Hotel du Barry (23 page)

It was late at night when Jim, Henri, Cat and Mary slipped down to the inner recesses of the labyrinth. They switched on their torches and went down some winding stairs that Cat vaguely remembered from when she was a toddler. In the gloom there was no sound except their heels clicking on the bluestone steps. The stairs ended abruptly at a heavy metal grille protecting a narrow doorway. Henri pulled out an old-fashioned circle of keys and unlocked a rusty copper padlock.

Jim flashed his torchlight across the damp walls. ‘See this, Cat? This is where the hotel ends.'

Henri nodded. ‘A section of the Hotel du Barry was built on the site of a magnificent old theatre that was burnt down in an arson attack. Maurie got his builders to install this iron grille rather than filling in the tunnel.'

Cat's eyes were huge in the gloom. ‘So what was this tunnel used for?'

‘It provided passage for actors to move quickly between the two theatres owned and run by an innovative theatre impresario. The other theatre still exists today, a couple of blocks away,' Jim said.

Cat nodded. ‘Do you mean Romanoff's?'

‘Yes.'

Henri pointed at another barricaded door. ‘Back in those days players were sometimes contracted to appear in two plays at the same time. The tunnel allowed them time to finish one scene and then hustle through the tunnel to the other theatre. They'd pop up backstage and dressers would be waiting in the wings with their costumes.'

Jim said, ‘Rooms were built into the sides of the tunnel to store unused props and backdrops. Over the years I've noticed there's been some unauthorised use of the tunnel for . . . recreational purposes.'

Mary gingerly stepped over abandoned prophylactics and a dusty pile of empty Guinness bottles. ‘So it seems.'

Henri flashed his torch at a rodent scuttling past. ‘Recently four actors performing at Romanoff's told me in all seriousness that they've heard ghosts rattling through the tunnel, running up the stairs and appearing backstage.'

Mary winced but fortunately the only thing that seemed to be moving that night were the rats.

Jim added, ‘Danny once told me that when he was a kid, he'd seen ghosts making love in one of the storage rooms. In a dusty prop bed from an old production of
The Canterbury Tales
.'

Cat smiled wistfully. ‘Yep, he used to tell me great ghost stories. Danny said London's theatres are crammed with ghosts. He reckoned actors who'd died often didn't want to give up the limelight and so they refused to leave the theatres where they'd done their best work.'

Led by Henri they went down the tunnel until he stopped at the third door and selected a long thin key. ‘I put Mary's trunk in here.'

Jim knelt down, got two hurricane lamps going and handed one to Henri.

They entered the storeroom and Cat was fascinated by the play of lamplight on the rotting oilskin backdrops hanging against
the brick walls. Paris, Madrid and a lush forest scene were slowly revealed.

Henri held the lamp over a large wooden trunk. Mary unlocked the padlock and opened the trunk. She rummaged around until she found what she wanted. Two worn leather handles were sticking up. ‘That's it.'

Jim reached into the trunk and hauled out a Gladstone bag. Both Mary and Cat shrank away from it.

Jim said firmly, ‘Ladies, I think we need to get a grip on our emotions. It's just a medicine bag, which may or may not be of use. I don't believe in the occult but even I'm willing to trust your fortune teller's feminine intuition.'

Cat said, ‘She's not a fortune teller, she's a witch.'

Jim tried to hide his smirk. ‘I guess that makes all the difference, then.'

Mary poked him in the ribs. ‘Jim, stop being so bloody patronising and get on with it.'

Jim shrugged and flipped open the worn leather straps. He pinched the clamps holding the bag shut and levered it open. Cat leant over Jim's shoulder and stared into the dark recesses of the bag. It smelt musty and she recognised the medicinal odour peculiar to pharmacies. The contents of the bag were intact. All the potions, ointments, bandages, tonics and pills were still safely harnessed in their nooks.

They watched uneasily as Jim released the individual leather bindings and removed some bottles. Taking each one in turn, he sniffed the contents and held the bottles up to the light. Then Jim reached for the ointments and one by one removed their lids, stuck his finger into the jars and stirred the contents. He dumped the empty bag on the floor, groped around the lining and felt the leather casing all over.

