Death at the Diogenes Club: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery (The Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mysteries Book 6), page 16
CHAPTER 23
Susan’s eyes had flooded with tears. “I’m sorry.” She fumbled in her reticule. “I cry about absolutely everything lately. And I don’t have a handkerchief.”
The last word broke on a choked-off sob.
“It’s all right. Here, take mine.” I handed my handkerchief to her and waited while she mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Then I asked, “Who is trying to blackmail you?”
“I don’t know.” Susan drew a shuddering breath, balling the handkerchief up in her hands. “That’s just it, I—” She stopped. “Before I tell you any more, I need to ask you something. I should have asked it right away, but apparently I can’t think anymore, either.” She rubbed her forehead, then looked at me. “Are you somehow connected to the police? After I saw you at the Diogenes, I asked Neville who you were, and he said that you’d been with the police, asking questions.”
A breeze rustled through the bare branches of the trees over our heads, making the boughs creak and clatter, swaying.
I felt the ever-present knot in my chest tighten.
Susan had far more to risk by being honest in this conversation than I did. I hadn’t any reason to mistrust her or to think that it would do any harm to tell her of my connection to Holmes. It was something of a secret, but not a very closely guarded one. With every case I worked on with Holmes, the circle of people who knew of our association grew.
I still had to clamp down on a wave of uneasiness at the thought of sharing that part of my life with Susan. The last two women I’d been honest with hadn’t exactly come to good ends. And Susan’s story of being blackmailed could be a ploy—
Somewhere in the back of my head, my father’s sardonic voice repeated his earlier comment about my taking suspiciousness to new heights.
“I sometimes assist the police in their inquiries,” I told Susan. “But I’m not officially associated with them in any way.”
I braced myself for more questions, but Susan only nodded, apparently satisfied.
“I don’t know who it is that’s behind this,” she went on. “Whoever it is has only ever communicated by letters.”
“How long has it been going on?” I asked.
“The first letter came three months ago.” Susan spoke in a flat voice, her shoulders sagging as though she were suddenly exhausted. “It demanded that I leave fifty pounds behind Queen Anne’s alcove in Kensington Gardens. Otherwise, it said, the writer would tell Mrs. Teale exactly who I really was and how Neville and I met.”
“Do you still have the letter?”
Susan shook her head. “I threw it in the fire. I hoped it was just a nasty joke. I thought that maybe if I ignored it—” She stopped, swallowing. “But a few days later, there was a letter for Mrs. Teale. She was ill with a cold that day and just by chance stayed in bed instead of coming down to breakfast. So I was the one to see the letter first, instead of her, and I knew what it was.”
“How could you tell?”
“It looked just like the other one. The writing had all been made from newspaper letters, cut up and pasted on one by one.”
“Crude, but an effective way of keeping one’s handwriting from being recognized,” I murmured. “What did the letter say?”
“It told Mrs. Teale everything.” Susan scrubbed at her eyes again. “All about my being on the stage and not really a member of the French royalty and … everything else.”
“What did you do?”
“I burned the letter before Mrs. Teale could see it, and then I went straight out and left the money behind the Queen Anne alcove, just as the first note said. I thought everything would be all right. I hoped everything would be all right. But then, about a month later, I got another letter, just like the first one, demanding that I leave another fifty pounds behind the bust of John Milton in the poet’s corner of Westminster Abbey.”
Susan’s blackmailer was beginning to sound slightly like a Baedeker’s guidebook to London’s most famous sights.
“What did you do?”
“I paid. I didn’t know what else to do. Then three weeks later, another letter came. For a hundred pounds, that time. That one said that if I didn’t pay, the blackmailer would send proof of who I really am to all the gossip columns in all the London society papers.” Susan took a shuddery breath. “So I paid that too.”
“Have you had any more letters since then?”
“No. But I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time—”
Susan didn’t really need to say it. The blackmailer was unlikely to leave her alone now that he or she had discovered such a rich source of easy income.
“No, obviously you haven’t heard the last from whoever it is,” I agreed.
Susan looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I thought perhaps you might know—” She stopped speaking, her attention caught by something behind me. “Oh, Neville. I’m glad you’ve come home. I was just telling Lucy everything.”
I turned to find Neville Teale standing beside our bench. He was dressed in a gray suit and a black bowler hat that made his fair hair look fairer still.
“Of course.” He nodded to me. “Thank you for coming, Miss James.”
I couldn’t help looking at him in quick surprise. Susan hadn’t said as much, but I had somehow unconsciously assumed that she’d kept the matter of the blackmail from her husband. Apparently I’d been wrong.
“We’d be grateful for anything you can suggest, Miss James. Any help you can give in dealing with this bounder.” He came to stand behind Susan, resting a protective hand on her shoulder. “If it were only the two of us, I would say publish and be damned. But there’s my mother to think of.”
“You could tell her the truth,” I said.
“I could,” Neville agreed. “She would probably forgive us both too. My mother is not a vengeful woman. But if the truth were to be spread about town, my mother’s reputation would be tarnished by the scandal. Many of her friends would cease to receive her in their homes. She would be cut and scorned wherever she went.”
