The Seven Dials Mystery (12 page)

Uninterested in Lord Caterham's lunches, Bundle had departed again before he had finished speaking. On the way back to London, she tried to piece together things to her satisfaction.

As far as she could see, steel and infant welfare did not go together. One of the two, then, was just padding—presumably the latter. Mrs. Macatta and the Hungarian countess could be ruled out of court. They were camouflage. No, the pivot of the whole thing seemed to be the unattractive Herr Eberhard. He did not seem to be the type of man whom George Lomax would normally invite. Bill had said vaguely that he invented. Then there was the Air Minister, and Sir Oswald Coote, who was steel. Somehow that seemed to hang together.

Since it was useless speculating further, Bundle abandoned the attempt and concentrated on her forthcoming interview with Lady Caterham.

The lady lived in a large gloomy house in one of London's higher-class squares. Inside it smelt of sealing wax, bird seed and slightly decayed flowers. Lady Caterham was a large woman—large in every way. Her proportions were majestic, rather than ample. She had a large beaked nose, wore goldrimmed pince-nez and her upper lip bore just the faintest suspicion of a moustache.

She was somewhat surprised to see her niece, but accorded her a frigid cheek, which Bundle duly kissed.

“This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Eileen,” she observed coldly.

“We've only just got back, Aunt Marcia.”

“I know. How is your father? Much as usual?”

Her tone conveyed disparagement. She had a poor opinion of Alastair Edward Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham. She would have called him, had she known the term, a “poor fish.”

“Father is very well. He's down at Chimneys.”

“Indeed. You know, Eileen, I never approved of the letting of Chimneys. The place is in many ways a historical monument. It should not be cheapened.”

“It must have been wonderful in Uncle Henry's days,” said Bundle with a slight sigh.

“Henry realized his responsibilities,” said Henry's widow.

“Think of the people who stayed there,” went on Bundle ecstatically. “All the principal statesmen of Europe.”

Lady Caterham sighed.

“I can truly say that history has been made there more than once,” she observed. “If only your father—”

She shook her head sadly.

“Politics bore father,” said Bundle, “and yet they are about the most fascinating study there is, I should say. Especially if one knew about them from the inside.”

She made this extravagantly untruthful statement of her feelings without even a blush. Her aunt looked at her with some surprise.

“I am pleased to hear you say so,” she said. “I always imagined, Eileen, that you cared for nothing but this modern pursuit of pleasure.”

“I used to,” said Bundle.

“It is true that you are still very young,” said Lady Caterham thoughtfully. “But with your advantages, and if you were to marry suitably, you might be one of the leading political hostesses of the day.”

Bundle felt slightly alarmed. For a moment she feared that her aunt might produce a suitable husband straightaway.

“But I feel such a fool,” said Bundle. “I mean, I know so little.”

“That can easily be remedied,” said Lady Caterham briskly. “I have any amount of literature I can lend you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Marcia,” said Bundle, and proceeded hastily to her second line of attack.

“I wondered if you knew Mrs. Macatta, Aunt Marcia?”

“Certainly I know her. A most estimable woman with a brilliant brain. I may say that as a general rule I do not hold with women standing for Parliament. They can make their influence felt in a more womanly fashion.” She paused, doubtless to recall the womanly way in which she had forced a reluctant husband into the political arena and the marvellous success which had crowned his and her efforts. “But still, times change. And the work Mrs. Macatta is doing is of truly national importance, and of the utmost value to all women. It is, I think I may say, true womanly work. You must certainly meet Mrs. Macatta.”

Bundle gave a rather dismal sigh.

“She's going to be at a house party at George Lomax's next week. He asked father, who, of course, won't go, but he never thought of asking me. Thinks I'm too much of an idiot, I suppose.”

It occurred to Lady Caterham that her niece was really wonderfully improved. Had she, perhaps, had an unfortunate love affair? An unfortunate love affair, in Lady Caterham's opinion, was so often highly beneficial to young girls. It made them take life seriously.

