Mask of the Verdoy (50 page)

‘Well yes, I suppose you have a point.’ He placed a hand on Euphemia’s arm which she rewarded with a patient smile. ‘I’m sorry my dear, this must all be rather embarrassing for you. But General Swales does have a duty to investigate these allegations … I wonder
why this clergyman Pembroke would make such an outlandish accusation. Was he known to you?’

‘Indeed he was, Prime Minister—only too well, I’m afraid. The poor man had some psychological problems, and was rather too fond of strong drink. Such a shame, to lose him so young—he was a friend from childhood, you understand.’

‘Ah, well, that probably explains it, some kind of aberration of the mind, brought on by the alcohol.’

Harley gave an impatient cough and looked at Swales.

‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister,’ said the General, ‘but might we get on with the search now?’

‘Very well—the sooner we get through this, the sooner we can get back to our enjoyable evening, eh?’ said Ramsay MacDonald, with a consolatory smile at Euphemia.

Fellowes now stepped forward.

‘Lady Euphemia, I’m assuming you came with an overcoat this evening?’

‘Naturally, I would imagine it’s in the cloakroom—Dalston took it from me on arrival.’

‘Very good. And yours, Sir Pelham?’

‘
What?
Oh, I see—so now
I’m
to be implicated in this blessed gunpowder plot as well, am I? My God! Haven’t you people got anything better to do? Like perhaps catching the culprits responsible for blowing up innocent British citizens as they go about their daily business?’

‘Your overcoat, sir?’ continued Fellowes without batting an eyelid.

Sir Pelham gave a long sigh and then violently stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

‘The merino wool herring-bone with the velvet collar—but mind you don’t rip the damned lining!’

‘Much obliged, sir. Pearson—if you wouldn’t mind? Have Dalston show you the coats. Report back immediately after you’ve checked them out.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Pearson, slipping out to find the butler.

‘Now,’ continued Fellowes. ‘Harley and I will commence a search of the room. If I could ask you all to remain seated whilst this is in progress?’

‘Hold on, sport,’ said Sir Pelham, getting up and pouring himself a sherry. ‘If I’m going to be stuck in here I’ll need a drink. Top up, Effie?’

‘Why not?’ said Euphemia. As she held up her glass Harley thought he detected the briefest of looks exchanged between the two aristocrats—some unspoken confederacy.

Saint Clair took his sherry back to the chaise longue, lay down and gave a regal wave in the air.

‘Carry on!’

The Wingfords’ study was furnished with a number of cabinets and bookcases, all presenting excellent hiding places for an explosive device. It took Harley and Fellowes a good ten minutes to thoroughly search through these, the first five minutes of which General Swales spent observing them intently, filling and then smoking his saxophone pipe; but after a while his frustration at their lack of success got the better of him and he joined in the search—although with a slightly less disciplined approach.

Saint Clair spent the time nonchalantly doing the
Times
crossword, and pitching in every now and again with a sarcastic remark. Ramsay MacDonald sat reading a set of papers that he had before him, sipping at his sherry. Lady Euphemia’s gaze remained fixed intently on Harley’s every move, her mouth set in a demur smile.

Pearson now returned to the room and approached General Swales.

‘Well?’ asked the General, in the process of searching the underside of a footstool.

‘Nothing, sir,’ answered Pearson, quietly. ‘And the rest of the team have yet to turn up anything elsewhere—although there are still a few rooms in the servants’ quarters to go through.’

‘Right,’ said Swales, beginning to look a little concerned. ‘There seems to be nothing obvious here either. Constantine?’

‘Sir Pelham,’ said Fellowes, with a polite smile. ‘I wonder if I might search your person.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’

Swales shared a quick look with Harley and then moved a little closer to the baronet.

‘I’m afraid it’s imperative that we do so, Saint Clair,’ he said.

‘Really, Sir Pelham,’ said Ramsay MacDonald, glancing over the top of his glasses. ‘I don’t see what harm it can do. It will be for the best if it draws the situation to a swift conclusion. After all, it’s certainly looking like this whole thing is the consequence of a madman’s ramblings.’

Saint Clair gave a huff, tossed the newspaper aside and sat up.

‘Very well. I’m willing to go along with this little charade, but
he’s
not to do it,’ he pointed at Fellowes. ‘Don’t like the cut of his jib.’

