The Seven Dials Mystery

  “Now, Howelly,” said Bundle, “let’s have a cup of rich cocoa together, and let me hear all the household news.”

  She gleaned what she wanted without much difficulty, making mental notes as follows:

  “Two new scullery maids—village girls—doesn’t seem much there. New third housemaid—head housemaid’s niece. That sounds all right. Howelly seems to have bullied poor Lady Coote a good deal. She would.”

  “I never thought the day would come when I should see Chimneys inhabited by strangers, Miss Bundle.”

  “Oh! one must go with the times,” said Bundle. “You’ll be lucky, Howelly, if you never see it converted into desirable flats with use of superb pleasure grounds.”

  Mrs. Howells shivered all down her reactionary aristocratic spine.

  “I’ve never seen Sir Oswald Coote,” remarked Bundle.

  “Sir Oswald is no doubt a very clever gentleman,” said Mrs. Howells distantly.

  Bundle gathered that Sir Oswald had not been liked by his staff.

  “Of course, it was Mr. Bateman who saw to everything,” continued the housekeeper. “A very efficient gentleman. A very efficient gentleman indeed, and one who knew the way things ought to be done.”

  Bundle led the talk on to the topic of Gerald Wade’s death. Mrs. Howell was only too willing to talk about it, and was full of pitying ejaculations about the poor young gentleman, but Bundle gleaned nothing new. Presently she took leave of Mrs. Howell and came downstairs again, where she promptly rang for Tredwell.

  “Tredwell, when did Arthur leave?”

  “It would be about a month ago now, my lady.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “It was by his own wish, my lady. I believe he has gone to London. I was not dissatisfied with him in any way. I think you will find the new footman, John, very satisfactory. He seems to know his work and to be most anxious to give satisfaction.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “He had excellent references, my lady. He had lived last with Lord Mount Vernon.”

  “I see,” said Bundle thoughtfully.

  She was remembering that Lord Mount Vernon was at present on a shooting trip in East Africa.

  “What’s his last name, Tredwell?”

  “Bower, my lady.”

  Tredwell paused for a minute or two and then, seeing that Bundle had finished, he quietly left the room. Bundle remained lost in thought.

  John had opened the door to her on her arrival that day, and she had taken particular notice of him without seeming to do so. Apparently he was the perfect servant, well-trained, with an expressionless face. He had, perhaps, a more soldierly bearing than most footmen and there was something a little odd about the shape of the back of his head.

  But these details, as Bundle realized, were hardly relevant to the situation. She sat frowning down at the blotting paper in front of her. She had a pencil in her hand and was idly tracing the name Bower over and over again.

  Suddenly an idea struck her and she stopped dead, staring at the word. Then she summoned Tredwell once more.

  “Tredwell, how is the name Bower spelt?”

  “B-A-U-E-R, my lady.”

  “That’s not an English name.”

  “I believe he is of Swiss extraction, my lady.”

  “Oh! That’s all, Tredwell, thank you.”

  Swiss extraction? No. German! That martial carriage, that flat back to the head. And he had come to Chimneys a fortnight before Gerry Wade’s death.

  Bundle rose to her feet. She had done all she could here. Now to get on with things! She went in search of her father.

  “I’m off again,” she said. “I’ve got to go and see Aunt Marcia.”

  “Got to see Marcia?” Lord Caterham’s voice was full of astonishment. “Poor child, how did you get let in for that?”

  “Just for once,” said Bundle, “I happen to be going of my own free will.”

  Lord Caterham looked at her in amazement. That anyone could have a genuine desire to face his redoubtable sister-in-law was quite incomprehensible to him. Marcia, Marchioness of Caterham, the widow of his late brother Henry, was a very prominent personality. Lord Caterham admitted that she had made Henry an admirable wife and that but for her in all probability he would never have held the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. On the other hand, he had always looked upon Henry’s early death as a merciful release.

  It seemed to him that Bundle was foolishly putting her head into the lion’s mouth.

  “Oh! I say,” he said. “You know, I shouldn’t do that. You don’t know what it may lead to.”

  “I know what I hope it’s going to lead to,” said Bundle. “I’m all right, Father, don’t you worry about me.”

  Lord Caterham sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He went back to his perusal of the Field. But in a minute or two Bundle suddenly put her head in again.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But there’s one other thing I wanted to ask you. What is Sir Oswald Coote?”

  “I told you—a steamroller.”

  “I don’t mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his money—trouser buttons or brass beds or what?”

  “Oh, I see. He’s steel. Steel and iron. He’s got the biggest steel works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn’t, of course, run the show personally now. It’s a company or companies. He got me in as a director of something or other. Very good business for me—nothing to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those hotel places—Cannon Street or Liverpool Street—and sit around a table where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately you needn’t listen to it—and I can tell you, you often get a jolly good lunch out of it.”

  Uninterested in Lord Caterham’s lunches, Bundle had departed again before he had finished speaking. On the way back to London, she tried to piece together things to her satisfaction.

