Читать книгу The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 46

TWENTY-NINE

Edward Deravenel was not easily rattled. In fact, he was almost always composed, in control. This afternoon, as he walked at a measured pace down the corridor to John Summers’s office, he was perfectly at ease with himself and with the world. And he had a good idea why he had been sent for by Summers. There was news.

When he arrived at the door of Summers’s office he knocked and walked straight in; he was not at all startled to see Inspector Laidlaw sitting there with Rob Aspen. He had expected him to be there.

‘Hello, Inspector,’ he said, and looked across at the two other men. ‘Afternoon, Summers, Aspen.’

They both responded, and John said, ‘Come and join us. ‘We’re waiting for Oliveri so we can begin.’

At this very moment Alfredo knocked and walked in, looking somewhat harassed. ‘Afternoon, everyone,’ he said in an offhand, rather casual way, and took a chair next to Edward.

Inspector Laidlaw pushed his chair back a little, so that the other four men in the room were in his line of vision. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’m here to tell you that I don’t have very much news to give you. We have done a very intensive investigation into Aubrey Masters’s death, and we’ve come up empty-handed.’

‘What exactly does that mean, Inspector?’ John Summers asked, steepling his fingers, a habit of his, and frowning at the detective, looking displeased.

‘There are no suspects. We don’t believe anyone gave him digitalis, because there seems to be no reason anyone would want to kill him. He led a plain life, somewhat humdrum, in fact. It was a dull marriage, his wife is a bit reclusive, but there were no other women.’

‘But did he have a heart condition?’ Rob Aspen asked, ‘and did you manage to trace Dr Springer?’

‘He did not have a heart condition, nor was he prescribed digitalis because he didn’t need it,’ the inspector explained. ‘We did find Dr Springer, and he turned out to be a psychiatrist, one who is a follower of Dr Freud. He could throw a little light on Mr Masters’s life in general, although he did show us the medical files pertaining to Mr Masters. He explained that Masters was concerned with his lack of sexuality, worried that this problem was affecting his relationship with his wife. Apparently he firmly believed that she felt neglected.’

The inspector paused, then added, ‘Dr Springer was analysing him.’

‘So did he die of an overdose of digitalis or not?’ Alfredo now asked, a trifle impatiently. He was in a hurry, wanted this meeting to come to a conclusion so he could talk to Edward Deravenel privately.

‘Yes, he did,’ the inspector confirmed quietly.

‘There was an inquest this morning, wasn’t there?’ Edward said, as he stared at the Scotland Yard man.

‘Indeed there was, Mr Deravenel, and the coroner brought in a verdict of accidental death.’ Laidlaw paused for a moment, then finished, ‘In my opinion there could be no other verdict than this. My sergeant and I believe that Masters accidentally poisoned himself with his vegetarian mix of seeds and pods, the stuff he ate, and apparently had eaten for years. It could have built up, the toxicity. The medical examiner thinks that anyway.’

‘Didn’t you examine his vegetarian mix at his home?’ Edward gave the detective another hard stare.

‘We did indeed, but there was nothing much there, and certainly there was no digitalis in the mixture we did find. You see, the idea was to buy everything fresh several times a week, at least so Mrs Masters told us.’

‘And where did he buy the mix?’ John Summers thought to ask.

‘That’s the problem: we don’t know,’ Laidlaw answered, and added, ‘His wife told us he brought the mixture home with him in a plain, unmarked brown paper bag, so we have no idea what store he bought it at. I told you, we’ve come up empty-handed, I’m afraid. Case closed, gentlemen. There was no crime, in our opinion.’

‘Thank you very much, Inspector Laidlaw,’ Edward said courteously, immediately rising, walking over to the detective, shaking his hand. ‘I, we, appreciate everything you’ve done to solve this, and I suppose it will always remain a mystery, won’t it.’

‘That’s right, sir, it will,’ Laidlaw answered, and took his leave of them.

Edward followed the detective, walked him down the corridor, as he had in the past, heading in the direction of the grand staircase. When they reached it, Edward turned to Laidlaw and said, ‘Inspector, if you ever need anything, need help, whatever it is, please come to me. You’ve been most diligent, and very courteous. Deravenels and I appreciate everything you’ve done.’

