The Dorset House Affair Read online

  The Daily News was rather more daring. ‘What, we may ask, was this eligible young man, soon to be married, doing in that house in Soho, in the company of another woman? The late Mr Maurice Claygate had a reputation for a certain wildness, but it beggars belief that a man so soon to be married should prepare for bed in the house of an unknown foreign woman less than a fortnight before his wedding.’

  Surely, thought Box, this scandal will spell the end of Dorset House as a meeting-place for diplomats and couriers? People had a right to ask questions. Was Sophie Lénart something more than an interpreter? There were other possible explanations. And who had killed them both? Did Maurice Claygate and Sophie Lénart know something of such import that it was worth someone’s while to murder them?

  Box picked up another paper, the radical Morning Leader. They had headed their column on the murders THE DORSET HOUSE AFFAIR. Were such centres of privilege, it demanded to know, entirely free of graft and corruption? Was the revered presence of Field Marshal Claygate used as a screen to mask the doing of sordid deals by those who claim the God-given right to be our rulers? Not a nice thing to say; but maybe the Morning Leader had a point.

  Box heard a familiar tread on the stairs leading up to his rooms, and in a moment Sergeant Knollys opened the door. At the same time, the little clock on Box’s mantelpiece struck half past seven. On that particular Saturday, they were not due at the Rents until 8.30.

  ‘Come in, Jack,’ said Box. There’s some tea left in the pot, and a slice of toast. I’ve been looking through the papers. This business is going to be blown up into a big scandal. Did you find anything of interest yesterday at Callaghan’s Cab Yard?’

  ‘I did, sir,’ said Knollys, pouring himself out a cup of tea, and drinking it in one go without milk or sugar. ‘The cab in question had been bought second-hand, and used as a private vehicle. It had no licence plates, of course, and in the broad light of day it wouldn’t have been mistaken for a regular hansom cab. The inside seat was covered in congealed blood.’

  Box paused with his cheroot halfway to his lips.

  ‘Blood? Do you think it was human?’

  ‘Well, sir, I don’t know. One of these days, I suppose, we’ll be able to distinguish animal from human blood. But it was sinister enough, to think of a second-hand cab, complete with horse, abandoned in a side-street, with blood on the seat. Callaghan, who was all smiles once I’d offered to arrest him for obstruction, said that he could find the horse’s owner easily enough, so I left the matter to him. Isn’t there any butter?’

  ‘No. I’ve eaten it. There’s some marmalade there. I saw Superintendent Mackharness when I got back yesterday, Jack,’ Box continued. ‘He wants me to go back to Dorset House this afternoon, and tell Field Marshal Sir John Claygate what we know about his son’s death. I don’t relish the task, but he’s right: the old man deserves some special treatment in the matter.’

  Box got to his feet, and looked out of the window at the back yards of Fleet Street and Fetter Lane. It was a bright, hazy day, promising a spell of fine weather to come.

  ‘I don’t like this business at all, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said. ‘There’s something diabolical about it that I can’t quite fathom. When I go to Dorset House this afternoon, I’m going to ask some questions about that brother and sister – the De Belleforts. They’ve returned to France, so I’ve heard. I wonder what they’ve taken with them that they should have left behind?’

  6

  Two Angry Women

  ‘He was only twenty-six, Inspector Box,’ said Field Marshal Claygate. ‘What enemies could so young a man have made? Murdered? I can hardly believe it.’

  When Box arrived at Dorset House, he saw that all the blinds had been pulled down as the great mansion prepared to become a house of mourning. Both the entrance and the exit to the wide carriage drive giving on to Dorset Gardens were manned by uniformed constables. Only two days previously, it had been a house of rejoicing.

  Field Marshal Sir John Claygate stood in front of the fireplace in the spacious drawing-room of the house. His face was pale and drawn, and his eyes held an expression of mute bewilderment, but his voice was firm. The old soldier was showing the world that, as always in the past, he was unbowed by even the most personal of sorrows.