That was unfortunately true. It was another of those basic truths of the way London high society functioned.
Neville started to push his hair back—evidently forgetting that he was wearing a hat because he knocked the bowler onto the ground, swore, and then bent to pick it up before it could roll away.
“I’ve already brought my mother grief enough, Miss James.” His eyes were earnest. “I cannot be the cause of inflicting on her any more pain.”
“I understand.” I looked from Neville to Susan. “I’m afraid that until you hear from the blackmailer again, there’s very little that I can do. But I can make a few inquiries for now. And once you do have another letter, let me know at once.”
“Thank you.” Neville shook my hand. “I suppose I should be getting back to the house.”
“Susan, would you mind staying out here with me just a few moments more?” I asked. “There were just one or two more questions I had.”
Susan looked at me, a flicker of something like nervousness in her gaze, but then nodded. “Of course. You go ahead, Neville, I’ll join you shortly.”
I waited until I had seen Neville Teale cross the street and ascend the front steps of number 33. Then I turned back to Susan.
“Do you know who it is that’s behind the blackmail?”
“What?” Susan’s hand flew to her throat, shocked. “No, no, of course not.”
“You do suspect, though.”
Susan didn’t say anything, so I went on, speaking as gently as I could. “Whoever sent these letters is someone who cares more about hurting you than they do about the money. At least, they did at first.”
Susan’s eyes went wide. “How can you tell that?”
“After you ignored the first letter that came, the blackmailer wrote to Mrs. Teale straight away. He didn’t make any more threats, he didn’t try to bargain, he just straight away revealed your secret. It was just sheer chance that Mrs. Teale never saw the letter. The blackmailer couldn’t possibly have known that she would be ill in bed with a cold that day. And he hadn’t yet threatened to go to the papers. If he’d told Mrs. Teale the truth, you would have had no motivation to ever pay him. Which means that he wanted to hurt you, expose your secret, more than he wanted the fifty pounds. Although once you did pay, he must have decided that he was onto a good thing, and that he might as well keep on with it.” I looked at Susan, still speaking as gently as I could. “So who do you suspect would want to hurt you that much? Is it your baby’s father?”
“I don’t know.” Susan’s face seemed to crumple again, her voice wobbling. “Honestly, I don’t know. But it could be. He was … angry when I broke things off with him.”
“Why did you break things off?”
“Because I found out he was stealing.” Susan searched fruitlessly for a dry patch on the handkerchief, then gave up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He had a job as a theater usher. Not at the Savoy, he was at the Lyceum. But I found out he was just using the job to get close to the rich people who came to the shows and pick their pockets while he showed them to their seats. So I stopped seeing him.” Susan’s face hardened with determination. “I wasn’t going to have my baby grow up with a criminal for a father.”
The story was close to what I had already suspected, but a prickle of unease ran through me all the same. “Could he be dangerous? If he is the one blackmailing you, he’s shown that he wants revenge. Do you think he would hurt you physically?”
“Not him.” Susan’s face was contemptuous. “He’s too much of a coward for that. Sneaking around sending anonymous letters is just his style, though.”
“Will you tell me his name—and his address too, if you know where to find him?” I asked.
Susan looked worried. “What are you going to do?”
“At the least, have a look around and see if he seems likely to be your blackmailer. If I discover that he is, we can take steps to see he gives up on the whole enterprise.”
“Do you really think you can do that?” Susan’s voice trembled, her eyes filling with tears all over again.
“I can’t make any promises. But I will try.”
“Thank you.” Susan squeezed my hand. “Oh, thank you, Lucy. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have told you.”
“You’re very welcome. Can I ask you one last question?”
“Of course.”
“Did Neville ever mention a General Pettigrew to you? From the Diogenes Club?”
“Pettigrew?” Susan repeated, slowly shaking her head. “No, I don’t recognize the name. I don’t think Neville has ever spoken of him. Neville doesn’t go to the Diogenes often, even though it’s just down the road from here. His father was a member. It was exactly the sort of place to suit an old toad like Mr. Teale. Then when he died, the members offered his place to Neville.”
“I see.”
Susan’s brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” If General Pettigrew had quarreled with Neville Teale over the subject of Susan, it seemed likely it was because the general had recognized her from the stage. But there was no need to worry Susan with that, especially not with General Pettigrew dead.
“Just give me the name and address of the man you suspect of being your blackmailer, and I’ll get back in touch with you the moment I have any news.”
CHAPTER 24
I knocked at the door of Jack and Becky’s lodgings, then held my breath. Please be here.
After parting from Susan, I had made sure that Becky and Uncle John returned safely to Baker Street.
Now it was nearly dusk. I had to be at the Savoy in just under two hours, but there ought to be time enough for me to call at the address that Susan had given me.
I had also spent nearly the whole of my journey here convincing myself that this wasn’t just an excuse for trying to find Jack again. But if I was wrong and he wasn’t here after all—
The door swung open, and I worked at not exhaling a long breath of relief.
Jack went motionless at the sight of me. He looked as though he was either just getting up or just going to bed, his shirt collar partly unbuttoned, and his dark hair still damp from the washbasin.