‘Very little it seems to me, sir, and thank you for your kind offer. I’m sorry, too, Mr Deravenel, that we haven’t been able to solve the attack on you. It wasn’t for the want of trying.’

‘Another mystery,’ Edward murmured, offering him a warm and genial smile.

A moment later, alone in his office, Edward reached for the phone on his desk and picked up the receiver. Then he instantly replaced it. Why make a telephone call to Neville now? It wasn’t necessary. The newspaper boys would soon be out on the streets, touting the latest afternoon editions and screaming the headlines. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, he decided, and waited for Oliveri to come into his office.

He arrived within two minutes.

Seating himself in the chair, Alfredo gave Edward a long questioning stare and said, ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think the inspector is a damned fine policeman who has found absolutely no evidence of murder.’

‘Do you think Aubrey Masters committed suicide?’

‘I’m not sure, to be truthful. He might have killed himself, but let’s take the coroner’s verdict as the gospel truth, shall we?’

‘But naturally, old chap,’ Alfredo said, poker-faced. ‘However, between you and me, I’ve found enough evidence to have had him hung, drawn and quartered if he’d been alive. He was definitely skimming, and Jack Beaufield and James Cliff were in on it with him. And others on the job locally.’

Edward grinned. ‘So we’ve got the two who are still alive by the cojones, have we?’

‘Oh yes, indeed, we surely do. It’s taken a bit of digging, if you’ll excuse the unintended pun, by Aspen and Christopher Green but we now have even more evidence required to get those two out. I can’t wait to tell Neville Watkins.’

Vicky Forth had the hansom cab take her to Whitechapel; once they arrived at the High Street she alighted, reminding the driver that he was to wait for her.

Hurrying away from the horse-drawn cab, she made her way through several mean, bleak little streets until she arrived at the reclaimed old building now named Haddon House. She knocked on the door and waited, looking up at the darkening sky. A storm threatened and it was beginning to drizzle.

The door was opened within seconds, and the young woman standing on the threshold smiled when she saw Vicky. ‘Mrs Forth, how nice to see you again, and so soon! Fenella is in her office, do please come in.’ She opened the door wider and ushered Vicky inside.

After hanging Vicky’s top coat in the hall cupboard, the young woman said, ‘Come along, I’ll take you to her office.’

‘Thanks, Dora, but I do think I know the way by now,’ Vicky replied, laughing.

Fenella Fayne jumped up when she saw Vicky in the doorway of her office and immediately came around the desk, greeted her old friend affectionately.

‘Let’s sit over there by the fire,’ Fenella suggested. ‘It’s turned chilly today, and it’s damp as well.’

‘It’s not very nice out,’ Vicky murmured, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs which Fenella had pulled up to the grate. Clearing her throat, she said, ‘I’d like to get straight to the point, Fenella. I’ve made up my mind. I do want to come and work with you here.’

Fenella’s face lit up, and she exclaimed, ‘Oh, Vicky! I’m thrilled. And I can truly make use of you.’

‘That suits me fine,’ Vicky answered, and continued, ‘I know you’re overworked. I can give you two full days every week. Would you like me Tuesday and Wednesday? Or Wednesday and Thursday?’

Without even having to think twice, Fenella replied, ‘Tuesday and Wednesday is so much better, Tuesday being closer to the previous weekend. We get quite a few injured women coming in for help on Mondays and Tuesdays.’ Fenella shook her head sadly. ‘You see, Vicky, their men have been in the public houses for most of the weekend, and the women get knocked about when the men get home from the pubs.’ Fenella grimaced and continued, ‘Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid, some of these women. Black eyes, broken bones.’

‘I do have a few nursing skills,’ Vicky reminded her friend, ‘and you said the other day you needed someone who would make stews, soups, that kind of fare. I’m quite a good cook actually.’ She smiled. ‘But I’ll do anything you want, even scrub floors. I just feel I must help in some way. There’s such poverty here in the East End.’

‘Vicky, there’s so much you can do, even taking on some of my paperwork would be a godsend. Now, I would just like to mention there are a few little rules. If I may explain them to you?’

‘Yes, of course, please do.’

