The Dorset House Affair Read online

  ‘Were you all on duty at Mr Maurice’s birthday party on Thursday?’ asked Box. ‘Did any of you notice another footman on duty that night? A stranger to you, I mean? You see, I was there myself, keeping an eye on things, and I saw a footman approach Mr Maurice and hand him a note. I only had a glimpse of him from behind, but I recognized him. I don’t want to say too much, but I know for a fact that he’s not a real footman. In fact, he’s a regular villain on a small scale. Rather swarthy, he is, with a slight birthmark on his forehead. An older man than any of you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right! I saw him,’ said another of the men, ‘and you did too, didn’t you, Bob? I wondered who he was, because Mr Thomas hadn’t asked for any hired help that day. So he was a villain, was he? Fancy that!’

  ‘How come he was dressed in the Dorset House livery?’ asked Box.

  ‘Well, there are a few spare sets of coats and breeches in that cupboard over there,’ said the man called Bob. ‘When extra hands are needed, they can choose a livery from there. I expect that’s what your man with the note did, Mr Box. It was pandemonium in here, and in the kitchens, for the whole of Thursday evening. Nobody would have noticed.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Box. ‘You’ve been a great help. I only saw the back of the man’s head on Thursday. Did any of you get a decent look at him?’

  ‘You did, didn’t you, Arthur?’ said Bob. ‘You mentioned him particularly as I remember.’

  ‘I did,’ said the man called Arthur. ‘I noticed him in particular, because I thought he was too old to be a footman. He was a foreign-looking chap, as you say, Mr Box – swarthy, and nearly bald, but he wasn’t a real foreigner, if you get my meaning. He spoke proper English, right enough. He may have had a birthmark, but I didn’t notice it in particular.’

  So, thought Box, Harry the Greek’s involved in this Dorset House business. Well, Harry, Jack Knollys and I will call on you soon for a little chat. Harry the Greek was one of Pinky Wiseman’s crowd, and they always worked together. Hire one, hire all. What had the others been up to?

  As Box left the footmen’s closet, he found Thomas, the butler, waiting in the passage. He held a silver tray, upon which reposed a visiting card.

  ‘Mr Box,’ he said, ‘a gentleman friend of the late Mr Maurice has called, in order to offer his condolences to the Field Marshal. When he heard that you were on the premises, he told me to bring you his card. He is at present in the library, and if you would care to follow me, I will take you to him.’

  Box looked at the card, and read the name printed on it: Mr Edward Morton.

  ‘Yes, I would like to meet this Mr Morton,’ said Box, and followed the old butler out of the kitchen quarters.

  As soon as Box entered the library, a fair-haired giant of a man rose from a chair near the fireplace. He had evidently been paging through a sporting magazine, which he threw down on a table, approaching the inspector with outstretched hand.

  ‘Inspector Box?’ said Teddy Morton. ‘Pleased to meet you. This is a sad business. Maurice Claygate and I were at school together, you know, and I was by way of being a close friend of his. So having him murdered like this is rather a tall order, don’t you know.’

  ‘It is indeed, sir,’ said Box. ‘Can I assume that it is in connection with poor Mr Claygate’s murder that you wish to consult me?’

  ‘What? Yes, though “consult” is rather a formal kind of word for just wanting to talk to you for a minute or two. I want to tell you about something that happened earlier this month – well, it was on the Sunday morning, the second, to be exact. Moggie – Maurice Claygate – had spent all Saturday night at the Cockade Club, in Pall Mall. He was a little under the weather when the time came for him to leave, and I saw him home to Dorset House in a cab.’

  The young man paused for a moment, as though to order his recollections, and then continued his story.

  ‘At about eleven o’clock the next morning, I called here to see how Moggie was getting on. We sat in his dressing-room, drinking coffee, and it was then that he told me about some friends that he’d made. I don’t know who they were, and he wouldn’t tell me, but it was from these friends that he apparently discovered something disreputable about that fellow De Bellefort. He’d been in Paris the week before, and it was there that these people he’d fallen in with gave him what he called “immediate proof” of De Bellefort’s perfidy.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, sir,’ said Box. ‘Did he give you any idea at all as to who these people were? You say he mentioned Paris. Did he refer to any other city on the Continent?’

