Snobbery With Violence Part 3

"That will be all," said Harry. "Now, Lady Glensheil..."

She opened an enormous reticule and after much fumbling produced the brigadier's card and handed it to Harry.

I may be discreet, thought Harry, but the brigadier most certainly is not.

"And what do you want me to do?"

"I am being blackmailed," said Lady Glensheil. She began to cry. Harry rang the bell again and ordered brandy. He waited patiently while Lady Glensheil's tears washed a copious amount of white lead make-up and rouge onto a delicate handkerchief. He took out a large one of his own and handed it to her.

She began to recover and even drank some brandy.

"It's all too, too terrible," she said and then regaled Harry with the story of the blackmailing artist.

"I see," said Harry when she had finished. "I suppose the first thing to do is to get the letters back."

Wild hope shone in her eyes. "You could do that?"

"I will most certainly try. I will do my best to make sure he never troubles you again."

"Oh, thank you!" Again the reticule was snapped open. This time she produced a roll of banknotes and handed them to him.

"I thought it would be more discreet to pay you in cash."

Harry hesitated. It was one thing to take cash from the earl, another to take cash from a lady in distress. But the money would set him up very comfortably He could even rent a carriage. A proportion could go to charity to ease his conscience. "Thank you," he said. "Would you like a receipt?"

"No, please, nothing in writing. No one must hear of this."

"No one will hear a word from me. I do not go around in society much."

"I do not know why. You must come to one of my soirees."

"Too kind. But a lot of my lack of a social life is of my own choosing. Please leave this matter with me and you shall hear from me shortly. Please write down this artist, Freddy Hecker's, address."

Again the reticule was snapped open and a small notebook with a silver pencil attached produced from its depths. Lady Glensheil wrote down an address, tore off the page and handed it to him.

She rose to go. "Do you have your carriage?" asked the captain.

"Of course not. I came in a hansom."

"Then Becket will find you one to take you home. Ah, how do I contact you? You will not want me to call at your town house in case your husband is there."

"GlensheiPs in Scotland. Wait, my card. Call on me as soon as you have anything." While she ferreted for her card-case, the captain rang the bell and asked Becket to fetch a cab.

Soon her majestic figure, once more veiled, had departed and there was only the faint scent of patchouli in the room and a large roll of banknotes as a reminder of her visit.

THREE.

When leaving town, it is usual to send round cards to all your friends with the letters P.P.C (pour prendre conge) (pour prendre conge) written in the corner. This obviates the necessity of formal leavetakings. written in the corner. This obviates the necessity of formal leavetakings.

-FLORA KLICKMAN, HOW TO BEHAVE HOW TO BEHAVE.

The earl's well-sprung carriage bore them off to the country. It was a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. The striped blinds and awnings on the shops and houses gave the city they were leaving behind a festive air.

Rose sat in a corner of the carriage, trying to read, trying to escape from the feeling that as much as she had been tricked by Sir Geoffrey, she was as much to blame for her disgrace.

If only she had cultivated the friendship of the other debutantes, she thought again, she might have picked up useful gossip about the season in general and Sir Geoffrey in particular.

The fact was she had armoured herself in learning to combat her shy nature. She had felt her superior education had given her the edge over those other silly girls. And yet she was the one being banished from London in disgrace.

She also felt a slow burning resentment for Captain Harry Cathcart. There was no need for him to have produced such dramatic evidence to overset her. If he had not interfered, then Geoffrey would have propositioned her and her eyes would have been opened to what kind of man he really was.

If she and the captain ever crossed paths again, she hoped she could think up some way to humiliate him.

The morning after Lady GlensheiFs visit, Harry strolled along the King's Road and found a pub opposite to where the artist, Freddy Hecker, had his studio. Most of the windows were of frosted gla.s.s, but one which had been smashed recently had been replaced by plain gla.s.s.

He bought a half pint of ale and positioned himself at a table at the window and began to watch.

After an hour, a maid opened the door and handed a man his hat and stick. That must be Freddy, thought Harry.

He waited until the artist had strolled off down the road and then left the pub and went across and knocked on the door.

The maid, who was buxom and pretty, answered his knock.

"Hecker in?" asked the captain languidly.

"I am afraid the master is out, sir."

"When are you expecting him back?"

"In about an hour, sir."

"Good, I'll wait."

The maid hesitated. "Would you not like to leave your card, sir, and come back later?"

"No, my good girl, I would not. The wretched man is supposed to be painting my portrait." He loomed over her and she nervously stood aside. "Where is the studio?"