‘You won’t be called Mrs Forth once you start working with us, but Mrs Vicky. It makes the women feel more at ease, not using a surname, and actually they don’t even want to call you by your first name either. They also feel awkward about that, think it’s too familiar. So I devised a compromise. The same thing goes for titles…I’m not Lady Fayne or Lady Fenella to them but Mrs Fenella, and Dora is not Lady Dora but Miss Dora. Two other rules. Their husbands can visit them if the women are here for a few days. But they must be absolutely sober and they must remain on the ground floor. Finally, we never press the ladies too hard, if they don’t want to discuss how they were injured. They are extremely protective of their men, you see. Oh, one other point. Sometimes they bring a small child with them, and we let the child stay here until the mother is well again. And I think that’s about it.’

‘I understand everything, and I’ll certainly do the best I can. My heart will be in it, Fenella, I can assure you of that.’

‘I know that, my dear, and I can only say thank you from the bottom of my heart for volunteering in this way. You are a sight for sore eyes. How’s Lily? I haven’t seen her lately.’

‘She’s very well, Fenella, and she did ask me to give you her love.’

‘Thank you, and mine to her. She’s such a wonderful person. Only last week I received several bundles of clothes from her, all of them useful. They can be remade, simplified. I just sent her a note thanking her.’ Fenella suddenly stood up, and continued, ‘When will you be able to start helping us, Vicky darling?’

‘I’ll be here next Tuesday morning, if that’s all right?’

‘It is, and by the way, always remember to book yourself a hansom cab to pick you up in the late afternoon. They are very scarce, hard to find around here.’

A few minutes later as she walked back to the hansom cab waiting for her near the High Street, Vicky thought about her friend.

Fenella was the widow of Lord Jeremy Fayne who had been killed in a hunting accident several years before. She was now twenty-seven, and had once told Vicky that helping the needy and downtrodden women in the East End had helped to assuage her grief to a certain extent, given her a purpose in life. Although she had worked at Haddon House, a charity founded by her aunt, Fenella had been somewhat reclusive in her widowhood until very recently. For the past nine months she had been socializing once more, living in two entirely different worlds. Vicky admired her, admired Fenella’s fortitude, strength and generosity of spirit. She was going to do her best for Haddon House.

Edward sat in a comfortable chair in the Smoking Room at White’s, waiting for Neville to come. Johnny, Will and he had arrived twenty minutes earlier, but the other two had decided to ‘knock a few balls around the table’, as Johnny put it, and they had gone into the Billiards Room.

Nursing a whisky and soda Edward drifted with his thoughts, mostly thinking of Deravenels and the detailed plans for the takeover. Everything was coming together.

Occasionally he caught a wisp of conversation from other men in the room, and he smiled inwardly. Men could gossip just as easily as women.

The three men who sat at the table next to him, smoking cigars and relaxing after a day at business, were talking quite loudly. He cocked his ear for a moment.

‘The King’s going to Biarritz, dragging dray loads of servants with him, of course,’ one of the men said.

‘And Mrs Keppel, no doubt,’ said another.

There were a few titters, and then the third fellow exclaimed, ‘Heard what Churchill said recently? That Mrs Keppel should be appointed First Lady of the Bed Chamber.’

All three men laughed and even Edward was amused, had to stifle a chuckle. The King and his long-standing mistress were often the butt of jokes.

Another voice piped up, ‘Northcliffe’s Daily Mail is really backing Balfour and his government.’

‘Balfour won’t last.’

‘The Tories have to stay in power.’

‘Couldn’t agree more, old chap. By the way, I’m thinking of buying an electric car.’

‘Good Lord, that’s brave of you.’

‘Oh, they’re perfectly safe.’

‘Purchasing one of Mr Ford’s models, are you?’

‘I’m not yet sure, old chap. Two English engineers, Mr Rolls and Mr Royce, are bringing out their own model. I might just wait for that.’

‘Stick with British-made, that’s my opinion. That’s what it’s all about, you know. Got to keep the Empire flourishing. We’re the greatest country in the world, don’t you know?’

‘I’ll drink to that, Montague.’7

‘Kipling has another book out. Amazing the way these chaps keep turning out masterpieces—Galsworthy, too, has a new hit. And George Bernard Shaw is putting on yet another play.’

‘Prolific, that’s the only word for those writer chaps.’