“Is Becky—” he began.
“She’s fine,” I interrupted quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, coming here like this. Becky is back in Baker Street with Holmes and Uncle John, quite safe. I think Holmes was going to spend the evening teaching her to use a chemical re-agent to test for hemoglobin.”
Jack stepped back, letting me come in.
“Is this place still being watched?” I asked.
I had waited a solid quarter of an hour on the street outside before I approached Jack’s door, watching for any signs that Flint was keeping him under observation.
I hadn’t seen anyone, but the streets in St. Giles were always a jumble of foot and street traffic, horse carts and pickpockets and dockyard workers on their way to or from work. It was impossible for me to be absolutely certain that there were no men here on Flint’s orders.
“Not that I’ve seen. Doesn’t hurt to be careful, though.”
Jack closed the door behind us, shutting out the noise of a spirited fight that two of the neighbors were having over who had spilled ashes over whose clean washing.
“All right, I give up. How did you know I’d be here?” he asked.
Everything about the Kellys’ small home was substantially the way it had been the last time I had visited here: everything orderly and neat, if threadbare. But somehow, without Becky’s liveliness and warmth, the rooms had a grim, empty feel that made me wince to think of Jack staying here alone.
At least he was still alive.
“The spots of candle wax on your shirt last night. You had a few specks on your sleeve, just there”—I gestured to the cuff of the clean shirt Jack was now wearing—“as though the candle had spattered when you blew it out. The wax was green. Like the candles on your mantel.” I pointed to the rough wooden shelf over the fireplace. “I was with Becky when she bought them three weeks ago. I was the one to take her marketing that week, remember, while you were on duty? She picked the green bayberry ones because she thought they were pretty.”
“Candle wax.” Jack shook his head.
“Well, I owed you for being the one to notice the bird vendor’s crooked finger last night and realize he wasn’t Holmes.”
“Has something happened?”
“No, nothing. But I wanted to visit the home of a possible blackmailer this evening, and I thought it would be more sensible if I didn’t go alone. It’s nothing to do with the Diogenes case,” I added. “Just something I’m looking into for a friend.”
Jack looked at me strangely. “Since when do you ever worry about doing the sensible thing?”
“I can be eminently sensible when I wish to be!”
Jack didn’t say anything.
I blew out an exasperated breath. “Don’t you have something better to do than stand there looking skeptical?”
Jack grinned. “Sure. Apparently I need to come along and visit a possible blackmailer.”
“I think that must be the place there.” I pointed to a narrow building between a store advertising meat for cats and dogs and a pawn shop. “Susan said that he had rooms over a tavern called the White Hart.”
The address Susan had given me was on Maiden Lane, just to the south of Covent Garden and not far from the Lyceum Theater.
This wasn’t the most dangerous neighborhood in London, but someone hoping to find a brothel could throw a stone in any direction and be reasonably sure of hitting one. And a pickpocket would be right at home.
Jack eyed the tavern, which looked decidedly down-at-heel, with paint peeling from the sign over the door and windows sagging in their frames.
“Who exactly are we looking for?”
“His name is Fred Miller. I don’t know too much more about him, except that he works as a theater usher, with a bit of petty larceny on the side.”
“Do we know what he looks like?”
I had gotten a description of him from Susan. “About five foot five inches tall, slim build, brown hair, and hazel eyes.”
Jack tilted his head to look up at the windows over the White Hart. “Looks like there should be an entrance around back. Do you want to go knock on his door and see whether he’s at home?”
Jack was wearing his blue police uniform since I’d thought a conversation with Fred Miller might carry more weight if I was accompanied by an officer of the law. As we made our way down the narrow alley that bordered the tavern, several of the men loitering in doorways looked at him and then abruptly decided that they had urgent business somewhere else.
“Have you seen Royce at all since last night?” I asked.
“No, but then Flint’s orders have been for everyone to lay low since the police raid. Why?”
“Someone planted a bomb in the luggage of a Greek armaments dealer. It was on him when he came to meet with Holmes this morning. I was just wondering whether it could have been Royce.”
Jack stopped walking. “That’s your definition of nothing happening?”
“Well, the bomb didn’t go off.” If I ignored the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at the memory, I could almost pretend that the nothing part of my answer was true. “I know Holmes is still worried about another attack happening tomorrow night, though. Lord Lansdowne is hosting a gala ball for charity at Lansdowne House. You haven’t heard Flint mention anything about it, have you?”
“No.” Jack and I had started down the alley again, but he glanced at me. “What’s wrong with Lansdowne House?”
“What?” I startled. “Why should there be something wrong?”
“I don’t know, your voice just sounded strange when you said it.”
Saying it did not! would only make me sound as though I were younger than Becky. I took a slow breath instead, then went motionless. We had reached the end of the alley and the back entrance to the tavern.
Glancing up and to my right, I could see a set of external stairs running up the back of the building to what had to be the door to Fred Miller’s rooms. And standing at the top of the stairs was a man in tattered clothes trying to pry open the door with a crowbar.
