Hotel du Barry (29 page)

The blonde had paused to fish around in her handbag for her automobile keys and swig from the bottle. Then she took off in a sleek white sports car, gripping the wine bottle firmly between her slender thighs. Edwina hit top gear even before she'd reached the end of the crowded street. She swerved around two terrified schoolchildren crossing the road, narrowly missed a woman wheeling a pram and disappeared around the corner on two wheels.

Back at the Jacques Deville Restaurant, diners excitedly resumed their meals.

Conversation was at fever pitch but Lady Bird-Powell could still be heard. ‘Well, I never – that was the Hotel du Barry widow!'

Jacques Deville winced, he was besotted with Edwina du Barry. No doubt her indiscretion would be smeared all over London within the hour. Jacques hated the idea of her ladyship dining out on the scandal for days at Edwina's expense. Just look at her, bustling off home so she could get on the phone and spread the gossip. Jacques discreetly signalled his waiters and pointed upwards.

Two grinning waiters ran up the stairs and burst into the private dining room. Thomas was still gazing in stupefaction at the lobster in his lap. One of the waiters wiped the smile from his face and enquired in commiserative tones, ‘I say, are you all right, Sir?'

In the silence of his loss and humiliation, the Botticelli of Shoes couldn't think of a thing to say.

Edwina sat in Celeste's darkened parlour. She couldn't believe how sinister the room looked. Shadows flickered on the walls and a huge fireplace resembling the Devil's inferno blazed and crackled. The air was thick with frankincense. Cobwebs hung from iron candelabra and bronze devils cast grisly shadows on the walls. The table was covered in a red velvet cloth that spoke of nefarious activities involving liquid substances: blood, wine and possibly semen. Edwina took a sly peek at the wine label, fortunately it was drinkable. A one-eyed parrot watched the proceedings from a rickety perch hanging over the table. He kept his remaining eye focused unblinkingly on her glittering diamond earrings.

Edwina sat on the edge of her chair, trying to conceal her excitement as she felt an old chop bone rolling underfoot. She didn't dare look. Perhaps it was a human remain? The place was filthy; it was like languishing in a Petri dish of streptococci. Even the air was stagnant.

Celeste poured the wine, then opened a heavy wooden chest and produced a pack of Tarot cards. She fixed Edwina with her penetrating gaze. ‘Your question?'

‘What will become of me? Will I ever find true love?'

Celeste placed the Significator card on the table. ‘Let's see. First I need you to shuffle the cards and cut the deck three times.'

Keeping the cards facing downwards, Celeste then selected the first Tarot card and said, ‘This covers her,' and laid it on top of the first card. Turning over the cards in turn, she set them down on the table in a pattern, murmuring, ‘This crosses her . . . this crowns her . . . this is beneath her . . . this is behind her . . . this is before her.'

As Edwina watched, Celeste placed the next four cards in a vertical line alongside the others. Celeste concentrated on the tenth card and a shadow crossed her face. Silence. Edwina sipped the wine. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘We shall do it again.
What will come
is aberrant.'

Edwina glanced at the Tarot cards. They resembled medieval woodcuts and reminded her of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale illustrations she'd feared as a child. None of the displayed Tarot cards were particularly cheering. In one a burning tower was exploding while two people were screaming in agony as they fell to their deaths. In another card Death was depicted as a horseman. He carried no visible weapon but a king, child and maiden were prostrating themselves before him. Then there was a ghastly card depicting three swords piercing a plump heart in the middle of a storm.

Edwina raised an ironic eyebrow at the card depicting two ragged beggars scurrying through falling snow with miserable blank faces. She lingered over a card showing a fair-haired woman sitting bolt upright in bed in the depth of night. Her head was bowed and she covered her face with her hands. Hovering above the woman's head were nine menacing swords. Edwina gazed at the misery, shame, death and desolation depicted on the cards and regretted asking for a Tarot reading. Communing with the dead using a Ouija board had been much more entertaining.

The parrot screeched. What a beastly bird. Edwina moved her chair back in case he defecated on her head. ‘Well, Celeste?'

‘The oracle can't be right. It's a full moon and there have been strange portents. A group of bats flew past screeching, silhouetted against the moon. Always a bad omen. I won't charge you for this session. Perhaps all will be well later in the week. I'm sure –'

Edwina lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Oh, for fuck's sake. Tell me what you divined and let's not mince matters.'

Celeste poured more wine before answering. ‘You must bear in mind that the future is mutable. Even if the cards were right, they only tell you what is most likely to happen.'

‘Celeste, stop pussy-footing around!'

‘I saw discord, ruin, chaos and death caused by cupidity, envy, desire and jealousy.'