Edward cut off the chatter at the next table, and fell down into his own thoughts, reminding himself that he had promised his Little Fish another book by Rudyard Kipling. He must order it tomorrow. And Lily’s birthday was coming up. He wanted to buy her a beautiful piece of jewellery; he wasn’t sure how to do this, unless he borrowed from his mother. Money. He needed it badly—

All conversation suddenly stopped, the room went totally quiet. Edward glanced at the door and smiled to himself. Neville was standing there, looking for all the world like the reigning monarch of all he surveyed. Elegantly dressed as always, and supremely self-confident, he strode into the room with panache, nodding to the different men who greeted him. He had arrived with a flourish, had caused quite a stir.

Edward rose and clasped his cousin’s hand as Neville drew to a standstill at the table.

‘Where are the others?’ he asked, sitting down.

Edward, also sitting, explained, ‘They went to have a game of billiards.’

Neville nodded, motioned to the waiter, ordered the same as Edward, then settled back in the chair. ‘Would you care for a cigar?’

‘No thanks,’ Edward replied, and went on, ‘Inspector Laidlaw came to see us at Deravenels today.’ He gave Neville a sharp look.

‘I assumed he would. The coroner’s verdict is in all of the afternoon papers,’ Neville answered. ‘Accidental death, so I read.’

Their eyes locked and there was a moment’s silence.

Finally, it was Edward who murmured in a low voice, ‘Yes, that’s what Inspector Laidlaw told us. He said no crime had been committed, also pointed out that there was no reason for Aubrey Masters to commit suicide, at least as far as he had been able to ascertain. The inspector characterized the man’s life as humdrum, a plain life.’

Neville nodded, pursed his lips, looked thoughtful. ‘The money he stole from Deravenels has to be somewhere, Ned. In his bank account, I presume, which is now his wife’s bank account. Unless he had another woman in his life, or made other arrangements. It could well be hidden.’

‘Laidlaw made a point of saying there were no other women around—well, to the best of his knowledge. But that doesn’t mean Mildred Masters has it. He might have opened an account with another bank, which she has no inkling of,’ Edward suggested.

‘Perhaps. In that case, the money is most probably lost, Ned, unless he left instructions with the bank. Or in his will. Regarding the disposal of his wealth. I doubt Deravenels will ever see a penny. If only we had some documentation about his personal finances—’ Neville broke off, shaking his head. ‘Impossible.’

‘I agree, I don’t suppose we’ll ever get our hands on that,’ Ned muttered, irritated at the thought.

‘You may well be right,’ Neville agreed. ‘C’est dommage.’

Neville picked up his whisky and soda, which had arrived a moment or two before. ‘Good health, Ned.’

Edward lifted his glass, brought it to touch his cousin’s. ‘Good health,’ he repeated.

‘Where would you like to dine tonight?’ Neville now asked, wanting to change the subject, not wishing to discuss Masters any further at the moment.

‘Wherever you wish,’ Edward answered. ‘The Savoy? Rules?’

‘Ah, here come Johnny and Will! Let’s ask them about their preference.’

Margot Grant stared at John Summers and cried, ‘Accidental death! This verdict is a travesty! Aubrey was murdered. I know he was…in my heart I know it. Oh, mon dieu, it is a travesty.’

‘Margot darling, please calm down. Inspector Laidlaw came to see me today and explained everything. Scotland Yard did a very thorough investigation, and they are absolutely certain no crime was committed.’

‘Nonsense! I know he was murdered. They did it! They killed him.’

John leaned back on the sofa, his eyes on hers. She sat behind the desk in the panelled library of her house in Upper Grosvenor Street, and as usual looked impossibly beautiful, sexually inviting. And imperious. Also somewhat outraged at this moment. When she was angry her voice grew shrill and her French accent became more pronounced, and he always wanted to flee for safety.

Taking a deep breath, John said, ‘There is no evidence that the Deravenels did anything. Laidlaw agrees with the coroner’s verdict that this was an unfortunate accident. You know as well as I do that Aubrey Masters had the weirdest eating habits. I am certain he ingested digitalis by accident.’

‘I do not believe this.’

‘If it was not an accident then it must have been intentional, suicide,’ John suggested, his voice even and steady, reflecting his unruffled demeanour.

‘Suicide. Bah, he wouldn’t do that! Non, non, jamais.’