  As far as she could see, steel and infant welfare did not go together. One of the two, then, was just padding—presumably the latter. Mrs. Macatta and the Hungarian countess could be ruled out of court. They were camouflage. No, the pivot of the whole thing seemed to be the unattractive Herr Eberhard. He did not seem to be the type of man whom George Lomax would normally invite. Bill had said vaguely that he invented. Then there was the Air Minister, and Sir Oswald Coote, who was steel. Somehow that seemed to hang together.

  Since it was useless speculating further, Bundle abandoned the attempt and concentrated on her forthcoming interview with Lady Caterham.

  The lady lived in a large gloomy house in one of London’s higher-class squares. Inside it smelt of sealing wax, bird seed and slightly decayed flowers. Lady Caterham was a large woman—large in every way. Her proportions were majestic, rather than ample. She had a large beaked nose, wore goldrimmed pince-nez and her upper lip bore just the faintest suspicion of a moustache.

  She was somewhat surprised to see her niece, but accorded her a frigid cheek, which Bundle duly kissed.

  “This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Eileen,” she observed coldly.

  “We’ve only just got back, Aunt Marcia.”

  “I know. How is your father? Much as usual?”

  Her tone conveyed disparagement. She had a poor opinion of Alastair Edward Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham. She would have called him, had she known the term, a “poor fish.”

  “Father is very well. He’s down at Chimneys.”

  “Indeed. You know, Eileen, I never approved of the letting of Chimneys. The place is in many ways a historical monument. It should not be cheapened.”

  “It must have been wonderful in Uncle Henry’s days,” said Bundle with a slight sigh.

  “Henry realized his responsibilities,” said Henry’s widow.

  “Think of the people who stayed there,” went on Bundle ecstatically. “All the principal statesmen of Europe.”

  Lady Caterham si
ghed.

  “I can truly say that history has been made there more than once,” she observed. “If only your father—”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “Politics bore father,” said Bundle, “and yet they are about the most fascinating study there is, I should say. Especially if one knew about them from the inside.”

  She made this extravagantly untruthful statement of her feelings without even a blush. Her aunt looked at her with some surprise.

  “I am pleased to hear you say so,” she said. “I always imagined, Eileen, that you cared for nothing but this modern pursuit of pleasure.”

  “I used to,” said Bundle.

  “It is true that you are still very young,” said Lady Caterham thoughtfully. “But with your advantages, and if you were to marry suitably, you might be one of the leading political hostesses of the day.”

  Bundle felt slightly alarmed. For a moment she feared that her aunt might produce a suitable husband straightaway.

  “But I feel such a fool,” said Bundle. “I mean, I know so little.”

  “That can easily be remedied,” said Lady Caterham briskly. “I have any amount of literature I can lend you.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Marcia,” said Bundle, and proceeded hastily to her second line of attack.

  “I wondered if you knew Mrs. Macatta, Aunt Marcia?”

  “Certainly I know her. A most estimable woman with a brilliant brain. I may say that as a general rule I do not hold with women standing for Parliament. They can make their influence felt in a more womanly fashion.” She paused, doubtless to recall the womanly way in which she had forced a reluctant husband into the political arena and the marvellous success which had crowned his and her efforts. “But still, times change. And the work Mrs. Macatta is doing is of truly national importance, and of the utmost value to all women. It is, I think I may say, true womanly work. You must certainly meet Mrs. Macatta.”

  Bundle gave a rather dismal sigh.

  “She’s going to be at a house party at George Lomax’s next week. He asked father, who, of course, won’t go, but he never thought of asking me. Thinks I’m too much of an idiot, I suppose.”

  It occurred to Lady Caterham that her niece was really wonderfully improved. Had she, perhaps, had an unfortunate love affair? An unfortunate love affair, in Lady Caterham’s opinion, was so often highly beneficial to young girls. It made them take life seriously.

  “I don’t suppose George Lomax realizes for a moment that you have—shall we say, grown up? Eileen dear” she said, “I must have a few words with him.”

  “He doesn’t like me,” said Bundle. “I know he won’t ask me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Lady Caterham. “I shall make a point of it. I knew George Lomax when he was so high.” She indicated a quite impossible height. “He will be only too pleased to do me a favour. And he will be sure to see for himself that it is vitally important that the present-day young girls of our own class should take an intelligent interest in the welfare of their country.”

  Bundle nearly said: “Hear, hear,” but checked herself.

  “I will find you some literature now,” said Lady Caterham, rising.

  She called in a piercing voice: “Miss Connor.”

  A very neat secretary with a frightened expression came running. Lady Caterham gave her various directions. Presently Bundle was driving back to Brook Street with an armful of the driest-looking literature imaginable.

  Her next proceeding was to ring up Jimmy Thesiger. His first words were full of triumph.

  “I’ve managed it,” he said. “Had a lot of trouble with Bill, though. He’d got it into his thick head that I should be a lamb among wolves. But I made him see sense at last. I’ve got a lot of thingummybobs now and I’m studying them. You know, blue books and white papers. Deadly dull—but one must do the thing properly. Have you ever heard of the Santa Fé boundary dispute?”

  “Never,” said Bundle.

  “Well, I’m taking special pains with that. It went on for years and was very complicated. I’m making it my subject. Nowadays one has to specialize.”

