The Cavendon Women (18 page)

He shook his head, frowning slightly, noting something odd in her tone of voice.

“Of course you don't want
this
tart. You've already got your own, and you gobbled her cherry years ago,” she announced. “In fact, you've never stopped gobbling her cherry; you were doing it before we were married, and continued after. You're still doing it now.”

Astonishment crossed his face. He glared at her, immediately understanding the innuendo.

Before he could answer her, Clarissa rushed on, “Long before you began to court me, when I was being eyed by a variety of eligible young men, my father warned me about the
likes of your lot.
He said I must never forget that aristocratic men preferred working-class girls because they were juicy tarts.” Sitting up straighter on the sofa, she gasped, “And it was always your
tart
you loved. Not me!”

Miles was on his feet and leaving the drawing room before she could catch her breath and utter another ugly word.

Once he was outside, he rushed down the street, wanting to put distance between himself and that house, but mostly its disturbed occupant. Because there was no doubt in his mind that she was disturbed. He was filled with anger and disgust, and he never wanted to set eyes on Clarissa again.

Eventually, he slowed down, leaned against a brick wall, and managed to calm himself. He had been accused of something that was untrue. This had infuriated him, especially when he thought of the last six years, his lack of contact with Cecily, his loneliness and pain. And he understood what everything was about now. It was called Clarissa's Revenge. How she had changed, and in several ways. She had been rather lovely six years ago; fine features, large luminous eyes, and soft brown hair framing a pretty face. She had not been mean. In fact, she had been humorous.

*   *   *

As Miles Ingham made his way back to his father's house, Detective Inspector Howard Pinkerton, the husband of Dorothy Swann, was crossing Piccadilly, heading in the direction of Berkeley Square. The lovely, leafy park in the center of the square was a favorite spot of his, an oasis of calm in the middle of Mayfair.

The park was empty except for a courting couple wrapped in each other's arms, sitting on the other side, and he smiled as he lowered himself onto a bench. He hoped they would be as lucky in love as he had been. He had found the love of his life when he met Dorothy. They had both been twenty, and had married within three months. Not long ago they had celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and were still in love.

A little rush of warmth enveloped him when he thought of his wife. On Sunday they were going out in their brand-new motorcar, making a long overdue trip to Bath, to visit his cousin Patsy. It was a huge improvement on their first motorcar, and they were excited about this particular purchase.

Howard liked to think of himself as a man of progress, and he was a big fan of Henry Ford. Although recently he had come to realize that Mr. Ford's invention had created the heavy traffic he sometimes had to confront on the roads these days. And no doubt the skies would soon be full of airplanes, he decided, thinking about those adventurous young men attempting to fly the Atlantic.

It seemed to Howard that 1926 was a spectacular year, with so many new and diverse things to deal with and enjoy, as well as the many changes in society. “The Roaring Twenties” they were now calling this era. And so it was, as well as the Jazz Age, yet another name people used. Nightclubs, caf
é
s, and parties. Young women in shorter and shorter skirts, who had become independent and sexually liberated. They smoked, drank, and drove motorcars, and even had careers. He liked the changes and the new names for this era. They were apt, and he considered progress important, and to be welcomed. He thought of himself as a modern man.

Taking out his pocket diary, Howard turned the pages until he came to today's date, Friday, September 3. There was only one notation on the page.

At six o'clock he was to meet with Lady Gwendolyn to discuss her great-niece Lady Diedre. After once again checking the exact number of the flat in Mount Street, Howard put the diary back in his pocket. He could walk there in three minutes.

Howard had set out early from Scotland Yard, in order to have this half hour alone in the park. It gave him that bit of quiet time he needed to consider the upcoming meeting with the matriarch of the Ingham family.

He liked Lady Gwendolyn, found her open and outgoing, a most approachable woman who was highly intelligent. These were the reasons which had led him to agree to help her sort out Lady Diedre's problems; he would do a bit of investigating on his own time, he had told her.

He had found out a great deal; some of the things he learned had genuinely surprised him. He was positive they would surprise Lady Gwendolyn as well.