Edwina forced a laugh. ‘Oh, really. Any other horrors lying in wait for me?'

Celeste shuddered. ‘Mental alienation, loss and duplicity. Sometimes events move beyond our control and the wrong cards are revealed. Pay no attention, Mrs du Barry. Let me do you a complimentary palm reading.'

Edwina shrugged. ‘Why not? It might be more amusing.'

Later that night, when the clock struck three, Edwina awoke with a start. She rubbed her eyes and tried to expel the residual fear of her nightmares. She'd dreamt she was the fair-haired woman in the Nine of Swords Tarot card. Edwina now understood the woman's feeling of utter desolation and despair.

She turned on the bedside light, poured herself a large brandy and with shaking hands lit a cigarette. Edwina moved to the balcony window and stood there smoking. Below, two shadowy figures traipsed the deserted street. They glanced up and she saw their faces by the light of the moon. They were the homeless couple who lived in the alley behind the hotel. The man leant on a broken
crutch and the woman hunched over, hugging her tattered overcoat around her skeletal body. They glanced at Edwina with disinterest and she read the misery and ruin in their ravaged faces. A dog barked, a siren wailed and soon they were lost to the shadows.

Edwina staggered to the bathroom and ran cold water into the basin. She immersed her face and washed her hands. She still felt unclean, so she washed her hands again and again with carbolic soap until they were almost raw. Then she picked up a razor, extracted the blade and carefully cut into her flesh. She'd done this so often that she was able to safely lacerate just the surface layers of her skin. The sight of her own blood soothed her. She existed. Edwina drank more brandy, washed off the blood, crawled under the bedclothes and lay awake until the sky lightened.

It was a crisp, sunny Saturday afternoon but Cat felt she'd entered the devil's domain. As the cab drove down Bethnal Green Road she saw people hanging around aimlessly and winos propped up against derelict shopfronts. The cab driver, unable to move further, pulled to a stop.

A fight had spilled from a pub and bystanders had formed a circle in the middle of the road. Within the circle, two young women were biting, punching, kicking and clawing each other.

‘Ya fuckin' bitch, I'll learn ya to keep yar paws to yarself.'

‘He went for me because you is nothin' more than a mean cow with saggy udders.'

‘Liar. I thought I could trust me own sister. But you'd do it with the devil himself if youse had the itch.'

The predominantly male crowd egged them on. Cat got the impression a girl fight was a real treat.

‘Slap her hard, Annie.'

‘Show her no mercy! Stick the boot in, my girl.'

‘The tide wouldn't take that slapper out.'

‘That's it, luv, give the little bitch another whack. Good work!'

One of the girls had the buttons ripped off her tatty blouse and she retaliated by pulling out a handful of her sister's hair.

There were no rules and the bystanders' faces were contorted with perverse pleasure. Cat was repulsed and had to look away. Two policemen were doing their best to separate the pair, but the crowd kept the action going by hurling stones and bottles to keep the law at bay.

While the cab driver lit a cigarette and waited impatiently for the road to clear, a grubby child with scabs on his face rapped on the windscreen and mimed food going into his mouth. Cat wound down the window and dropped coins into his filthy hand. He grinned, gave her the thumbs up and took off with five other street urchins in hot pursuit.

The cab driver said, ‘Lady, you shouldn't be encouraging those little guttersnipes.'

Cat ignored him and warily kept an eye on the hostilities until the cab could move on.

They pulled up at the Salmon and Ball public house. Cat braced herself as she walked into the front bar. The place was a fug of stale beer, cigarette smoke and testosterone. Shafts of sunlight created a golden nicotine haze and lit up Cat's hair, creating a halo around her head. The place went dead quiet as she approached the bartender. The men leaning on the bar moved aside and a few doffed their caps. A burly salesman in a shiny suit quickly opened up his newspaper and placed it on the bare floorboards, so Cat didn't have to walk across broken glass and spilt beer. His drinking chums nudged each other and nodded approvingly. It wasn't every day that a classy blonde from the other side of the river strolled into the Salmon and Ball. The drinkers ogled this exotic being from another planet. They were overwhelmed – first the sexy redhead and now this one. The gods must be in a generous mood.

Cat felt overdressed, even though she was wearing a peasant skirt and a tight cashmere sweater. The barman put down his cigarette and racing guide and flashed nicotine-stained teeth. ‘You must be Mr Dupont's other guest?'

‘Yes.'

‘Go on up those stairs, luv. They're in the small parlour on the left.'

A distinguished old geezer with a handlebar moustache boomed, ‘Allow me to offer you safe passage to the upper echelons. A beauteous young lady such as yourself shouldn't go about unescorted in these here parts.'