  ‘No, Inspector. It was all very vague, but I thought you should be told. Of course, you don’t want to hear my opinion—’

  ‘Oh, but I do, sir. After all, you were Mr Claygate’s friend.’

  ‘Well, I think he’d fallen in with a bad lot, probably a group of card sharpers, or one of those extortion gangs that hang around the casinos. They may have been setting him against De Bellefort, because the Frenchman had unpaid debts. That’s just a guess.’

  ‘Was Mr Maurice Claygate in financial trouble?’

  ‘Decidedly not, Inspector! Moggie was a wealthy man in his own right. But he was a chap who very easily fell for hard-luck stories. He was generous, you know, by nature. I just have an uncomfortable feeling that these so-called “friends” of his in Paris had recruited him as someone they could use to make De Bellefort pay up.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Box, ‘I’m very grateful for what you’ve told me, and I’ll bear your suggestions in mind. Like you, I don’t much like the sound of these friends of the late Mr Claygate. You can be quite sure, Mr Morton, that as I conduct my investigation, I’ll be thinking about those mysterious friends of his.’

  As Arnold Box entered the vestibule of 2 King James’s Rents, the duty sergeant stepped out of the narrow reception room near the front door. An elderly, heavily bearded man who walked with a limp, he regarded Box through a pair of wire reading-spectacles perched near the end of his nose.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘there’s a young lady come to see you. She’s been here nearly half an hour. I settled her in your office, seeing as how she was in mourning.’

  ‘Did she give you a name, Pat?’

  ‘Maltravers, sir. Miss Julia Maltravers. She said that she was the fiancée of the late Mr Maurice Claygate.’

  The sergeant walked back into the reception room, and Box pushed open the swing doors of his office. A tall, fair-haired young woman rose to greet him. She was dressed in full deep mourning, but she had thrown the long veil back from her face. Box saw a young woman in her twenties, with pleasingly regular features, a determined chin, and alert blue eyes that showed both grief and anger. When she spoke, her voice was firm and clear: it was the voice of someone with a mission.

  ‘Inspector Box,’ said Julia Maltravers, ‘the man who would have been my brother-in-law, Major Edwin Claygate, told me yesterday that you were the detective engaged on the investigation of my fiancé’s murder. Is that true?’

  ‘It is, miss. Of course, I know who you are, and I’d like to offer you my sincere condolences—’

  ‘No!’ The young woman waved Box’s words fiercely aside. ‘It’s very kind of you, but condolences are in the same category as wreaths, and mourning bands, and all the other appurtenances of a decent death. When the police have released Maurice’s body for burial, there will be a great to-do, but I won’t be there.’

  ‘Well, Miss Maltravers, I can understand that funerals can be very upsetting—’

  ‘I shan’t be there, Mr Box,’ Julia interrupted, ‘because I shall be in France, visiting that woman who would regard me as her deadly rival – the woman who, I’m told, made a vulgar fuss at Maurice’s birthday celebration. I intend—’

  ‘Sit down, Miss Maltravers,’ said Box, and he ensured that his tone was that of a man who intended to be obeyed. He drew a sheet of paper towards him, and picked up a sharpened pencil. ‘When you have recollected yourself, miss,’ he continued, ‘I will be ready to hear what you have to say.’

  Julia Maltravers had the grace to blush. She sat down at the table, and looked at Box as though she were seeing him for the first time.

  ‘If you think that I have been rude, then I am sorry,’ she said. ‘But you don’t know how difficult it can be for a woman, Mr Box, when all her ideas are dismissed with well-meaning but ill-conceived objections. Well, I am not the type of person to take that kind of thing lying down. As for Maurice – well, I am not a gullible woman, and I had no illusions that I would be able to redeem him from his little follies.’

  ‘Follies, miss?’

  ‘Yes. You know quite well what I mean. He would always have been a gambler, and no doubt he would have made a few half-hearted efforts to reform himself before abandoning the idea. But one thing I do know to be true: when he swore to me that he would give up all these other women with whom he amused himself, he would do so. I know that his words were true, and that’s why I will fight anyone who wishes to sully his memory by innuendo.’