‘Perhaps … General?’ said Fellowes, retaining his gracious smile.

‘What? Yes, of course. If you would just stand, Sir Pelham … there we are. Now then …’

Swales performed a rigorous pat-down of the baronet … but failed to discover anything that might be used in an assassination attempt.

‘Are we done, Swales? I mean, we’ve all wasted enough time on this
tomfoolery now, don’t you think? Perhaps we can all get on with our lives?’

‘Not just yet, Sir Pelham … Lady Euphemia? I wonder if you might indulge us? Of course, we won’t be performing the search ourselves—I’ll send for Lady Wingford and she can—’

‘Oh, that’s quite alright, Sir Frederic. You’ll find I have a thoroughly modern attitude to physical contact … Why don’t you have Mr. Harley do it? I would imagine he’s particularly efficient at such things.’

Saint Clair gave a guffaw at this and tossed off his sherry. ‘Well, come on then, Mister Detective—what are you waiting for?’ he said, returning to the decanter for a top up. ‘Most red-blooded males would jump at the chance.’

Harley gave Saint Clair a long stare and then approached Euphemia, who was now standing with her arms held out to the side.

‘Go ahead, George—I don’t mind,
really
I don’t,’ she said huskily. And despite all he now knew, her proximity still made Harley shiver a little, the sweet jasmine of her perfume confounding his concentration.

‘Come on, Harley—we haven’t got all night!’ said Swales impatiently.

Harley steeled himself and began a thorough search, examining every inch of the elegant body for an unexplained bump or outline; checking the insides of her shoes, the contours of the whalebone in her stays, even the voluminous coils of her exquisitely dressed hair. But there was nothing to be found.

‘My—but you do have hot hands, don’t you, George?’

‘We’re done,’ he said curtly, standing back and crossing his arms. His mind now churned vigorously, trying to work out what the assassination weapon might be.

‘D’you have a handbag?’

‘Of course—it’s just here …’ She began to reach across to one of the chairs.

‘That’s alright—I can do it,’ he said, grabbing the handles of the bag and snatching it away to the other side of the room to perform a search.

After a while Euphemia broke the awkward silence with a polite clearing of her throat.

‘Well, George—does anything catch your eye?’ she said, sharing a quick smile with Saint Clair.

‘No, there’s nothing here,’ he mumbled. But that wasn’t strictly true—for in Euphemia’s handbag Harley had finally found something that not only indicated to him that his theory was correct, but also gave him an idea of how the assassination might be carried out; something so innocuous looking that its relevance would no doubt have been
missed by anyone else. But to Harley’s keen brain—enflamed by a craving for vengeance—it was grist to the mill.

Now all that was needed was a swift application of slight-of-hand—just so … and he could return the bag to its owner.

Saint Clair, hardly able to contain his glee at the apparent failure of the search, now eagerly sprang up from his seat.

‘Right, Swales! I think you’ve wasted enough of our time now, don’t you? It’s fairly obvious that you’ve gone off half-cocked on this little escapade. If you ask me it suggests a serious lack of judgement—not a very attractive characteristic for a Metropolitan Police Commissioner. What say you, Prime Minister?’

‘I’m afraid I’d have to agree with Sir Pelham, General,’ said Ramsay MacDonald, removing his spectacles and refilling his glass from the decanter. ‘It would appear that the whole thing was thoroughly misguided. To make such an accusation of a young lady of such fine reputation, a member of the nobility … Well, I shall want to see a full report on the matter on my desk by lunchtime tomorrow. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, of course, Prime Minister,’ said Swales, reddening in the face as his moustache began to twitch of its own accord.

‘And,’ continued the politician, sipping at his sherry as he pulled a side plate containing a small cake towards him, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d make contact with my private secretary as soon as possible in order to remove these inane restrictions on my official engagements. I really don’t—’

‘
Stop!
’ shouted Harley, launching himself across the room at the Prime Minister.

‘Good grief!’ cried Ramsay MacDonald, spilling his drink over his pile of papers. ‘Look what you’ve made me do, man! Whatever is the matter?’

‘That cake, Prime Minister—whatever you do, don’t touch the cake!’

‘The cake?
The cake?
’ spluttered Saint Clair. ‘My God! I’ve heard it all now!’ But the Blackshirt leader’s expression no longer matched the bluster of his words, and he immediately sat down again and lit another cigarette.