Cat grinned. ‘Thank you, kind sir, but I'm sure I can manage. There is nothing to fear from these charming gentlemen.' She winked. ‘Indeed, it's obvious that they're well acquainted with the finer points of social etiquette.'

There were guffaws all round and a lad in muddy work boots boldly stepped forward. ‘Don't listen to old Pete, he's a lady killer from way back. He's already worn out two wives and is casting his eye around for the third. He's got a thing for blondes, so for your own safety, you'd better get up those stairs real quick.'

More guffaws, croaks and cackles from the drinkers. Old Pete was set to die laughing, his breath wheezing until he lost control of his barstool. He went down slowly, keeping a firm grip on his Guinness. Two barflies quickly heaved Pete back into position, he hadn't spilt one drop. Cat smiled at him as she made her way towards the staircase. She could feel dozens of eyes following her up the stairs. Conversation only resumed when her long legs disappeared from view.

Upstairs, Mary and Henri were sitting in front of a crackling log fire, drinking red wine. The small parlour featured scrubbed
floorboards, geraniums on the windowsill, and floral curtains. Henri rose to his feet and pulled up a chair for Cat. When Mary kissed her cheek, Cat felt the tension in her body.

Cat turned to Henri. ‘So, this is where you and Jim hide out. You weren't kidding when you said it had nothing in common with the Hotel du Barry.'

Henri poured her wine. ‘Jim and I grew up around the corner, in Dunbridge Street, right on top of the railway tracks. My mother took Jim in when his grandma died. It's a historical area. Back in the 1700s they hung two silk cutters out front of the original pub. Something to do with the riots between silk cutters and master cutters.'

Cat warmed her hands at the fire. ‘Well, the locals haven't lost their fighting spirit. I saw an ugly brawl on the way here. You know, I've never understood why fighting women try to claw out each other's eyes. You just don't see men fighting like that.'

Henri shrugged. ‘Man's inhumanity to man is something I've never been able to fathom. Jim's the one who's always been able to suss out his fellow beings. It didn't take him long to decide that Daniel's political opponents and sworn enemies had nothing to do with Daniel's or Michael's death. I shan't bore you with the details but suffice to say Jim dumped that line of enquiry.'

Cat nodded. ‘I see. But I'm dying to know, what's up? Why can't I tell Bertha we met here today?'

Mary and Henri exchanged glances. Mary said, ‘It's about Edwina.'

Henri lit a cigarette. ‘I didn't want to involve Bertha because she's already got enough to contend with at the hospital. Also, Jim told me if anything happened to him, I was to warn you about Edwina.'

Cat sat down abruptly. ‘Eddie? I don't understand. What's her connection with Jim's mugging?'

Henri studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘On the night Daniel died, Jim had to restrain Edwina when she went right off. He reckoned she was stacking on a turn to distract the two policemen and since then Jim's been watching her like a hawk.'

Mary said, ‘Remember when we met in Jim's office and he was worried about the kitchen apprentice lurking in the corridor? Jim questioned several labyrinth staff and they confirmed his suspicions.'

Henri got up and stood with his back to the fire. ‘In short, Jim believes Edwina might have been involved, directly or indirectly, for the deaths of your father, Michael, the homeless wino and Chef.'

Cat sat up straight. ‘No, Henri, that's just not possible. Eddie is utterly incapable of killing anybody. Admittedly she seems to be a bit unhinged lately. But a killer? No way, it's clutching at straws.'

‘Jim drilled spy holes in the ceiling of Edwina's apartment and by lifting a few floorboards in the old nursery could hear everything. And even though he heard nothing incriminating he couldn't shake the feeling that she's implicated in their deaths.'

Cat turned to Mary. ‘Surely you don't think Eddie's a killer?'

‘I don't know what to think, Cat. Jim was only going on his gut feeling. But he couldn't shake his hunch that Edwina had hired thugs to punish Chef and they overdid it.'

The door opened and they all jumped.

The barman entered. ‘Ready to order, Mr Dupont?'

Henri glanced at the wine bottle. ‘Yes, we'll have another bottle of the same and please tell Alphonse we'll go with the Ploughman's Lunch. Heavy on the pickles and cheeses. Is that all right with you, ladies?'

Mary grinned at Cat. Henri was used to being in charge and it was great being looked after for a change.

As the door closed, Cat turned an anxious face towards them. ‘But what about Gary Smythe? We still don't know what Jim found
out about him. Mary, you described him as a psychopath, so why not consider the possibility that Smythe went after Jim?'

Mary nodded. ‘Or perhaps Smythe's lackeys did his dirty work. I guess we won't know until Jim's well enough to talk.'

