A Particular Eye for Villainy: (Inspector Ben Ross 4) (12 page)

Elizabeth Martin Ross

‘IT’S MY opinion,’ I told Ben that evening, when he had summarised his talk with Jonathan Tapley for my benefit, ‘that he and his wife have been very selfish, even cruel. He practically forced his cousin Thomas into exile so that he might continue guardianship of little Flora. How dare he later write to his cousin requesting a letter, certified by a notary public no less, giving Thomas’s consent to the marriage . . . but forbidding the poor man to come to England, give his consent in person and even see his daughter married?’

Indignation at the thought of the injustice done to poor Thomas filled me and I went on energetically, ‘It would not, surely have caused any scandal now if Thomas had turned up? No one was going to remember an event that took place at Oxford forty years ago, or any rumours about his behaviour between then and leaving the country. He had been gone almost ten years!’

‘Jonathan and Maria Tapley weren’t so confident about that,’ Ben said mildly.

‘But he wasn’t Dr Martin,’ Ben interrupted me brusquely. ‘When your papa found himself a widower with a young child, he undertook to bring you up himself. Thomas handed his daughter over to his cousin like a shot. But he’s to be excused. Don’t overlook the difficulty of his position. Dr Martin’s daughter may be well informed and broad minded about sex but most nice young women are brought up lamentably ignorant. Suppose Thomas had been caught up in another scandal. Who would have explained it all to young Flora? Thomas understood the wisdom of going abroad. And don’t assume that you know his motives in returning home. If he wanted so badly to see his child, why did he linger first in Southampton with Mrs Holland, then at Mrs Jameson’s house as a lodger, without contacting Jonathan or trying to contact Flora?’

‘His nerve failed him,’ I suggested. ‘Poor man, the girl doesn’t even know what he looks – looked – like, or I suppose not. Or perhaps Thomas wanted to delay giving his consent?’

He concluded his objections with this bull’s-eye and waited for me to fire off mine at him.

I was ready. ‘He didn’t inform Jonathan because he knew what the reaction would be. The first letter was returned. Jonathan sent other letters afterwards, didn’t he? To anywhere he remembered Thomas ever having lived? Were
all
those letters returned to him? Who is to say one of them didn’t reach Thomas?’

‘Because Thomas appears to have already returned to England,’ was Ben’s prompt answer. ‘We now know that, after visiting the solicitors in Harrogate and fobbing them off with an unfulfilled promise to keep in touch, he returned to Southampton at the other end of the country. Why the hasty departure from Harrogate? Did he fear running into an old acquaintance or two who might remember him? From February to July, he lodged in Southampton. Was he thinking of returning to France? If so, it seems he abandoned the idea, because he came to London, but not with the intention of seeking out his cousin. From July until his death this spring, he lodged quietly with Mrs Jameson. Thomas, in the popular phrase, was lying low.

‘Jonathan started bombarding the Continent with letters around October of last year, after Flora’s nineteenth birthday, when the suitor appeared asking for her hand. But he was wasting his time and letter paper. Tom Tapley was
already here
. No wonder none of the post reached him. He’d flown the coop, returned to England . . . and it wasn’t because he wanted to get in touch with his cousin or his child.’

There was a silence during which Ben took the poker and stirred up the fire. I sat mutinous, having been forced temporarily to concede the upper ground. But I was not completely out of ammunition. I considered that this might be the time to tell Ben about the clown. I should have told him the night Thomas Tapley died, but somehow the incident had slipped my mind while I’d been sitting in Mrs Jameson’s parlour.

‘I do believe this is a more complicated affair than getting permission for a marriage,’ I began. ‘I haven’t told you about the clown.’

‘Clown?’ Ben returned the poker to the companion set and sat back.

‘Yes, the clown Bessie and I saw on the new embankment, entertaining passers-by. That is, he was entertaining them until he stopped to follow Tapley across the bridge.’

Ben groaned and buried his thick mop of black hair in his hands. Looking up, he said hollowly. ‘Dunn called this a shilling shocker. Now you are going to throw in a clown and make it a regular fairground? What is this all about, for pity’s sake?’

I related my story and when I’d finished, Ben was silent for a few minutes before beginning in what I call his ‘reasonable’ voice. ‘I’m sorry you and Bessie met this fellow on the embankment. I know how you feel about clowns. But I really do believe you’re letting your personal experience influence your feelings in this whole business of Thomas Tapley’s murder. It influences your view of Jonathan Tapley and his wife and their actions. It influences your view of Thomas’s motives in returning to England. A fear born of a child’s visit to a circus influences this episode of the clown.’