‘Come now,’ said Ramsay MacDonald, mopping at the spilt sherry with his handkerchief. ‘You don’t honestly think that there could be a bomb secreted in such a small pastry, do you Mr. Harley? It sounds like the stuff of Pantomime.’

‘Not a bomb, sir, no—but I’d wager good money that cake is poisoned.’

‘
Poisoned?
’

‘Yes,’ said Harley, pulling the plate towards him. ‘Albert—do you recognize this at all?’

Pearson stepped forward and studied the cake. ‘Yes, George—it’s one of those scones that Lady Euphemia served up at the soup kitchen … from her estate.’

‘That’s right—a Chantry cake. I take it Lady Euphemia brought these along with her, Prime Minister?’

‘Why, yes. But you don’t really think that—’

‘I’m certain of it—that cake will be laced with a synthesized version of the ergot toxin.’

‘Ergot?’

‘Ergot—
Claviceps purpurea
. It’s a poisonous fungus that contaminates cereal—rye and barley and the like. But I believe that Lady Daubeney has used her knowledge of biochemistry to produce an intensified version of it. If you were to eat that cake, Prime Minister … well, let’s see … You’d probably suffer terrible hallucinations—horrible, nightmarish visions … and you’d start to fit, have convulsions, your skin feeling like you’re being burnt alive—that’s the St Anthony’s fire. In the old days the victims of ergotism went on to suffer gangrene, losing limbs within days of developing the disease. But this new stuff? Well, I doubt whether you’d last that long—if it doesn’t kill you within the first hour or so your mind would be so damaged that you’d be a raving lunatic for the rest of your days.’

‘You’re the raving lunatic, Harley,’ said Saint Clair, jumping to his feet again. ‘It just a scone, you imbecile! Prime Minister, I insist that you intervene and stop this at once.’

‘If it’s just a scone, Saint Clair, why don’t you have a bite yourself?’ interjected Harley.

‘Alright, I will … And by the way—it’s
Sir Pelham
to you.’

Saint Clair pushed past Harley and took one of the Chantry cakes from the large plate in the middle of the table.

‘Oh no you don’t, sunshine!’ said Harley, snatching the cake from the Fascist’s hand and placing it back on the pile. ‘Not one of those—
that
one, the one specially prepared for the Prime Minister.’

Saint Clair’s eyes burned with anger and he span around to address the General.

‘I refuse to remain here and be subjected to such impertinence, Swales! You need to learn to control your cur, sir. I’ve a good mind to take him outside and horsewhip him!’

‘I’d like to see you try,’ said Harley, sparking up a cigarette, enjoying the fact that he’d riled the aristocrat.

Saint Clair took a step closer to the private detective, prompting Fellowes to place his hand back on his pistol.

‘If there wasn’t a lady present I’d teach you some manners … Trust me, Mr. Harley—you’ve made a huge mistake in making an enemy of me. Before long you’ll learn just what it means to challenge the honour of an officer of the Royal Dragoons.’

Harley took a long drag of his Gold Flake and looked at his watch.

‘That’s all very interesting, Saint Clair, but are you, or are you not, willing to take a bite of this poisoned cake?’

Saint Clair stood glowering for a moment, then crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and started to walk towards the door.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Swales.’

But his exit was barred by Fellowes, who had now drawn his weapon and was using it to point to the chaise longue.

‘I’m afraid we’ll be requiring your company for a little while longer, Sir Pelham.’

There was something other than just anger now showing in Saint Clair’s eye as he turned and took his seat again, and as Harley studied the taut, vulpine features he noticed another brief, silent exchange between the baronet and Euphemia.

‘Well,’ he said, addressing General Swales, ‘seeing as Saint Clair—sorry,
Sir Pelham
—has bottled it, I reckon the way forward is to have the cake analysed, don’t you? And I suggest we keep them under close watch until we have the results. It shouldn’t take too long—I reckon if you gave a lab rat a few crumbs of that scone it’d be bouncing around its cage within seconds.’

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ interrupted Euphemia, standing up and grabbing the Chantry cake from the plate. ‘If it’s going to put an end to all of this schoolboy nonsense I’ll eat the blessed thing myself.’

Saint Clair jolted forward as if he were going to intervene, but then checked himself and sat back down, his hands placed on his knees, watching Euphemia intently.