at every stage of his life he’s been a disappointment to me.’

  ‘I know, John,’ said Lady Claygate, ‘but I feel quite certain that Maurice is about to turn over a new leaf. Look! There’s Lord Newport’s carriage turning into the drive! It’s time we went down and showed ourselves. Maurice did quite creditable work out in Jamaica, and seemed to take well to plantation life, though I think that he and Julia will settle in England once they return from their honeymoon in Nice. Now, do cheer up, John, and come downstairs. People will expect you to mix. I can hear the orchestra tuning up, the buffet will be served in five minutes’ time, and the fireworks will commence at ten. Mr Brock’s people from the Crystal Palace are on the rear terrace, arranging things. Come, Field Marshal: lend me your arm!’

  ‘Do hurry up, Sarah,’ said Major Edwin Claygate to his wife. ‘You don’t need a shawl, or wrap, or whatever you call it. It’s nearly half past seven, and there’ll be nothing left to eat if we don’t get down there soon.’

  Major Claygate was a very handsome man, but unlike his father, he was not given to looking into mirrors. He stood at the window of the sitting-room of the suite where he and his wife were accommodated whenever they came to stay at Dorset House, fretting mildly at the delay. They hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and he was famished.

  ‘Oh, very well, Eddie,’ said Sarah. ‘But if I catch pneumonia, it’ll be your fault. Your pa’s house was always draughty.’

  Sarah Claygate was a strikingly handsome, dark-haired young woman of twenty-eight, clad in a deceptively simple gown of white silk, complemented by a necklace and ear-drops of rubies set in silver.

  ‘Incidentally, where did your brother meet this girl Julia?’ asked Sarah. ‘I don’t recall her having done the season. Why isn’t she here at Maurice’s party? Don’t tell me she’s one of these shrinking violets.’

  ‘No, she’s not. She’s an accomplished sportswoman, and jolly good company, as a matter of fact. But I think she wants to save herself up for the wedding on the fifteenth. Absence will make Maurice’s heart grow fonder, I suppose.’

  ‘Tosh!’ Sarah laughed. ‘She’s superstitious, that’s all. She’ll be sitting at her dressing-table at this very moment, sighing into the mirror, and looking at her wedding dress set out on a lay-figure in the corner of the room. She’ll be making wishes, remembering old magical charms taught to her by her nurse—’

  Major Claygate laughed.

  ‘You are the limit, Sarah! You know nothing whatever about the girl. She comes from Northumberland, and Maurice met her when Father dragged him unwillingly up to Uncle Hereward’s grouse moor in Yorkshire for the shooting last year. That’s where they met, and that’s where it all started.’

  They left the suite, and walked along the private balcony on the first floor, from which they could look down at the throng of guests assembled in the grand saloon below. A phalanx of liveried footmen had been weaving its way among the company, carrying gleaming silver trays laden with generous supplies of newly chilled champagne. The hundred guests, the invited and the uninvited, their tongues loosened by the vintage Krug, were busy exchanging gossip, and pumping each other for news of old friends and enemies. The noise of their chatter ascended to the balcony like the hum of a great hive of busily malicious bees, rising above the muted strains of the string orchestra.

  ‘Look,’ said Sarah, ‘there’s Elizabeth de Bellefort talking to Lady Newport, and over there, her ghastly brother is talking to a perky little man in a brown suit. Who on earth can he be? I must say, she looks very distinguée. She’s had her hair done by Madame Leblanc in Bond Street, and that green watered silk dress is from the salon of Monsieur Worth at Paris, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

  ‘Well, of course, she is a beautiful girl,’ said her husband. ‘One must concede that, even if one doesn’t like her. She and that brother of hers are as thick as thieves. I’m convinced that he uses perfume. Every time I see him, the toe of my boot itches to kick him downstairs.’

  ‘He and that little man in brown have gone off through the arch into the writing-room,’ said Sarah. ‘And – oh, look! There’s Maurice. He’s leaving that crowd of gambling friends that he’s invited, and going off somewhere with Elizabeth! How very interesting.’

  ‘They were very close, you know,’ said Edwin Claygate. ‘Father, of course, was all for their getting married, but Mother was always uneasy, though she never said anything.’