  ‘Sir,’ said Box, choosing his words carefully, ‘twenty-six is quite old enough for a man to make enemies. I gather that Mr Maurice Claygate was fond of the gaming tables, and that his income was such as to cover easily any losses he might have incurred. Others might not have been so fortunate in the ability to meet their debts of honour. Such men can become very resentful. Debts of that nature, as you will know, are wiped out by the death of the creditor.’

  ‘Then you think that my son was murdered by one of these wretched gamblers?’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir,’ Box replied. ‘I’m just pointing out that a young man of twenty-six can have enemies. He can also, of course, incur the jealousy of rivals in love. I am told that Mr Claygate had a number of lady friends—’

  The old soldier made a movement of impatience, and for a fleeting moment his pale face became flushed with anger.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said testily, ‘he had such friends. Most young men do. What of it? Perhaps this woman – what was her name? – Sophie Lénart – was such a friend. I don’t know. But the fact remains that someone murdered both of them. Never mind my poor boy’s many failings, Inspector, are you going to find out who it was that killed him? My task now is to bury my son on the eve of his marriage. Your task is to bring his killer to the gallows.’

  The old field marshal pulled a bell at the side of the fireplace.

  ‘I understand your need to be frank, Inspector,’ he said, ‘and I take no offence at that. It was very obliging of you to call in person, and give me a first-hand account of what happened to my boy. His mother—’

  He paused abruptly, and glanced for a moment at a portrait hanging above the fireplace. It showed Lady Claygate as a young wife, with a little boy in a sailor suit playing at her feet. Box knew instinctively that the child was Maurice Claygate.

  ‘His mother,’ the field marshal continued, ‘is naturally prostrate with grief. This morning, her sister, Lady Kennedy, called for her, and has taken her to stay in the country for a few days until – until the police return Maurice’s body for burial.’

  Box was conscious of the grandeur of the long drawing-room, with its ornate plaster ceiling, its many priceless paintings ranged along the walls, its crystal chandeliers, and elegant furniture. But the grief and bewilderment felt here differed in no degree from that of the humblest bereaved town labourer or rural cottage dweller. A little verse of poetry came unbidden to his mind, something that he had been taught at school.

  Sceptre and Crown

  Must tumble down,

  And in the dust be equal made

  With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.

  ‘Thomas,’ said the field marshal when the butler arrived in answer to his summons, ‘Detective Inspector Box is leaving now. I believe Major Claygate wished to have a word with him?’

  ‘That is so, sir,’ said the butler. ‘Major and Mrs Claygate are both in the library.’

  ‘Then take the inspector there, will you? Has Monsignor Folliott arrived?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘When he does, bring him up here. That will be all, I think.’

  When Arnold Box entered the sumptuously furnished library of Dorset House, he thought that he was looking directly at a particularly fine Society portrait placed against the far wall, ready for hanging. A husband and wife, standing close together, and framed by a carved wooden arch upholding a gallery, the husband handsome and distinguished, the wife a little younger than he, and strikingly beautiful. Then the figures on the portrait shifted, and Box saw that he was, in fact, looking at Major Edwin Claygate and his wife Sarah.

  ‘Inspector Box? Sit down, won’t you? My wife and I have a few things we’d like to say to you.’ The major’s voice was courteous, but firm: he was a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed. Box did as he was told.

  ‘I’m going to talk about my late brother, Inspector,’ Major Claygate continued, ‘in order to balance the truth with much of the lying fiction that’s appeared in the newspapers. I’ve never read such rot in all my life. Well, here’s the truth. My brother Maurice had more or less lived his own life since he left Cambridge five years ago, when he was twenty-one. He lived here, at Dorset House, but treated the place more or less as a bivouac – a place in which to sleep when the mood took him, or to hide away from his friends.’