Suddenly, he wondered how much he ought to tell Lady Gwendolyn at this moment in time. He still had several people to speak to, and he also wanted to assess a number of files he had read at the Yard.

These had to do with the death of Lady Diedre's friend Maxine Lowe. He had been taken aback to discover that those files were inadequate, lacking information, at least in his opinion. It was a dead-end case, with no leads. Yet the case had never been closed; he had found this odd the other day, and he still thought that.

Settling himself comfortably on the iron garden seat, Howard closed his eyes, mentally focusing on the Lowe case, puzzled by several aspects of it.

In doing this, Howard Pinkerton was in his element …
analyzing
. He was considered to be the most brilliant detective at Scotland Yard, and over the years had moved up through the ranks very rapidly. He was one of their very best—most probably
the
best.

To work at Scotland Yard had always been his childhood dream. He had made sure he knew its entire history, and had committed everything to memory by the time he was ten years old. He was much encouraged by his clever father, who was proud of his talented child.

If anyone asked Howard a question about Scotland Yard when he was growing up, he would immediately explain that it was the headquarters of the Criminal Investigation Department of London's Metropolitan Police Force. The CID. He would even reveal that it was named after the short street where the building stood, on the site of a twelfth-century palace, of all things. He would tell anyone who would listen that the palace had been the residence of the Scottish kings when they visited London centuries before; that it had become the center for the police force in 1829, but sixty-one years later, in 1890, new quarters had been built for the CID, on the Thames Embankment. New Scotland Yard it was called, but few people ever used that name, Howard would tell them.

Howard's father, Lionel Pinkerton, was clerk to a famous barrister with chambers in Gray's Inn at the Inns of Court. Lionel was a man who made it his business to be on good terms with everybody. He believed that courtesy, charm, and general helpfulness were vital, and that being accommodating, whilst offering a wealth of knowledge, paved the way to success. And he was right. When it came time to get his beloved son into Scotland Yard, he did so with ease.

Opening his eyes, Howard sat up on the bench. Something about Maxine's death, which had troubled him, was unexpectedly very plain to see. Leaving the park, he made his way to Mount Street. He glanced at his watch. It was just six o'clock. Straightening his back, striding out, he braced himself to meet Lady Gwendolyn, wondering how she would react to some of the strange information he was about to impart.

 

Twenty-four

“I'm not understanding you, Inspector Pinkerton,” Lady Gwendolyn said, peering at Howard. He was seated opposite her in front of the fire in the drawing room of her Mount Street flat. “Are you saying there is no rumor?”

“No, I'm not, Lady Gwendolyn,” Howard answered swiftly. “There
is
a rumor … that Lady Diedre might have problems at the War Office, regarding her job. However, it's what I would call more of a whisper.” Clearing his throat, he added, “I think her friend Mr. Fennell might have exaggerated a bit.”

“Why on earth would he do that? It sounds rather strange.”

“Not really, m'lady. I think a whisper about someone can become more, just through repetition. Things get left out, other things are added. I've only inquired at a lower level in the hierarchy. Quite frankly, I prefer not to draw attention to Lady Diedre unnecessarily.”

“I like your way of thinking, Inspector, and your discretion,” Lady Gwendolyn answered, and sat back in her chair. “Have you any thoughts about who could have started this …
whisper,
as you call it?”

“No, I don't. I do have an opinion, though. I'm not so sure the rumor is emanating from someone who works with Lady Diedre.”

“Are you suggesting that the rumor was started by a person in her private life?” Lady Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow questioningly, sounding surprised.

“I am, yes. The colleague of Lady Diedre I talked to was dismissive about the
little rumor,
as he called it. He spoke in glowing terms about your great-niece, confided that the top brass at the War Office think her work is exemplary. I doubt she has any enemies there, your ladyship.”

“That's lovely to know,” Lady Gwendolyn replied, and then frowned. “However, it is rather ghastly to think that a friend of Diedre's may be trying to hurt her.”