"Upstairs, sir, but-"

"I'll find my own way."

Harry went up a narrow staircase. A door on the landing was open, revealing the studio, a vast room made up of two storeys that had been knocked into one.

"May I bring you some refreshment, sir?" said the maid's voice behind him.

"Nothing, I thank you. Run along. I must figure out which is my best side."

He closed the door behind her and began to look around. Now where would the wretched man have hidden the letters?

As he searched around behind easels propped against the wall and through boxes of materials which the artists used as back-cloths, Harry realized that this was where he worked but not where he lived.

He opened the door and went down the stairs again. The maid was waiting at the bottom.

"I've made a frightful mistake. I was supposed to call at old Freddy's home to make the arrangements. He'll be waiting there for me. Lost the address. Give it to me."

"It's at Twenty-two, Pont Street, sir. May I have your card?"

"Listen, I don't want Freddy to know I was such a chump. Don't tell him I called here first."

Harry produced a sovereign and held it up. "Promise?"

The maid took the sovereign and bobbed a curtsy. "Oh, certainly, sir. Most grateful, my lord," she added, elevating him to the peerage.

Harry hailed a hansom cab in the King's Road and directed the cabby to Pont Street. He took out a half hunter and checked the time. If Freddy had gone to his home and if he had meant that he really would be back in his studio in an hour's time, he should be leaving fairly shortly.

He strolled from Pont Street to a news vendor's kiosk and bought a copy of a newspaper. He strolled back to Pont Street, occasionally stopping to look at the paper as if he had just noticed a fascinating item. At last he was rewarded with the sight of the young artist he recognized as Freddy leaving his house. He certainly was a very handsome young man, with thick curly fair hair and a cherubic face.

The captain waited until the artist had disappeared down Pont Street. He went up to the door and rang the bell. An imposing manservant opened the door to him. Freddy must be doing well, thought Harry. The tyranny of visiting cards. He wished he had thought to have some fake ones printed.

The butler inclined his head as Harry cheerfully presented his own card and said he had just met Mr. Hecker in Pont Street and Mr. Hecker had told him to wait for him.

He was led upstairs to a drawing-room on the first floor. Harry refused refreshment and said he would sit and read his paper. When the butler had left, he looked around. The furniture and ornaments were expensive. Harry wondered for the first time if Lady Glensheil was the only victim of the artist's blackmailing.

There was no desk in the drawing-room. He reflected that if there was a study it would possibly be on the ground floor.

He cautiously eased out of the drawing-room and stood on the landing. The house was silent. He went quietly and swiftly down the stairs and listened again. A murmur of voices came up from the bas.e.m.e.nt. He opened doors until he found a study and went over to the desk by the window. He opened drawer after drawer. The bottom left-hand drawer was locked.

He took out a st.u.r.dy Swiss knife and selecting the tool designed for taking stones out of horses' hooves, prised the drawer open. There were bundles of letters. He took them all out, deciding not to risk looking through them in case he was caught. Harry looked around for something to carry them in and finally put them all in a wastepaper basket, then went out to the street door and, after lifting his visiting card from the tray in the hall, let himself out.

When he had reached the safety of his own home, he went through the letters and put them into neat piles on his desk. Apart from the ones from Lady Glensheil, there were letters from six other members of society.

He wrote down the six names and asked Becket to find him their addresses, and when his manservant returned with the information, he set out. First he called on Lady Glensheil, who cried this time with grat.i.tude, and then he tracked down the six others, making sure each time to see them on their own and without their husbands. It seemed unfair that the six should get his services for nothing whereas Lady Glensheil had to pay, but he was afraid that if he asked for money, they would a.s.sume he was a blackmailer as well.

When he returned to his home in the evening, it was to find a furious artist on his doorstep. Hecker's manservant had remembered Harry's name. "I am bringing the police into this," shouted Hecker. "You broke into my desk and stole my property."

"I must say you have a b.l.o.o.d.y nerve," said the captain. "Let's both go to Scotland Yard, now. Of course it will come out that you are a blackmailer and you will be ruined."

Hecker's bl.u.s.ter left him. "No need for that. But I warn you-"

"No, I will warn you. you. All the money you blackmailed out of these ladies must be discreetly returned, every penny. In a few days' time, I will check to see if you have done so. It would give me great pleasure to ruin you, but in doing so I would ruin your victims' reputations as well." He leaned forward on the doorstep and smiled into Hecker's face. "If you do not do what I say, I will shoot you." All the money you blackmailed out of these ladies must be discreetly returned, every penny. In a few days' time, I will check to see if you have done so. It would give me great pleasure to ruin you, but in doing so I would ruin your victims' reputations as well." He leaned forward on the doorstep and smiled into Hecker's face. "If you do not do what I say, I will shoot you."