  ‘Well, Miss Maltravers,’ said Box, ‘I can respect you for that. And I want you to know that not everybody speaks ill of the late Mr Maurice Claygate.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. If ever you feel disposed to investigate my late fiancé’s character further, you can call on me at my apartment in Canning House, Park Lane.’

  She opened her reticule, and produced a calling-card, which she handed to Box.

  ‘I think you said that you intend to pay a visit to Miss de Bellefort in Normandy,’ said Box. ‘Do you think that’s a wise proceeding? I doubt very much that she will want to see you.’

  Julia Maltravers laughed, and for a moment Box glimpsed the attractive, natural girl beneath the angry avenger.

  ‘T
hat’s where you’re quite wrong, Inspector Box! A woman will always be curious to see the “other woman”, the one who supplanted her in her lover’s affections. Oh, yes, she will see me, all right. And when she does, I will make her tell me the true reason for her strange behaviour at the party. Her brother spun a romantic tale to explain that. Sarah Claygate told me about it. But I’ve never put much faith in fairy-tales.’

  ‘If you do find out anything relevant to my enquiries,’ said Box, ‘will you share that information with me?’

  ‘Most assuredly,’ said Julia. ‘I’m not such a fool as to think that I can equal the police in the matter of a murder investigation. But I want to confront Elizabeth de Bellefort, and induce her to tell me her story.’

  ‘I wish you well,’ said Box, ‘but I must warn you that Miss de Bellefort’s brother would prove a formidable adversary if you were to upset his sister in any way. He is devoted to her. I’m not at liberty to talk about Mr Alain de Bellefort, but I can tell you that he is a dangerous man. So take care.’

  Julia Maltravers rose from her chair, and offered Box her hand.

  ‘You have been very kind and patient, Mr Box,’ she said, ‘and once again I apologize if I seemed deliberately rude. I intend to leave England this coming Monday. When I return, I will let you know what I have discovered.’

  Box watched his visitor crossing the cobbles towards Whitehall Place. She carried herself proudly, and there was purpose in her walk. Miss Julia Maltravers was someone to be reckoned with.

  There were people who seemed to like Maurice Claygate very much – his fiercely loyal fiancée, of course, but also those footmen at Dorset House. Gambler and philanderer, he had practised covert charity to a servant who had been unable to work through illness. No doubt there had been others. There was evidently a mystery about the dead man which he had not yet solved – some quality that he had very successfully hidden under an habitual disguise of dissipation. Maurice Claygate was an enigma….

  The elderly sergeant came out of the Rents and joined Box on the steps.

  ‘Did you notice, sir,’ he said, ‘that she must have been measured for that mourning outfit? She couldn’t have been fitted in time to wear it for poor young Mr Claygate. That girl is already in mourning for someone else.’

  ‘That was very perceptive of you, Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Box. ‘I’d not realized that, but you’re right. I’ll make it my business to find out more about that young lady.’

  The two policemen turned, and re-entered the musty vestibule of 2 King James’s Rents. As the sergeant opened the door of the little reception room, Box made a request.

  ‘Pat, do you still see Sergeant Petrie of “G”? He’s still at King’s Cross Road, isn’t he? I’d like you to ask him where Harry the Greek’s holed up at the moment. He’ll know, won’t he? Harry Stamfordis. He’s involved in this Dorset House business, but I can’t quite fathom how.’

  ‘Harry the Greek, sir? He’s one of Pinky Wiseman’s folk, isn’t he? Yes, sir, I’ll see Alec Petrie at the club tonight, and ask him where Harry’s hiding himself these days. He’ll know.’

  7

  The Conspirators of Metz

  Arnold Box stood on the triangular island in Piccadilly Circus, and made use of a few moments of leisure to look around him. Drawn up at the kerb was one of the neat little omnibuses that would carry you from here to Baker Street Station for a penny. Monday, the tenth, had turned out to be a mild, sunny day, and the two patient omnibus horses looked as though they, too, were enjoying the gentle sunshine.

  To Box’s right was the rather sombre building of the Criterion Theatre, and in front of him he could see the brand-new Shaftesbury memorial fountain, with its statue of Eros. Rather daring, some folk thought. Perhaps a nice figure of Lord Shaftesbury would have been better.