  ‘Edwin,’ said Mrs Claygate, ‘you’re just as bad as the papers. Can’t you find something nice to say about Maurice, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Be quiet, Sarah. I’ll say something nice in a minute. Maurice was fond of gaming, but he never owed anyone a penny. He was fond of young women, but as far as I know, none of them was the loser by knowing him. He was generous to a fault. Last year, he formed an attachment to a young lady of good family up in Northumberland, and they were to be married this month. He told me – volunteered the information without any prompting – that he was turning over a new leaf, and that Julia was now the only girl for him. And I believed him, because he wasn’t in the habit of telling me lies – at least, not about things that mattered. So whoever that poor young woman was who was found dead in the same house, she was not a lover. I thought you’d need to be told that, Mr Box.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir,’ said Box. ‘I’ll bear what you say in mind.’

  ‘My husband is right,’ said Mrs Claygate. ‘When Maurice swore to something, he kept his word. He was a very likeable, attractive fellow, but he was no clown, as some of the papers seem to think. Just because a young man’s a bit of
a scapegrace, it doesn’t mean that he’s without honour.’

  Sarah Claygate frowned, and bit her lip.

  ‘There, I sound like a character in a cheap novel. But what I say is true.’

  She glanced at her husband, who had been listening gravely to what she had been saying.

  ‘Edwin,’ she said, ‘go and see how your father is getting on. The funeral furnishers will be here soon, and Monsignor Folliott is due any minute.’

  Major Claygate glanced at his wife, and then at Box, and the inspector saw a dawning recognition in the major’s face that Sarah Claygate wanted to talk to Box alone. Without a word, he left the library, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Now, Inspector Box,’ said Sarah, ‘you and I can talk privately together. You were here last Thursday night, and witnessed the peculiar behaviour of Elizabeth de Bellefort. Since then, her brother has furnished us with an explanation of what prompted her to behave in that way. Let me tell it to you.’

  Box listened as Sarah told him the story of the brave child who had defended her brother against a gang of brigands, and who had been left permanently unhinged by the experience. It sounded very convincing, if only because it was so far-fetched.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ Sarah demanded.

  ‘Well, ma’am, it does explain her behaviour. After all, there was nothing in that empty passage that she was defending so mightily. I wondered at the time whether it had not been some kind of delusion.’

  ‘Very well. But it’s odd, don’t you think, that Miss de Bellefort should have experienced that convenient delusion on the very night that my brother-in-law Maurice disappeared? He left this house – no one knows how or why – and never returned. He was never seen alive again. Coincidence? I don’t believe it.’

  Box looked at the beautiful young lady who stood defiantly in front of him, her head thrown back, her eyes flashing with anger. She was challenging him as an equal. He decided to reply in kind.

  ‘You don’t like Miss de Bellefort, do you, Mrs Claygate?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t. I never have. My poor old father-in-law owed a debt of gratitude to her late father, and this son and daughter, Alain and Elizabeth, played upon that ancient debt for all they were worth. They give themselves airs, you know, claiming to be nobles, when in reality they scratch a living from a broken-down farm in Normandy. When money ran short, they’d apply to the field marshal for assistance, and he’d give it to them—’

  ‘But it was hardly their fault, was it, ma’am, that poor Mr Maurice should fall in love with Miss Elizabeth de Bellefort? That former attachment of his seems to be common knowledge.’

  ‘That poor boy never stood a chance once she’d got her hooks into him. She’s a real beauty, you know, and it wasn’t long before Maurice was eating out of her hand. And then Julia Maltravers appeared on the scene, and Maurice fell in love properly for the first time. That was the end for the predatory Elizabeth – she could say goodbye to the man – and his ten thousand a year.’

  ‘So what you are implying—’

  ‘Jealousy, Mr Box. The green-eyed monster. Elizabeth was all sweetness and light, and everybody admired her mild withdrawal from the fray. But it takes another young woman to see through that kind of thing. Elizabeth de Bellefort had harboured a festering jealousy of Julia Maltravers for a year, and that, mark my words, would have gone hand in hand with a fixed hatred of Maurice. So go away now, Inspector Box, and ponder on those two words that I’ve brought to your attention: jealousy, and coincidence. Put together, they make a lethal combination.’