"You can't do that!" Hecker turned pale. "This is England." "Marvellous country, isn't it? Now, stop fouling my doorstep and make a noise like a hoop and bowl off." Harry put his hand on the artist's face and shoved and sent Hecker flying down the steps to land on the pavement.

Harry let himself in with his key. He doubted that he would hear from Hecker again.

High summer spread across the English countryside. Society moved out to Biarritz and Deauville, returning in August for grouse shooting in Scotland. Lady Rose read, walked through the countryside, and sometimes thought she might die from boredom and loneliness.

As August moved into September, the earl received a visit from Baron Dryfield, who owned one of the neighbouring estates. The little earl was glad to receive him. Because of Rose's disgrace, he felt ostracized from local society. The baron was a huge jovial man, a great favourite of King Edward's.

"I need to talk to you privately," said the baron. Lady Polly, who was in the drawing-room with her husband, rose to her feet and left the room.

"What is it?" asked the earl, alarmed. "What is it that my wife can't hear?"

"You will shortly hear from the palace that His Majesty is going to favour you with a visit in September."

"But that's wonderful news. It means the scandal is buried. Great expense, of course."

"Well, the bad news is there's a buzz at court that our king wants to try his luck with Rose. She's become a sort of challenge, see. They call her The Ice Queen."

"What am I to do?" wailed the earl. "How can I protect Rose? If he asks, say, to go for a walk with her, I can hardly refuse."

"Bless me, I don't know. But thought I'd warn you."

Captain Harry Cathcart had been busy all summer. Word had got around, and in a society rife with scandal, his services were in demand. There was nothing very dramatic, mostly petty business which could be solved with shrewd advice, but his bank balance was getting fat and he now had a carriage and pair.

He found to his surprise that he was also much in demand socially. His taciturn manner, d.a.m.ned before as boring, was now considered Byronic. But he accepted few invitations. His experiences in the war seemed to have left a dark, sour patch inside him.

One morning he received an urgent telegram from the Earl of Hadshire, asking him to travel to the earl's home, Stacey Court, as soon as possible.

The captain packed a suitcase and set out with his man, Becket. They took a hack to Paddington Station and the Great Western Railway train to Oxford, planning to take the local train at Oxford, which would bear them on to Stacey Magna, the nearest station to the earl's home, where they would be met.

Harry was unusual in that he had bought first-cla.s.s train tickets for himself and Becket. Normally the master travelled first cla.s.s and the servant in the third-cla.s.s carriages at the back of the train.

Half-way to Oxford, Becket fell gently asleep and Harry studied his servant's face. After his discharge from the army, Harry had taken to walking around the streets of London to exercise his injured leg. One morning early he had been in Covent Garden market, watching the porters carry in great baskets of vegetables when one of them collapsed and sent the contents of the basket of potatoes he had been carrying spilling across the cobbles.

"Bleedin' milksop," jeered one porter. "Leave him lie, Bert. Ain't nuthin' but a shyster."

Harry had picked Becket up and supported him into a nearby pub and had bought him a brandy. Then, realizing by the man's emaciated form that he was starving, had ordered him breakfast. Becket had fallen on the food, shovelling it desperately into his mouth.

"I've been hungry like that," thought Harry with compa.s.sion, a picture of lying under the hot sun on the African veld swimming into his mind.

When the man had finished eating, Harry questioned him. Becket, too, had been a soldier, and having left the army, found it hard to get work. He had a thin, sensitive white face, straight brown hair combed severely back, pale grey eyes and a thin mouth. He said he'd been in the army since he was a boy but would offer no further clue to his background.

On impulse, Harry explained that he, too, had recently returned from the wars and was on a small budget, but if Becket liked to follow him home, he would find work for him.

And so Becket had fallen into the role of manservant. He could read and write and studied books on how to be the perfect gentleman's gentleman. He only spoke when spoken to, never complained, even when his wages were late.

As Harry did not like people asking him questions, particularly about the Boer War, he respected his servant's reticence.

Although Becket was expected to eat the same food as his master, he was still thin and pale, but apart from that seemed healthy and strong enough.

Harry, resplendent in new morning dress and silk hat, arrived finally at Stacey Magna, to be met by the earPs coachman and two footmen who bore them off in a well-sprung carriage to Stacey Court.