‘Everything's in order, there's nothing secreted in the jars or
the bag's lining. Nor does the bag have a false bottom. If there is any mystery it could be the medicines themselves. I think it's worth getting the contents analysed by a professional chemist.'

Cat plucked out a medicine bottle and read the label. ‘What would a chemist look for?'

Jim shook his head. ‘Not sure. But each item is labelled quite legibly, so I'd be asking him to analyse the contents of the bottles to see if the contents match the labels. I have a few ideas but don't want to voice them prematurely.'

Cat's hand shook as she replaced the bottle. ‘We'll leave it with you then, Jim.'

Jim put everything back, snapped the bag shut and rebuckled the straps. ‘And folks, this is crucial – tell no one about this bag. No one.'

Jules knocked boldly on Cat's studio door. He entered when she called out, ‘Come in.'

Cat was sitting at an easel, hands black with charcoal. She hastily covered her drawing. Jules kissed her full on the mouth. ‘What are you hiding?'

‘Nothing, it's just a portrait.'

He held his ground. ‘Show me.'

Cat reluctantly pulled back the drawing paper and Jules was eyeball to eyeball with a virile young man. The lad was buck naked, posed heroically with muscles flexed. Jules noticed he was supremely fit and extremely well endowed.

He took a step backwards. ‘Dylan O'Shea. Are you dating him now?'

‘No. He's one of my life models. He was posing for a bronze memorial sculpture commission but unfortunately he's been transferred to our Brighton hotel.'

‘Why this geezer?'

Cat frowned. ‘When I asked you to pose naked for me, you refused. So I had to ask around.'

‘So does he take a kip in your bed when he's plum tuckered out from all the flexing and posturing?'

‘Don't be so childish. If you keep carrying on like this you can shove off.'

Jules tried not to stare at Dylan's physique. Perhaps she'd exaggerated the size of his cock? Either that or the bastard really was hung like a donkey. ‘Cat, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a bit jealous.'

She studied him thoughtfully. ‘Do you find me even remotely attractive?'

‘You know I do. I think you're stunning. Absolutely gorgeous.'

‘Then why haven't you made any attempt to bed me?'

‘Because I adore you.'

She wiped her hands on a rag. ‘So, what you're saying is that you only fuck girls you don't give a damn about. You adore me but you'd rather make sandwiches with Victoria and Becky.'

Jules reeled backwards. ‘How did you find out?'

She shrugged. ‘This is a hotel. There are no secrets.'

Jules tried to catch her eye but she refused to look at him. He stammered, ‘I was tanked on whiskey and when the girls suggested we have ourselves a private party upstairs I couldn't resist. It only happened once.'

‘I find that hard to believe. I've read that having sex with two extremely nubile girls at the same time is a common fantasy. Casanova liked nothing better than seducing two women at the same time. Usually after gorging on aphrodisiac oysters and a trough of gin punch.'

‘Cat, please don't.'

She still refused to look at him and gazed fixedly out the window. ‘You know, I've got a very clear picture in my mind of the acrobatics involved. One into two is rife with comedic possibilities.'

‘Stop.'

‘I was stunned when I was told you'd fucked them both during a party. On a pile of guests' coats. Classy. The whole hotel is gossiping about it. Don't you give a shite about how I feel?'

‘Of course I do. Look, I fancied them rotten at the time but I could never feel about them the way I feel about you. I was drunk and randy, but I want you to know I used a prophylactic. Or three. I'd never risk getting anyone pregnant.'

Cat rolled her eyes but said nothing.

‘Babe, I'm dying here. What can I do to make it up to you? Name it and it's yours. Anything.'

She appeared to be lost in thought. The silence was killing him; he wished she'd yell or scream. He was losing her.

Cat moved closer and studied him carefully through narrowed eyes. ‘Don't
babe
me. If you're truly sorry you can make amends by making love to me. The same way you make love to all the girls you claim you don't give a damn about.'

Jules stepped backwards. ‘No. Don't ask me to do that. I can't.'

She laughed but it was cold and mirthless. ‘Really? I'm sure you could manage it. A man like you – who has been spreading himself around like marmalade – must know a thing or two about women.'