  Sarah Claygate suddenly laughed.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed this verbal tussle, Mr Box,’ she said. ‘You had the wit to answer my abruptness in kind. But everything I have said is more than just one woman’s spite or prejudice. I’ll be very interested to see how you progress in this case. My husband and I are staying in the house until after poor Maurice’s funeral – whenever that will be. Afterwards, we’ll return to our country house, The Coppice, near Audley End in Essex. Should you need to see us, you’ll find us there.’

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ said Box, ‘you’ve given me some very interesting ideas to think about, and I’ll do just that. I don’t suppose you know where I can find any of the footmen who were on duty at Thursday night’s party?’

  ‘The footmen? They hide away in a place called the footmen’s closet, just beyond the main kitchen. There are six of them, all looking much the same. It’s their training, I suppose.’

  Mrs Claygate crossed the book-lined room to the fireplace, and pulled the bell.

  ‘You’ll never find your way to the kitchen wing without guidance. When Thomas answers the bell, I’ll tell him to take you there.’

  The butler conducted Box along a series of corridors until he reached a green baize-covered door, which he pushed open, and stood back to allow the inspector to precede him into a long passage, the walls of which were covered to shoulder height in white tiles. They passed a number of glazed doors, through which Box could glimpse a series of kitchens and pantries, all lit by skylights. One or two cooks in white aprons were working at the ranges. The smell of roasting beef penetrated into the passage.

  ‘It’s very quiet down here, Mr Thomas,’ said Box. ‘Somehow, I thought there’d be a lot of noise and bustle in the working part of the house.’

  ‘Well, there’s only the family and ourselves to feed today, Mr Box,’ said the butler, smiling. ‘If it was noise and bustle you wanted, you should have come down here on Thursday evening! That door at the end will take you into the footmen’s closet. They’re all off duty at the moment, so you’ve chosen a good time to ask them questions.’

  Thomas was an old, stooping man with abundant snow-white hair. He must have been well over seventy, thought Box, but was evidently still more than capable of supervising a large household.

  ‘Do you have any ideas of your own about what happened to poor Mr Maurice?’ asked Box. The old servant shook his head, and tears sprang to his eyes.

  ‘Don’t ask me anything about it, Mr Box,’ he said. ‘It’s too upsetting. I still can’t believe it. Go through that door at the end of the passage. You’ll find all the footmen there.’

  Despite its name, the footmen’s closet was a spacious room, lit, like the kitchens, by a skylight. The six Dorset House footmen looked up in surprise as he entered their own special sanctum. Two of them, clad in their full scarlet livery, but smoking cigarettes, looked up from newspapers that they were reading, as they leaned against a wall. Another, who had removed his tail coat, and stood in his shirt and breeches blackening a pair of shoes, uttered a cheerful ‘’Afternoon, guvnor!’ The three remaining footmen, all fully dressed, were sitting at a table, drinking coffee. Box caught the look of faint resentment in their faces. Servants, like their masters, were entitled to moments of privacy.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Box, advancing into the room, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Box of Scotland Yard, and I’m investigating the murder of Mr Maurice Claygate. Do you mind if I come in and speak to you for a while?’

  In a moment, the footmen’s wary reception of a stranger had turned to a kind of anxious welcome. He was invited to sit down at the table, and one of the men poured him out a cup of coffee.

  ‘It’s a tragedy, that’s what, Mr Box,’ said one of the men. ‘Mr Maurice was to be married in just over a week’s time, and now he’s dead and gone. He was a lively young man, and the apple of his father’s eye. Maybe he was a bit wild, but so what? He was generous to a fault, as many of us below-stairs can tell you.’

  ‘He certainly was a kind-hearted gentleman,’ said another. ‘When I was took bad with fever last year, and couldn’t work for a month, Mr Maurice gave me five shillings a week in silver to tide me over. I’ll never forget him.’