John remained silent, thinking of the discrepancies he had recently discovered in the accounts which pertained to the mining division. As yet he couldn’t quite fathom out what Masters had been up to, and who else might be involved. If there was a problem, that is. He decided not to mention this new and troubling development to Margot. She was far too volatile tonight, and he had no intention of inflaming her further.

Suddenly the door opened and Henry Grant stood on the threshold, wearing an old blue velvet dressing gown and slippers and looking rumpled. There was a vacant expression on his face and in his eyes a lost look.

‘Ah, Margot, there you are,’ Henry began and shuffled into the room, a man old beyond his years.

At once, Margot stood up, went across the floor and took hold of his arm. ‘Come, Henry, sit down, John is here, he came to visit you.’

Henry turned. A gentle smile spread across his face when he saw his cousin. He shuffled forward, offering his hand.

Immediately, John was on his feet, shaking Henry’s hand, smiling, affecting a look of pleasure. But inside he was troubled and dismayed. More than ever, the head of Deravenels seemed more like a doddering old fool than a captain of industry. He must be kept out of sight. That was imperative.

‘Good evening, Henry,’ John said, and led the other man over to the sofa. They sat down together, and John went on, ‘How’re you feeling this evening? A little better, I hope.’

‘Oh yes. I was waiting for Father O’Donovan, but perhaps he is late. Mmmmm. Ah well, never mind. And how is your father? Haven’t seen him lately.’

Before John could respond, Margot said, ‘Now John, Henry, shall we have a coupe? A little champagne will be good, no? A healthy drink, my grandmother told me.’ Without waiting for an answer she rang the bell on her desk.

‘That will be nice,’ John responded at last.

Henry said nothing, had lapsed into silence on the other end of the sofa, his eyes already closed. He was drifting with his pious dreams.

The butler appeared in the doorway. ‘Can I be of service, madame?’

‘Oui, Turnbull. Champagne please.’

He inclined his head and left.

Margot moved towards her husband. ‘Henry, Henry, are you tired? Are you sleeping?’ She bent over him, solicitous.

Henry Grant roused himself and sat up straighter. ‘Tired, yes, I think I shall go back to my room.’

‘I will help you,’ she murmured in a kindly tone.

‘No, no, John will accompany me.’ He turned to his cousin in a helpless way, and then smiled faintly. ‘Please.’

‘Of course, Henry,’ John replied at once and took hold of the older man’s arm, led him out of the library.

Margot stood in the middle of the floor, fulminating inside. Men. They were impossible. Henry was a pious, ineffectual idiot; John Summers was a fool. He believed the words of this stupid policeman Laidlaw, believed the coroner’s verdict. She was right. She knew it. The Deravenels had murdered Aubrey Masters, and they were getting away with it.

At this moment John came back into the room, followed by Turnbull with the silver bucket of champagne on a silver salver, and crystal flutes.

Within seconds they were both toasting each other with the sparkling wine, and went to sit together on the sofa. Margot made a tremendous effort to curb her anger, and said more softly, with a light smile, ‘And did Henry have secrets to confide in you, John darling?’

He shook his head and answered swiftly, frowning. ‘He wanted to talk about Edouard. He says he wants me to take him down to Eton to visit his son.’ John eyed her carefully, through appraising eyes, always curious when he mentioned the boy who might be his father’s bastard, his half-brother. ‘What do you think of that?’

‘It’s a splendid idea,’ she answered, not in the least put out. ‘He has not displayed much interest in Edouard lately. Will you do it?’

‘Naturally. But you will accompany us, won’t you?’ Not waiting for an answer he leaned into her, kissed her full on the mouth. ‘It will be unbearable if you don’t,’ he added.

‘I shall come with you. And my life is unbearable without you. I need to see you alone, chéri, be with you.’ She dropped her voice. ‘I need to be with you in your bed, in your arms. Ah, John, my life is empty, miserable without you…’

Placing his glass of champagne on a side table, he then did the same with hers. Drawing closer, he pulled her into his arms, began to kiss her passionately. She responded with an ardour that more than matched his, and then suddenly pulled away. Against his cheek, she whispered, ‘It is not safe here. Let’s go out. Now. Take me to your house…please. Please.’

He did as she begged, longing for her just as much as she longed for him. Within minutes they were in his carriage driving across town.