  “I’ve got a lot of the same sort of things,” said Bundle. “Aunt Marcia gave them to me.”

  “Aunt who?”

  “Aunt Marica—Father’s sister-in-law. She’s very political. In fact, she’s going to get me invited to George’s party.”

  “No? Oh, I say, that will be splendid.” There was a pause and then Jimmy said:

  “I say, I don’t think we’d better tell Loraine that—eh?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “You see, she mayn’t like being out of it. And she really must be kept out of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean you can’t let a girl like that run into danger!”

  Bundle reflected that Mr. Thesiger was slightly deficient in tact. The prospect of her running into danger did not seem to give him any qualms whatever.

  “Have you gone away?” asked Jimmy.

  “No, I was only thinking.”

  “I see. I say, are you going to the inquest tomorrow?”

  “Yes, are you?”

  “Yes. By the way, it’s in the evening papers. But tucked away in a corner. Funny—I should have thought they’d have made rather a splash about it.”

  “Yes—so should I.”

  “Well,” said Jimmy, “I must be getting on with my task. I’ve just got to where Bolivia sent us a Note.”

  “I suppose I must get on with my little lot,” said Bundle. “Are you going to swot at it all the evening?”

  “I think so. Are you?”

  “Oh, probably. Good night.”

  They were both liars of the most unblushing order. Jimmy Thesiger knew perfectly well that he was taking Loraine Wade out to dinner.

  As for Bundle, no sooner had she rung off than she attired herself in various nondescript garments belonging, as a matter of fact, to her maid. And having donned them she sallied out on foot deliberating whether bus or tube would be the best route by which to reach the Seven Dials Club.

  Thirteen

  THE SEVEN DIALS CLUB

  Bundle reached 14 Hunstanton Street about six p.m. At that hour, as she rightly judged, the Seven Dials Club was a dead spot. Bundle’s aim was a simple one. She intended to get hold of the ex-footman Alfred. She was convinced that once she had got hold of him the rest would be easy. Bundle had a simple autocratic method of dealing with retainers. It seldom failed, and she saw no reason why it should fail now.

  The only thing of which she was not certain was how many people inhabited the club premises. Naturally she wished to disclose her presence to as few people as possible.

  Whilst she was hesitating as to the best line of attack, the problem was solved for her in a singularly easy fashion. The door of No 14 opened and Alfred himself came out.

  “Good afternoon, Alfred,” said Bundle pleasantly.

  Alfred jumped.

  “Oh! good afternoon, your ladyship. I—I didn’t recognize your ladyship just for a moment.”

  Paying a tribute in her own mind to her maid’s clothing, Bundle proceeded to business.

  “I want a few words with you, Alfred. Where shall we go?”

  “Well—really, my lady—I don’t know—it’s not what you might call a nice part round here—I don’t know, I’m sure—”

  Bundle cut him short.

  “Who’s in the club?”

  “No one at present, my lady.”

  “Then we’ll go in there.”

  Alfred produced a key and opened the door. Bundle passed in. Alfred, troubled and sheepish, followed her. Bundle sat down and looked straight at the uncomfortable Alfred.

  “I suppose you know,” she said crisply, “that what you’re doing here is dead against the law?”

  Alfred shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  “It’s true as we’ve been raided twice,” he admitted. “But nothing compromising was found, owing to the neatness of Mr. Mosgorovsky’
s arrangements.”

  “I’m not talking of the gambling only,” said Bundle. There’s more than that—probably a great deal more than you know. I’m going to ask you a direct question, Alfred, and I should like the truth, please. How much were you paid for leaving Chimneys?”

  Alfred looked twice round the cornice as though seeking for inspiration, swallowed three or four times, and then took the inevitable course of a weak will opposed to a strong one.

  “It was this way, your ladyship. Mr. Mosgorovsky, he come with a party to visit Chimneys on one of the show days. Mr. Tredwell, he was indisposed like—an ingrowing toenail as a matter of fact—so it fell to me to show the parties over. At the end of the tour Mr. Mosgorovsky, he stays behind the rest, and after giving me something handsome, he falls into conversation.”

  “Yes,” said Bundle encouragingly.

  “And the long and the short of it was,” said Alfred, with a sudden acceleration of his narrative, “that he offers me a hundred pound down to leave that instant and to look after this here club. He wanted someone as was used to the best families—to give the place a tone, as he put it. And, well, it seemed flying in the face of providence to refuse—let alone that the wages I get here are just three times what they were as second footman.”

  “A hundred pounds,” said Bundle. “That’s a very large sum, Alfred. Did they say anything about who was to fill your place at Chimneys?”

  “I demurred a bit, my lady, about leaving at once. As I pointed out, it wasn’t usual and might cause inconvenience. But Mr. Mosgorovsky he knew of a young chap—been in good service and ready to come any minute. So I mentioned his name to Mr. Tredwell and everything was settled pleasant-like.”

  Bundle nodded. Her own suspicions had been correct and the modus operandi was much as she had thought it to be. She essayed a further inquiry.

  “Who is Mr. Mosgorovsky?”

  “Gentleman as runs this club. Russian gentleman. A very clever gentleman too.”