Howard said, “I agree. However, I do think we must consider that possibility. Do you know many of her friends, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“I don't. I only ever met Maxine Lowe, who died in rather strange circumstances. I'm sure you know all about that, Inspector Pinkerton.”

“I do,” he replied. “Although it wasn't my case.”

After a moment's thought, Lady Gwendolyn said, “Are we perhaps bashing our heads against a brick wall, Inspector?”

“I don't think so. With a little more poking around I might find out who is attempting to frighten Lady Diedre, because that is what this is all about, I suspect.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Lady Gwendolyn murmured.

“Did you ever meet Laura Upton Palmer, my lady?”

“No, I didn't. Nor have I ever heard of her. Is she a friend of Diedre's?”

“No, not anymore, I am afraid. Unfortunately she died about six years ago. It was very tragic, she was so young.”

Shocked, Lady Gwendolyn sat up with a sudden jerk, staring at Howard. “Another friend of my great-niece died! Oh my goodness. Not in peculiar circumstances, I hope. Then there would be something really amiss, I do believe.” There was a moment's pause, before Lady Gwendolyn asked, “How did the young lady die?”

“Mrs. Palmer died of leukemia, m'lady.”

“I see. Why did you bring her name up, Inspector?”

“It occurred to me you might have met her, m'lady. Maxine Lowe, Lady Diedre, and Laura Upton Palmer were great friends, best friends. In 1914, just before the war, the three of them went on a trip to Europe, which ended in Berlin. They were a popular, well-known threesome, more or less the same age and background. It was Maxine Lowe who invited them, and paid for the trip. As you know, she was an heiress, and very generous to her friends. So I've been given to understand.”

Lady Gwendolyn was shaking her head. “Diedre never mentioned Laura Upton Palmer to me, and she and I are rather close. How odd that she did not confide in me. I might have been able to comfort her. Oh dear, how sad for her. Diedre must have been so upset, losing two close friends like that and in just a few years.”

“I'm sure she was, and from what I gather, she was especially grief-stricken about Mrs. Palmer's death, and probably still is, I think.”

Lady Gwendolyn, nobody's fool, was studying Howard intently, and after a moment, she asked, “Is there an implication behind those words, Inspector Pinkerton?”

Howard shifted slightly in his chair, and did not answer for a few seconds, wondering how to properly proceed.

Lady Gwendolyn was still focused on him, and now her eyes narrowed. “I am a woman of a certain age, Inspector, and I have seen and heard so very many things in my long life. Nothing you tell me could possibly shock me.”

Staring back at her, he thought: What a wily old bird she is, and then said, “I realize that, your ladyship.” He took a deep breath and jumped in. “Lady Diedre and Mrs. Palmer eventually were more than just friends; they became … romantically involved.”

“Are you saying that Lady Diedre and Mrs. Palmer were lesbians, and lovers?”

“I am.”

For a moment, Lady Gwendolyn did not respond. Finally she said in a very steady voice, “Perhaps that's why my great-niece never mentioned Laura, or introduced me to her. However, wasn't Laura a married woman?”

“She was married to Ralph Palmer.” Understanding that Lady Gwendolyn was taking everything in her stride, and very calmly, Howard decided to continue. “Mrs. Palmer left her husband for Lady Diedre. In turn, Lady Diedre broke off her relationship with Austin Morgan. I'm sure you remember that the family believed she was about to get engaged to him.”

Lady Gwendolyn sat very still, indeed remembering everything about that possible engagement. She knew Austin Morgan's father, who had been one of her oldest friends. And his only son had been killed in the Great War, and Rodney Morgan had never really recovered from his sorrow. He'd grieved for Austin until the day he died.

Now, looking across at Howard, an expression of puzzlement in her blue eyes, she asked, “I suppose we must accept that my great-niece and Laura would be considered bisexual? Isn't that so?”

“It is, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“I would say we had two rejected, angry men seeking to hurt Diedre. However, Austin Morgan was killed in the Great War. Could Ralph Palmer be out for revenge?”