  ‘I expect Elizabeth thought she’d got him hooked,’ said Sarah. ‘The advent of this Julia Maltravers queered her pitch, didn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know where you learn these vulgar expressions, Sarah,’ said her husband, laughing. ‘It’s certainly not from me. And you’re most unkind. I think she had very good reason to believe that Maurice would pop the question one day. Anyway, he didn’t. He met Julia, and that was that. He and Elizabeth parted amicably, and she returned to France. I don’t think she minds about Maurice at all.’

  ‘Well, Edwin, they’ll be gone by the weekend. Let’s go down now, and see if there’s any food left.’

  ‘Oh, there will be, I’m sure. Father’s used to victualling whole armies, let alone battalions. Feeding a hundred guests will be child’s play to him!’

  ‘Detective Inspector Box? I am Monsieur de Bellefort. Our business should not take more than a few moments.’

  Arnold Box had begun to wonder whether the collector of indiscretions was going to make contact with him at all. Nearly two hours had passed since Box had arrived at the reception, during which time he had observed the impressive foreigner attaching himself to various little coteries of guests, and engaging in conversation. The Frenchman spoke excellent English, though with a distinct accent.

  And then, at twenty to eight, De Bellefort had sought him out, made himself known, and suggested that they slip unobtrusively into a deserted writing-room, which was reached by a short passage leading off the grand saloon.

  Box watched the Frenchman as he removed an envelope from the inner pocket of his dress coat. At first sight, he seemed as impressive as his photograph had suggested: a powerful, commanding personality in his mid thirties, with abundant dark hair and deep-set eyes. But tonight, thought Box, there were signs that the man was containing some kind of overweening fear by a massive effort of will. His body seemed to be trembling, and a pulse was beating rapidly at his temple. What ailed the man?

  ‘This envelope, Mr Box,’ said De Bellefort, ‘contains the document which the third party known to both of us wishes to possess. I believe you have something for me in return?’

  Yes, thought Box, I know who you remind me of, my friend. You resemble a man called Peter Sullivan, who stood trembling like that in the living-room of his house in Shoreditch, truculently claiming that he had no idea where his wife was, when all the time he was standing in front of the papered-over cupboard where he’d hidden her murdered body.

  Box, in his turn, removed an envelope from his pocket, and gave it to De Bellefort.

  ‘The third party would like you to check that the contents of that envelope are satisfactory, sir,’ said Box. De Bellefort raised a haughty eyebrow, and then opened the envelope. He glanced briefly at the Treasury cheque, and then put the envelope and its contents into his pocket.

  ‘That is quite in order,’ said De Bellefort. ‘Has the third party ordered you to check the authenticity of the letter that I have just given you?’ There was a sneering condescension in the Frenchman’s voice, and in his choice of the word ‘ordered’, that prompted Box to reply in kind.

  ‘Certainly not, sir. I will hand it to him, unsealed, first thing tomorrow morning. If it’s not the letter in question, then the third party knows that a polite request to Field Marshal Claygate will put him on your tail.’
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  De Bellefort blushed with anger, but said nothing. He turned on his heel and left the room. As Box carefully secured the inside pocket of his suit with a pin, he thought of the trembling arrogance of Peter Sullivan – an arrogance that had led him to the gallows.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ said Maurice Claygate, ‘I’ve been wanting to have a private word with you all day, but I never seemed to get the chance. Come into the gallery with me. We can be private there for a few minutes.’

  She had seen him catch sight of her, and detach himself from his little coterie of friends. They had glanced in her direction, and one of them had whispered something in Maurice’s ear. The others had laughed, but Maurice had waved them away angrily. Whatever could he want with her, on this night, of all nights?

  He led her out of the grand saloon into a quiet, stone-flagged gallery, where portraits of his ancestors hung. The curtains were closed and the room was unlit, but sufficient light filtered in from the brilliantly lighted saloon for them to see each other. Maurice made no attempt to touch her, and they stood awkwardly beneath a great painting of a seventeenth-century Claygate in scarlet uniform and full-bottomed wig. They were both conscious of the babel of voices echoing from the vaulted ceiling of the grand saloon.

  Maurice looked ill at ease, but he was as handsome as ever, with the unconscious allure that had enslaved her when she had first seen him. She was free of his magical attraction, now. She watched him silently, waiting for him to speak. She knew instinctively what he was going to say, and had already rehearsed her reply.

  ‘I say, Beth,’ he began, stammering a little, ‘you don’t mind about Julia, do you? Really mind, I mean? You and I will always be special friends. You never wrote a word to me after you returned to France. I wanted to write, but Mother said it would be unwise. Why didn’t you write? Did you hate me so much?’