‘No!’ I protested. ‘I saw—’

‘You
saw
a man, dressed in a garish outfit, with a painted face, juggling on the embankment. The sight frightened you.’ He leaned forward to take my hand. ‘Later you see the same fear-inspiring figure crossing the bridge ahead of you. By your own admission, he pays no attention to you. The interest is directed all from you towards him. As it happens, Thomas has begun to cross the bridge moments earlier, and so is ahead of the clown. To you, in your panic, it seems the clown must be following Thomas . . .’

I opened my mouth in protest but he signalled me to wait until he’d finished.

‘To you, you must understand, the clown is a sinister figure and must have a correspondingly sinister purpose. He cannot, to you, just be a street entertainer with no plan other than to gather enough pennies from generous-minded passers-by to take home to, probably, his wife and children. They have to be fed and the rent for their room paid. He has no other trade. I would suggest, Lizzie dear, that you are ashamed of your irrational fear. Therefore, you seek to justify it. The clown is a villain, he must be. But no, my darling, he isn’t.’

It’s true this tied in very much with my own thoughts as I’d rolled pastry for the pie the evening of the day I’d seen the clown. I’d told myself then that my fear for Thomas Tapley was an extension of my own fear. But I did not like to hear Ben say it with such confidence, not in view of what had happened since. I withdrew my hand from his. ‘Very well,’ I said stiffly. ‘I won’t mention the clown again. But I am entitled to my opinion. Moreover, I was there and you weren’t.’

‘Where are you going?’ I asked curiously.

‘As it happens, I’m going to try to catch Jonathan Tapley at home. I want to interview him on his own ground. I want to meet Mrs Tapley and, especially, I want to meet Miss Flora Tapley. I should like to present my condolences to both. He has a house, by the way, in Bryanston Square, not so very far from your Aunt Parry’s in Marylebone.’

‘They are in mourning,’ I warned. ‘They won’t like you calling, particularly unexpectedly.’

Ben gave a grim smile. ‘Nobody likes the police calling and it is our bad habit to turn up when unexpected. I agree, Jonathan won’t like it at all, but neither will he be surprised. I am a miner’s son and missed out on all the social niceties. I have no scruples about disturbing a gentleman enjoying his after-dinner port and cigar. So far that man has manipulated me very skilfully. Well, it’s time our master of courtroom tricks found himself on the defence.’

‘You don’t like him,’ I said, with a certain triumph creeping into my voice. ‘Any more than I do.’

‘You haven’t met him,’ he reproved me.

‘I don’t need to meet him. I disapprove his actions. Anyway,
you
don’t like him and I am to respect
your
opinion before forming any judgement, it seems.
You
are right about the clown so
you
must be right about Jonathan Tapley.’

There was another silence. ‘I haven’t heard the last of this, have I?’ Ben said with resignation.

‘Lizzie . . .’ he warned. ‘Be careful.’

‘Oh, I won’t upset Superintendent Dunn!’ I promised.

‘Since you will not be home to dine this evening,’ I said to Ben at breakfast, ‘I think I’ll go and call on my Aunt Parry. It’s some time since I saw her. She always complains of being neglected. I’ll go this afternoon. Bessie can come with me and visit her friends below stairs.’

Before coming to work for us, Bessie had been kitchen maid in my aunt’s household.

‘How will you get there?’ he asked, drinking his coffee too fast and getting to his feet.

‘We’ll walk up to the railway station and take a cab at the rank there.’

‘Good, good, give your aunt my warm regards.’ Ben was struggling into his coat as he spoke. ‘I’ll see you later on this evening.’ He grabbed a piece of toast and hurried out of the door.

Bessie was delighted with the prospect of another day out. Accordingly, we set off in the early afternoon. As we walked to the railway station I looked out for Joey, but there was no sign of him. Bessie had been asking up and down the street if he’d appeared at kitchen doors, but no one had seen him. We would have to wait until he returned, as Ben was sure he eventually would.

I could have replied I wasn’t wealthy but, since he had delivered me to a house in a very expensive area and the butler had just opened the door to admit me, he’d only have laughed.

My Aunt Parry never appeared before noon. Her mornings were spent in bed, eating a light breakfast and attending to her correspondence. By one o’clock, however, she was dressed and ready to sit down to a substantial luncheon. When we arrived, at three, she was in her upstairs parlour about to drink tea with her companion.