Jules fiddled with his watch. ‘I've never made love to a virgin. Ever. It's foreign territory and I'm nervous as hell. What happens if I can't get it up? I'd sooner die than disappoint you.'

‘I see. Well, this is how it works. I don't want to remain a virgin. I'm curious. I want to know what it feels like. I'd prefer the first time to be with someone I really like. However, at this point in time I'm also thinking I should review my options.'

‘You can't be serious.'

‘Why not? I've had more sexual offers than I can decently manage. Venetian men adore women. And they're not squeamish about virgins. But unlike you, I prefer one-on-one intimacy with
someone I know and care about. Playing the whore doesn't appeal to me.'

‘You're really angry with me, aren't you?'

‘You have twenty-four hours to think it over. And now I've got work to do.'

She kissed him passionately on the mouth and then primly resumed work on the charcoal portrait. As he watched, she enlarged Dylan's cock with a few rapid strokes. A muscle in Jules's jaw tightened. Cat raised an eyebrow at him and glanced at the door.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Cat tossed aside the charcoal and smiled dreamily as she walked through to her kitchenette.

Matthew Lamb was still lounging at the kitchen table reading a back issue of
Tatler
. He looked bored. Cat rearranged his limbs and he perked up. ‘Well, Mr Lamb, I took your advice and exerted a little pressure. He's positively seething with jealousy. I think I've got him reeling on the ropes. What do you think?'

Matthew Lamb remained silent but his sapphire eyes glittered with wicked intent.

The next day Cat received a visit from Jules. She was painting a life-size portrait of Michael and crying as she cut into the canvas to create his moveable limbs. Cat had already finished a hinged, life-size portrait of Daniel but she kept it well hidden from the staff.
They'll think I've lost my mind if they see three handsome men in tuxedos; lounging around my apartment, flexing their hinged limbs and sucking down German Schnapps.

When Cat heard a knock on her door, she hastily covered up Michael's portrait and wiped away her tears.

Jules refused to come into the studio and stood awkwardly in the doorway. ‘If you're still determined to lose your virginity, then I'll
take you to Paris for the weekend. I want to show you around my old haunts. Make it as special as possible.'

She smiled straight into his eyes. ‘The answer is yes.'

‘Fine. I thought we could leave on Friday, see the opera on Saturday night and come back Sunday. We'll stay at the Hôtel de Crillon. My treat.'

Cat frowned. ‘Can you afford it? I'd be just as happy to stay in a
pension,
visit the Louvre and drink rough red in Montmartre.'

‘I've lived and worked in Paris most of my life. I can call in a few favours. Don't worry, consider it sorted.'

She hugged him. ‘Paris it is, then.'

Jules kissed her and set off down the corridor. She couldn't help but notice he was strutting like James Cagney.

Cat closed her door.
Paris. Synchronicity. An alignment of desires. I can have another go at meeting that woman. Even if I fail, I'll be spending the weekend with the only man I've ever wanted. Naked in the Hôtel de Crillon bedsheets. The bliss of it all. I've been dying to spend some time alone with Jules away from prying eyes. I'd better get organised. This is going to require some major preparation. And new lingerie.

It was after hours and Jim was hosting a meeting in the labyrinth. Cat, Mary and Bertha sat waiting in his private office. Henri was still upstairs dealing with the latest crisis. Jim checked the corridor before closing the door and the women exchanged nervous glances. He grabbed a bottle and poured everyone a whiskey. Mary downed hers in two gulps and Jim refilled her glass.

He opened his safe and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘The Toxicology Report is very interesting. It's technical so I got Doc Ahearn to analyse it. You're welcome to read it but if it suits, I can tell you what Doc concluded. Yes? All right, it's this – the medicines in Daniel's bag do not match their labels.'

Bertha sipped her whiskey. ‘Why would Daniel have bothered with placebos?'

Jim passed her the report. ‘There were no placebos. The bottles contain the medicines as labelled but they also contain significant traces of additional elements. There are subtle traces of lead and arsenic, but not enough to cause death. Doc's real concern, however, is the levels of antimony potassium tartrate present in both the medicine and tonic bottles.'