“I don't suppose George Lomax realizes for a moment that you have—shall we say, grown up? Eileen dear” she said, “I must have a few words with him.”

“He doesn't like me,” said Bundle. “I know he won't ask me.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Caterham. “I shall make a point of it. I knew George Lomax when he was so high.” She indicated a quite impossible height. “He will be only too pleased to do me a favour. And he will be sure to see for himself that it is vitally important that the present-day young girls of our own class should take an intelligent interest in the welfare of their country.”

Bundle nearly said: “Hear, hear,” but checked herself.

“I will find you some literature now,” said Lady Caterham, rising.

She called in a piercing voice: “Miss Connor.”

A very neat secretary with a frightened expression came running. Lady Caterham gave her various directions. Presently Bundle was driving back to Brook Street with an armful of the driest-looking literature imaginable.

Her next proceeding was to ring up Jimmy Thesiger. His first words were full of triumph.

“I've managed it,” he said. “Had a lot of trouble with Bill, though. He'd got it into his thick head that I should be a lamb among wolves. But I made him see sense at last. I've got a lot of thingummybobs now and I'm studying them. You know, blue books and white papers. Deadly dull—but one must do the thing properly. Have you ever heard of the Santa Fé boundary dispute?”

“Never,” said Bundle.

“Well, I'm taking special pains with that. It went on for years and was very complicated. I'm making it my subject. Nowadays one has to specialize.”

“I've got a lot of the same sort of things,” said Bundle. “Aunt Marcia gave them to me.”

“Aunt who?”

“Aunt Marica—Father's sister-in-law. She's very political. In fact, she's going to get me invited to George's party.”

“No? Oh, I say, that will be splendid.” There was a pause and then Jimmy said:

“I say, I don't think we'd better tell Loraine that—eh?”

“Perhaps not.”

“You see, she mayn't like being out of it. And she really must be kept out of it.”

“Yes.”

“I mean you can't let a girl like that run into danger!”

Bundle reflected that Mr. Thesiger was slightly deficient in tact. The prospect of
her
running into danger did not seem to give him any qualms whatever.

“Have you gone away?” asked Jimmy.

“No, I was only thinking.”

“I see. I say, are you going to the inquest tomorrow?”

“Yes, are you?”

“Yes. By the way, it's in the evening papers. But tucked away in a corner. Funny—I should have thought they'd have made rather a splash about it.”

“Yes—so should I.”

“Well,” said Jimmy, “I must be getting on with my task. I've just got to where Bolivia sent us a Note.”

“I suppose I must get on with my little lot,” said Bundle. “Are you going to swot at it all the evening?”

“I think so. Are you?”

“Oh, probably. Good night.”

They were both liars of the most unblushing order. Jimmy Thesiger knew perfectly well that he was taking Loraine Wade out to dinner.

As for Bundle, no sooner had she rung off than she attired herself in various nondescript garments belonging, as a matter of fact, to her maid. And having donned them she sallied out on foot deliberating whether bus or tube would be the best route by which to reach the Seven Dials Club.

Thirteen

T
HE
S
EVEN
D
IALS
C
LUB

B
undle reached 14 Hunstanton Street about six p.m. At that hour, as she rightly judged, the Seven Dials Club was a dead spot. Bundle's aim was a simple one. She intended to get hold of the ex-footman Alfred. She was convinced that once she had got hold of him the rest would be easy. Bundle had a simple autocratic method of dealing with retainers. It seldom failed, and she saw no reason why it should fail now.

The only thing of which she was not certain was how many people inhabited the club premises. Naturally she wished to disclose her presence to as few people as possible.

Whilst she was hesitating as to the best line of attack, the problem was solved for her in a singularly easy fashion. The door of No 14 opened and Alfred himself came out.

“Good afternoon, Alfred,” said Bundle pleasantly.

Alfred jumped.

“Oh! good afternoon, your ladyship. I—I didn't recognize your ladyship just for a moment.”

Paying a tribute in her own mind to her maid's clothing, Bundle proceeded to business.