  The elegant classical façade of the London Pavilion rose up to Box’s left, its busy restaurant occupying the ground floor. Earlier that morning, a respectable workman had accosted him in Aberdeen Lane, and asked him to call upon a Mr Cadbury in the cashier’s department of the London Pavilion at ten o’clock. He had known immediately what that summons had meant.

  He would enter the theatre, where someone called Mr Cadbury would recognize him, and conduct him to the man who had summoned him there. He would be waiting to talk to Box, and they would greet each other with a familiar verbal ritual. The outcome of their interview would be some kind of enlightenment with respect to a current problem, and perhaps an invitation to Box to put himself into danger of some sort.

  Box crossed the road, and entered the dim vestibule of the celebrated theatre. A smart man in a black suit and wing collar hurried out from a room near to the ticket office, and smiled a greeting.

  ‘Mr Cadbury?’

  ‘The same, Mr Box,’ said the smart man. ‘Would you like to follow me?’

  Cadbury led Box up two steep flights of stairs, and on to a chilly landing. He pointed to a door directly facing them.

  ‘You’ll find him in there, Mr Box,’ said Cadbury. ‘Don’t knock, just go in.’

  Mr Cadbury hurried away down the stairs, and Box entered the room.

  Yes; there he was, sitting at a table in the window, looking out at the busy traffic crossing Piccadilly Circus into Coventry Street, on its way to Leicester Square. A slight, sandy-haired man in his late forties or early fifties, with a mild face and an almost apologetic air, he was dressed very formally in a morning coat, complemented by a white waistcoat and dark silk cravat. A tall silk hat, in which he had deposited a pair of black suede gloves, stood on the table beside an ebony walking-cane. The man spoke, and the well-known ritual began.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Box.’

  ‘Good morning, Colonel Kershaw. So it’s like that, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Box, it’s like that.’ His voice, as always on these occasions, held a tone of sardonic weariness.

  This would be the fifth time, Box mused, that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw, RA, Knight Commander of the Bath, had begun the process of luring him away from his police work at Scotland Yard and into the perilous subtleties of secret intelligence. Colonel Kershaw was one of the powers behind the Throne. He was rightly feared by his enemies, but it was perhaps more significant that he was feared, too, by his friends.

  ‘Will you smoke a cigar with me, Mr Box?’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Kershaw offered Box his cigar case. Three slim cigars reposed in the case, and beside them a tightly rolled spill of paper secured neatly with twine. Box took a cigar, and with it the spill of paper, which he placed without comment in his pocket. He knew what it was, and there was no call for either man to comment on it.

  ‘When we concluded that business of Dr Franz Kessler* at the end of July, Box,’ said Kershaw, ‘I little thought that I’d be luring you away from your daily round so soon. But that, apparently, is what Fate has decreed. I saw Sir Charles Napier last night, and he told me, among other things, that you had been called in to investigate the murders of Sophie Lénart and Maurice Claygate. Have you discovered anything about Sophie Lénart?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have been told that she was a young lady of modest means, who earned a living as a commercial interpreter. She came originally from Paris, but had lived in England for a number of years. She was fluent in all the commercial languages – English, French, German and Spanish.’

  Colonel Kershaw drew thoughtfully on his cigar, and threw Box an amused smile.

  ‘Very interesting, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘and I don’t suppose for one moment that you have accepted that information as the whole truth. Now let me tell you what I know about Sophie Lénart. She was one of the most successful – and therefore most dangerous – of the coterie of international spies who make London their centre of operations. I am not talking now of the kind of fanatics that you and I have fought in the past. Sophie, and those like her, work only for themselves, owing no allegiance to any particular country or ideology. But then, you suspected all that about Sophie Lénart, didn’t you?’

  ‘I just wondered, sir, and now that you’ve told me that she was a spy, I’m not surprised. What saddens me, though, is that it proves that young Maurice Claygate was also a spy. I’m sorry about that, though when I saw he had been preparing to stay the night in Sophie Lénart’s house, I suspected as much. I’ve been to see his father, and have spoken at length to the surviving son and his wife, among others. Young Mr Claygate may have been a scapegrace and a gambler, but there are quite a few people, I think, who are ready to defend his memory.’