There was a lengthy silence as they each grimly considered the possibility that he might never come out of his coma. Jim Blade was the heart and soul of the Hotel du Barry and none of them could imagine their lives without him. He not only cast a long protective shadow over everyone in the hotel, but he was the one man they all trusted unconditionally.

The only sounds were the logs crackling in the grate and the voices of the rowdy drinkers coming up through the floorboards. Henri broke the silence. ‘I get your point about Smythe, Cat. But rather than sit on our hands, we need to consider other suspects. If for no other reason than that they might be in cahoots.'

Cat jumped up and stood with her back to the log fire. ‘But the detectives reckon a young man pushed Daniel off the roof! It could easily have been Smythe. Not one of those witnesses mentioned a female being sighted on the roof that night.'

Henri paced the floor. ‘Good point. Smythe might have had duplicate keys made before Danny sacked him. And he would know how to get into the Hotel du Barry unseen.'

Mary said, ‘True but we need to join up
all
the dots. Eddie's androgynous, volatile and strong. We also know she got snaky whenever Daniel brought up the subject of divorce. Only minutes before the party started in the Winter Garden, Sebastian overheard them arguing about it again.'

Cat drained her glass of wine. ‘But that was normal behaviour for them. I grew up with the two of them constantly bickering. Divorce has been on the cards for years. They tried to hide their animosity from me but I always knew what was going on. In a perverse way I think that Daniel actually enjoyed the skirmishes.
He told me that he, his father and the other two sons fought like a motherless wolf pack. It's just how the du Barrys evolved after Lucinda du Barry died. Besides, what about Michael? Eddie wasn't even in Venice when he drowned.'

Henri replied, ‘Michael may have been poisoned by mistake. Perhaps Edwina was slowly poisoning Daniel before he went to Venice?'

Cat said, ‘Look, for as long as I can remember she's kept poison at home. Eddie's got a genuine fear of spiders, moths and silverfish and she's obsessed with killing kitchen mice. You should have seen the stink she kicked up on my sixth birthday, when Danny visited the pet shop and brought me home two white mice.'

Mary said, ‘I remember that, the battle raged for days until Danny gave them to the porter's son. But Cat, if someone has the means and the motive for murder, you have to at least consider it a possibility.'

‘Not in this case. Bertha keeps rat poison in the maids' kitchen. And you can find stashes of domestic poisons all over the labyrinth. Blimey, if Smythe wanted to do a little poisoning he wouldn't even have to bring his own. And you know what? He still has girlfriends at the hotel. I did a little investigating and it turns out that Bessie Blackwell is still stuck on Smythe. Just about every Sunday she cooks him dinner and he stays the night. She also does his washing and ironing.'

Mary winced. ‘Gawd, how could she? It's like she's playing mother.'

Henri lowered his chin and gave Mary a questioning look.

She laughed. ‘Bessie's always had a thing for crims especially those who've done time in the slammer. And I guess committing sins of the flesh with the likes of Smythe would have to be more fun than attending Sunday Mass.'

Henri shook his head and picked up the wine bottle. ‘Who would like more wine?'

As he was refilling their glasses, they heard the sound of men yelling and cheering. Mary and Cat rushed to the window and down below they could see the Salmon and Ball clientele congregating around a gnarled old oak tree. A barefooted lad was trying to scale the tree while holding a tankard of stout in one hand. Those assembled cheered and jeered as he struggled to claw his way up the tree. Old Pete was master of ceremonies and he waited with a notepad and pen poised at the ready. When the lad fell flat on his back – with his tankard raised – Pete bent down, carefully examined the tankard and jotted something down.

Cat said, ‘Come quick, Henri. Tell us what's going on.'

Henri peered out the window. ‘Ah, that would be this week's bet and that's young Pete on the ground. The winner will be the geezer who climbs up and down the trunk without spilling too much Guinness. There won't be many contestants because the older drinkers know that one needs strong toes to get up the tree using only one hand.'

Mary gave him a sly look. ‘Am I mistaken, or do you happen to know quite a lot about this?'

‘These are my people. And I too was once a penniless lad with limited prospects. Those young chaps down there? If they're lucky enough to even have a job, it usually involves heavy manual labour for shite wages. There's not much fun to be had locally, so they make their own.'

Cat asked, ‘Henri, is this a frequent pastime in this neck of the woods?'

‘The bet is different each week. Jim and I were enjoying a beverage in the front bar recently and when I went to the Gents lavatory I couldn't get in the door. Most of the clientele were in there having their erect members measured. Our resident carpenter was doing the honours with his tape measure.'

Cat and Mary exchanged incredulous looks.

Henri shrugged. ‘The same chap wins every time, despite most of his nutritional needs being met by copious amounts of stout. He swears by it.'

Cat looked perplexed. ‘But aren't any of them interested in sport?'