The Cavendon Women (44 page)

The doorman at the Ritz had helped them into a taxi cab later, and now they were staggering into the bedroom of his studio, supporting each other the best they could. Somehow they managed to get undressed, fell onto the bed in a stupor, and immediately passed out.

It was midnight when the man arrived at the front door of the studio and tried the knob. Instantly it opened, and he stepped inside, smiling to himself. Merton had been so drunk he had forgotten to lock the door. But the man had a copy of the key anyway, so what did it matter?

With great stealth, the man crept across the studio and into the kitchen, where he put on a small light. He took a bottle and a syringe out of his jacket pocket; after filling the syringe, he put the bottle back in one pocket, the syringe in the other.

He did not have to go into the bedroom to see that they had passed out. The lights were still on, and they lay sprawled across the sheets, lost to the world. She was breathing heavily; he was snoring loudly, which told the man his sleep potions from the Chinese herbalist, Fu Yung-Yen, in Chinatown, had worked. He had dropped a pellet in each of their drinks at the wedding, when neither of them was looking.

Gliding into the bedroom, bending over Travers, the man took out the syringe and lifted Travers's arm, injected the potassium chloride into the fleshy part under his arm covered in hair; he pulled the syringe out when it was empty, slipped it into his pocket.

The man glanced at DeLacy. A sneer crossed his face. He didn't want her anymore. She was Merton's leavings, anyway. A whore, a bitch, a drunk. Worthless. Damaged goods.

He crept away on silent feet, turned out the light in the kitchen, and left the studio. He walked through the streets, breathing in the fresh air, not minding the cold wind. It was refreshing.

By the time he had made it to the King's Road he felt much better. He had accomplished what he had decided to do months ago. Merton deserved it. That bastard had taken DeLacy for himself, before
he
had made her his own. That had spoiled his well-made plans: get rid of the mother, install the daughter, live happily ever after on Mama's money. After all, she had made him her heir. Now he was stuck with the mother.

A sudden thought struck him. Maybe in a few months he could start an affair with DeLacy. She would be over Merton by then. He could clean her up, get her into shape, dress her up, just to undress her, and take her into his bed. And give her what she really wanted.
Him.
The very thought of this aroused him, gave him an erection.

Stepping to the edge of the pavement he hailed a cab, told the cabbie to take him to Charles Street, and got in.

Felicity was in luck tonight, he decided. The aroused state he was in ensured that she could romp with him to her heart's delight, the way she liked, and with a little bit of the rough stuff thrown in.

*   *   *

DeLacy was so nauseous it awakened her. She pushed herself out of bed, half stumbled to the bathroom, fell onto her knees, and vomited in the toilet. She lay on the cold tiled floor for a long time, until she eventually began to feel a bit better.

Scrambling to her feet, she managed to get to the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water, drank it down greedily, parched. Then she hobbled into the studio, sat down in a chair, taking deep breaths. She was less woozy, and the feeling of nausea was receding, but she had a raging headache.

The chair was facing the bedroom and all of a sudden DeLacy sat up with a start. She could just see Travers, and realized he was slumped over to one side, half hanging out of the bed. He looked strange.

Pushing herself to her feet, she stumbled toward the doorway, drew closer, peering at him. Then she took a step back. A scream rose in her throat, and she started to shake. Fear was edging into her mind.

His eyes were wide open. And blank. She didn't know what was wrong with him. And then it came to her. He was drunk, wasn't he? Or was he dead? But how could that be? Rushing out of the room, shock beginning to set in, she went to the phone on his desk in the studio, and dialed Cecily. She couldn't stop shaking.

It rang and rang, and she was about to hang up when she heard her saying, “Hello?” in a muffled tone.

“Ceci, it's me,” DeLacy said in a halting voice that quavered. “Something's wrong … with Travers. Please come. Come and help me.”

“Where are you?” Cecily asked in an urgent voice, now wide awake.

“His studio.”

“Are you dressed?”

“No.”

“Get dressed. Make sure you've got all of your things: jewelry, bag. I'll be there shortly. With Eric.”

“Why? Why Eric?”