I had originally come to London to fill that same post. It had led to my meeting Ben again, for the first time since our childhood, so all had turned out well for me. On the other hand, the arrangement had not altogether suited Aunt Parry. I had put her in the annoying position of having to find another companion. She had not been sorry to see me leave. I was too outspoken and my behaviour was considered by her to be outlandish. Despite this, she still insisted I had abandoned her selfishly in order to marry – and marry a policeman at that.

‘Oh, Elizabeth my dear,’ cried Aunt Parry. ‘At last! I had begun to think you had left London and gone back to, where was it? Some place in Derbyshire. Not a word from you. How are you and how is Inspector Ross?’ Before I could answer, she indicated me for the benefit of Miss Bunn and added, ‘This is Mrs Ross, my niece, Laetitia. I have spoken to you of her.’

To be accurate, I wasn’t her niece. She was the widow of my godfather. But we’d settled on ‘aunt’ as a mode of address.

I don’t know what Aunt Parry had told Miss Bunn about me but the poor girl stared at me as if I’d escaped from a menagerie.

‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Bunn,’ I said to her. ‘I hope you are settling in well here?’

‘Oh, yes,’ whispered Miss Bunn, ‘oh, very much so. Mrs Parry is so kind.’

She seemed a mousy female, anxious to please, in dread of being dismissed, and generally in the wretched situation of most companions. I felt sorry for her but there was an army of Miss Bunns out there up and down the country, of respectable family but of no fortune and with no relative left able to take them in. I am critical of Aunt Parry, but I had been in the situation of Miss Bunn when Aunt Parry had invited me to London. At the time I’d been grateful and I told myself now not to forget it.

‘It is very draughty in here,’ announced Aunt Parry. ‘Just ring the bell, Laetitia, so that Simms can bring more tea. And run and fetch my shawl – the light blue cashmere one. Thank you, my dear.’

Miss Bunn jumped to her feet; pulled the bell rope so hard that it was a wonder it didn’t come off, and scurried out to fetch the shawl.

‘Oh, my dear Lizzie,’ confided Aunt Parry as soon as the companion had left. ‘She is driving me quite out of my mind. She plays a wretched game of whist, can’t count, you see, poor child. Muddles her hand all up. She has no conversation. Uneducated, lamentably uneducated. When she reads to me she has to stop before any really long word and think it out. She stammers and puts the stress on the wrong syllables and, well, really it’s painful having to listen. How I miss you, dear Elizabeth, and how I wish you were still here. But, there, you would run off and marry that policeman.’

Fortunately I hadn’t to reply to this speech as Simms, the butler, arrived at that moment and was despatched to bring fresh tea and another cup for me. ‘And perhaps a few scones!’ added Aunt Parry brightly, ignoring the fact that she’d not long eaten luncheon.

‘Are you well, Aunt Parry?’ I asked. ‘Are there any other changes in the household? Is Nugent still with you?’

Nugent was the much-put-upon lady’s maid.

Aunt Parry gave a squeal of dismay at the prospect of being Nugent-less. ‘If I hadn’t Nugent I should really be in a dreadful state. And no, I am not well. I suffer dreadfully with indigestion and the powders don’t help a bit.’

Eating less might help, I thought.

‘Mrs Simms misses that kitchen maid you took with you,’ Aunt Parry continued her litany of complaints. ‘Of course I took on another girl to replace, what-was-her-name, Bessie, yes, Bessie. Another charity girl, but Mrs Simms says she is a very slow learner. But there, you would take Bessie with you when you left. You know, Elizabeth, fond of you as I am, I have to tell you that you played havoc with my household when you went off to get married. You might have given me some consideration. Oh, there you are, Laetitia, whatever kept you so long?’

The next few minutes were spent arranging the blue shawl around Aunt Parry’s plump shoulders and then Simms appeared with the fresh pot of tea and the scones, so it was a little while before conversation resumed. We spoke first about Frank Carterton, Aunt Parry’s genuine nephew, who had entered the Foreign Office and was at present, to her great distress, in Peking with Her Majesty’s newly established Legation there. For years the Chinese had steadfastly refused to allow the British barbarians to have an official representative in Peking. The emperor had eventually been forced to concede to our wishes; although the Chinese still made it clear that the newcomers’ red faces were unwelcome in their capital. For once Aunt Parry had some reason for concern. Typically, however, her first worry was that Frank wouldn’t be eating properly.