“I want a few words with you, Alfred. Where shall we go?”

“Well—really, my lady—I don't know—it's not what you might call a nice part round here—I don't know, I'm sure—”

Bundle cut him short.

“Who's in the club?”

“No one at present, my lady.”

“Then we'll go in there.”

Alfred produced a key and opened the door. Bundle passed in. Alfred, troubled and sheepish, followed her. Bundle sat down and looked straight at the uncomfortable Alfred.

“I suppose you know,” she said crisply, “that what you're doing here is dead against the law?”

Alfred shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“It's true as we've been raided twice,” he admitted. “But nothing compromising was found, owing to the neatness of Mr. Mosgorovsky's arrangements.”

“I'm not talking of the gambling only,” said Bundle. There's more than that—probably a great deal more than you know. I'm going to ask you a direct question, Alfred, and I should like the truth, please.
How much were you paid for leaving Chimneys?
”

Alfred looked twice round the cornice as though seeking for inspiration, swallowed three or four times, and then took the inevitable course of a weak will opposed to a strong one.

“It was this way, your ladyship. Mr. Mosgorovsky, he come with a party to visit Chimneys on one of the show days. Mr. Tredwell, he was indisposed like—an ingrowing toenail as a matter of fact—so it fell to me to show the parties over. At the end of the tour Mr. Mosgorovsky, he stays behind the rest, and after giving me something handsome, he falls into conversation.”

“Yes,” said Bundle encouragingly.

“And the long and the short of it was,” said Alfred, with a sudden acceleration of his narrative, “that he offers me a hundred pound down to leave that instant and to look after this here club. He wanted someone as was used to the best families—to give the place a tone, as he put it. And, well, it seemed flying in the face of providence to refuse—let alone that the wages I get here are just three times what they were as second footman.”

“A hundred pounds,” said Bundle. “That's a very large sum, Alfred. Did they say anything about who was to fill your place at Chimneys?”

“I demurred a bit, my lady, about leaving at once. As I pointed out, it wasn't usual and might cause inconvenience. But Mr. Mosgorovsky he knew of a young chap—been in good service and ready to come any minute. So I mentioned his name to Mr. Tredwell and everything was settled pleasant-like.”

Bundle nodded. Her own suspicions had been correct and the
modus operandi
was much as she had thought it to be. She essayed a further inquiry.

“Who is Mr. Mosgorovsky?”

“Gentleman as runs this club. Russian gentleman. A very clever gentleman too.”

Bundle abandoned the getting of information for the moment and proceeded to other matters.

“A hundred pounds is a very large sum of money, Alfred.”

“Larger than I ever handled, my lady,” said Alfred with simple candour.

“Did you ever suspect that there was something wrong?”

“Wrong, my lady?”

“Yes. I'm not talking about the gambling. I mean something far more serious. You don't want to be sent to penal servitude, do you, Alfred?”

“Oh, Lord! my lady, you don't mean it?”

“I was at Scotland Yard the day before yesterday,” said Bundle impressively. “I heard some very curious things. I want you to help me, Alfred, and if you do, well—if things go wrong, I'll put in a good word for you.”

“Anything I can do, I shall be only too pleased, my lady. I mean I would anyway.”

“Well, first,” said Bundle, “I want to go all over this place—from top to bottom.”

Accompanied by a mystified and scared Alfred, she made a very thorough tour of inspection. Nothing struck her eye till she came to the gaming room. There she noticed an inconspicuous door in the corner, and the door was locked.

Alfred explained readily.

“That's used as a getaway, your ladyship. There's a room and a door on to a staircase what comes out in the next street. That's the way the gentry goes when there's a raid.”

“But don't the police know about it?”

“It's a cunning door, you see, my lady. Looks like a cupboard, that's all.”

Bundle felt a rising excitement.

“I must get in there,” she said.

Alfred shook his head.

“You can't, my lady; Mr. Mosgorovsky, he has the key.”

“Well,” said Bundle, “there are other keys.”