“I feel better having him with us. Eric's a man. We might need a man. Get dressed, sit down, and wait for us. All right?”

“Yes,” DeLacy said, and hung up. Then she began to sob, shock completely taking over.

*   *   *

By the time Cecily arrived with her cousin, Eric Swann, DeLacy had managed to put on her clothes and find all of her things. Her shoes, stockings, handbag, and the pieces of expensive jewelry she had been wearing for the formal wedding.

The light tapping on the front door made DeLacy hurry over to open it. The moment Cecily walked in, she took DeLacy in her arms, and held her close, soothing her.

DeLacy was weeping quietly, but after a few moments she pulled herself together, and stood away.

“Hello, Eric,” she murmured, then looked at Cecily, her eyes still wide with shock. She said, “Please look at Travers? I don't know what's wrong with him.”

“Yes, we will,” Eric answered. “Where is he?”

“In the bedroom. It's over there.”

Together Eric and Cecily crossed the large studio, and went into the bedroom. But it was Eric who stepped over to the bed, took hold of Travers's hand, and felt for his pulse. There wasn't one. Looking into Travers's face, he shook his head, gently closed his eyelids.

Turning to look at Cecily, and then DeLacy standing in the doorway, Eric said, “I'm so sorry, Lady DeLacy. I'm afraid he's dead. Of what, I've no idea. I would think a heart attack, perhaps.”

“But he's young,” Cecily exclaimed, shaking her head. “How can that be?”

DeLacy didn't say a word. She just stood there staring into space, tears trickling down her face. Then she walked into the bedroom, bent over Travers, and kissed his face. It was cold, and she pulled back. Swallowing, endeavoring to control her emotions, she lifted the sheet with shaking hands and covered him up.

Cecily took hold of her arm, and said, “I think we must leave. Do you have everything?”

“I do, yes.”

Looking at the expensive jewelry, Cecily said, “Are you sure you do have all of
that
?”

“Yes, I do.”

Ushering DeLacy into the studio, Eric said, “Let's sit down for a moment, so you can tell us what happened this evening. I'd like to know.”

She nodded, and they all sat. DeLacy said, “Travers and I went to the Coddington wedding at the Ritz. Travers had been at school with Peter Coddington. It was a very lavish affair. Travers and I had quite a lot to drink, more than usual. And especially for me. When we left we were really drunk, but managed to get ourselves here in a cab. We fell into bed, and passed out. I woke up around one-thirty, feeling nauseous. I vomited a lot. Then I drank some water, and went to sit in here. I saw Travers; he looked so strange, falling out of bed, his eyes blank. I was afraid. I didn't know what was wrong.” Looking across at Cecily she said, “That was when I called you, Ceci.”

“It was almost two when you telephoned. I know because I looked at the clock on my bedside table.”

“Nobody else was here with you?” Eric asked.

DeLacy shook her head. “No, we were alone.”

“You say you vomited,” Cecily said, frowning. “Could you have eaten something that poisoned you? And also Travers?”

“I told you, the reception and dinner were at the Ritz Hotel. The food is the best.”

Eric, who had been looking thoughtful, said slowly, “It's not the first time I've heard of a young man dying of a heart attack. And who knows, Mr. Merton might have had heart problems. Do you know if he did, Lady DeLacy?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“Could all the alcohol have caused something to happen?” Cecily looked at Eric, raising a brow.

“It could, but I'm not a doctor, you know.”

“I don't think we should just go and leave Travers here like this after all,” Cecily now said, changing her mind about leaving. “I think we ought to call Uncle Howard, tell him what's happened.”

“But he's Scotland Yard,” DeLacy whispered, frowning. “Why do you want to involve Scotland Yard?”

“He's also family, Lady DeLacy. But the normal thing to do when somebody dies is to call that person's doctor. Did Mr. Merton have a doctor?” Eric asked.

“No, not that I know of. He was very healthy.”

“Shall we call an ambulance? And have Mr. Merton's body taken to a hospital? When somebody dies suddenly like this, there has to be an examination, perhaps even an autopsy,” Eric explained.

“I'm going to telephone Uncle Howard, ask his advice. I'd like to have this matter in the hands of a Swann.”

“He's not a Swann,” DeLacy muttered.

“He's married to one, and that means he is,” Cecily answered firmly.

*   *   *

Howard Pinkerton arrived at Travers Merton's studio in less than half an hour, having told Cecily that he would come over to check everything out himself.

He spoke to DeLacy at length, and she took him through the progression of earlier events. When she had finished, he said, “I would like to see Mr. Merton's body, please, Lady DeLacy. If I may?”

DeLacy took him over to the bedroom, showed him inside, then retreated.

The inspector pulled back the sheet and scrutinized Travers Merton's body intently. He made a mental note that there were no marks on the body, no bruises, no signs of violence. He covered the body with the sheet and went back into the studio.

He said, “I'm going to call for an ambulance, have Mr. Merton's body taken to hospital, for a thorough examination. I will take my medical examiner over there myself.”

Sitting down on a chair, he continued, “Quite frankly, it looks to me like a natural death. More than likely a heart attack. How old was Mr. Merton, Lady DeLacy?”

“Thirty-seven,” she answered. “And he was in good health.” Tears filled her eyes, and she endeavored to control her emotions, turned her head away, blinking.

Inspector Pinkerton volunteered, “Often a young man walks around with a condition he's not aware of, and perhaps this was so with Mr. Merton. You told me he didn't have a doctor.”

“That's right. I know because I once asked him, and he said he didn't need a doctor, he was as fit as a fiddle. Those were his words.”

Howard Pinkerton nodded. “I prefer not to speculate. Let us wait for a professional opinion.”

He stood up, went over to the phone, made a telephone call to Emergency Services. He looked across the room at the others, and said, “There's no need for you to wait for the ambulance. I will handle this. By the way, who is the next of kin, do you know, Lady DeLacy?”

“Travers was orphaned, and his grandparents are dead. He does have one relative, on his mother's side. A cousin, and they were quite friendly. Otherwise, there's no one.”

*   *   *

Eric hailed a cab, and Cecily and Eric took DeLacy to her flat in Alford Street. Cecily had invited DeLacy to stay with her, not wanting her to be alone at this difficult time. DeLacy refused, explaining that she needed to be in her own home.

“There are a lot of his things in my flat, and I have to be surrounded by them. I'll be all right, Ceci. Thank you for coming to help me.”

“You know I'd do anything for you, Lacy.”

“So what happens next?” DeLacy now asked.

“Uncle Howard will stay in touch,” Cecily replied.

Eric interjected, “I think we'll know quickly how he died once he is examined by a doctor.”

“Do you know Travers's cousin, Lacy?” Cecily asked. “I think you will have to be in touch, and there is the matter of the funeral.”

“I've met his cousin, he's pleasant. His name is Vivian Carmichael and he's from the Noyers side of the family. But I'm not sure how to reach him.”

“Don't worry about that. Uncle Howard can handle it, or Miles.”

*   *   *

Eric and Cecily walked through Mayfair, back to her flat in Chesterfield Street. At one moment, he took hold of Cecily's arm, and drew her to a halt.

She looked at him. “What is it, Eric?”

“I just wanted to say that you acted like a true Swann, the way you wanted to hurry DeLacy away from the studio.”

“I know it must have seemed heartless. But that's the way we're built—protect the Inghams, take the bullet if you have to. And frankly, I'd no idea what had happened. I felt I had to get her away from the studio, and back at home.”

“You did the right thing, phoning Howard. He's the best copper I know. But I think it was a natural death, don't you?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Yet something nags at the back of my mind, something I can't quite put my finger on.”

Eric frowned. “You're surprising me. Do you think they
were
poisoned? If so, by whom? Who would want to hurt them?”

“I don't know. But why was she vomiting?”

“DeLacy is not used to imbibing a lot of booze, is she? Maybe the tippling made her feel nauseous, caused the vomiting.”

Cecily simply frowned, and they walked on.

Eric said, “She's still a bit wobbly, you know, and her eyes look glazed. And she'll have one hell of a hangover.”

“She's a fragile person, Eric. I must look after her.”

 

Fifty-three