For talk six times with the same single lady,
And you may get the wedding dresses ready.
—LORD BYRON
A stonemason who had been rescued from a third-class carriage along with his wife and two children had demanded at the time to know the name of his rescuer. Harry had simply smiled and run off to try to rescue someone else. But Becket had shouted back, “Captain Harry Cathcart.”
One of the stonemason’s sons had a broken arm. Reporters haunting the nearby hospitals began to hear of some hero who had gone from carriage to carriage rescuing people. They came upon the stonemason as he was leaving the hospital with his family, his son’s arm in a splint. He told them that the lives of himself and his family had been saved by a Captain Harry Cathcart.
Daisy slipped out the following day for a walk. She was very troubled. Peter and Rose had won first prize for their costumes. Everyone was talking about what a handsome pair they made.
She walked until she reached Piccadilly. Outside the new Ritz Hotel, a news-vendor was shouting, “Read all abaht it! Hero of train crash.”
Daisy was about to walk on when she recognized Harry’s face on the front page. She fumbled in her reticule for her change purse and bought a copy and went into Green Park where she could read it in peace.
The photograph of Harry had been taken a year before at a charity fund-raising garden party. Daisy read in growing horror about the train crash. Becket was referred to only as Harry’s manservant. He could have been killed, she thought, the newspaper trembling in her hands, oblivious to the black ink that was soiling her gloves.
Various friends telephoned the earl to exclaim over Harry’s bravery. He told his wife.
“Perhaps we will say nothing of this to Rose,” said Lady Polly. “It is better at the moment that she should think he did not care enough about her to attend last night.”
At that moment, Rose entered the drawing-room carrying a letter and a little jeweller’s box.
“I am returning Captain’s Cathcart’s ring,” she said. “I have written him a letter asking him to release me from the engagement.”
“It’s all for the best,” said Lady Polly. “I’ll get John footman to take it straight to him. Matthew shall send an announcement to the newspapers straight away.”
Harry had told Becket to take the day off. Phil, proud of his temporary position as butler, was answering the door and telling the press in strangulated tones of refinement that the captain was “not at home.”
Phil was unrecognizable as the wreck that Harry had first brought home. His skin was clear and healthy and his figure erect. He loved his room and his books. He wished he’d been on that train with the guv’nor and maybe had a chance to rescue him.
He answered the door again, prepared to send another reporter away, but it was the earl’s footman who stood there. He handed Phil the letter and the little jeweller’s box. “My Lady Rose requested me to give these to Captain Cathcart.”
Phil took the letter and box in to where Harry was sitting at his desk in the parlour.
“From Lady Rose,” said Phil.
Harry looked bleakly at the letter and then at the jeweller’s box. “Thank you, Phil, that will be all.”
“Right, guv.” Phil backed out of the room as if before royalty.
Harry opened the jeweller’s box. The ring he had given Rose sparkled up at him.
He broke open the seal on the letter. He read: “Dear Captain Cathcart, As you have once again shown your indifference to me by failing to escort me last night or even to send an apology, I am terminating our engagement. This will be best for both of us. Yours sincerely, Rose Summer.”
“The hell with her,” said Harry out loud. “Now I need never be hurt again!”
Daisy hurried upstairs, clutching the Evening News. She erupted into Rose’s sitting-room, crying, “You’ll never believe it!”
“What is it, Daisy?” Rose was slumped in an armchair by the fire.
“It’s about the captain. He’s a hero. Oh, if only they had got Becket’s name!”
“Let me see that newspaper.”
Daisy handed it over. Rose read the story of Harry’s bravery with increasing horror.
She turned a white face up to Daisy. “I have just written to him sending his ring back and Matthew has sent a notice to the Times cancelling our engagement.”
“Why?” shrieked Daisy.
“Because he did not attend me last night. I thought he was snubbing me.”
“Cancel the notice!”
“I can’t,” said Rose dismally. “It’s done. It’s for the best.”
“You fool,” said Daisy bitterly. “You bloody little fool.” She burst into tears and fled from the room.
Rose was in more disgrace than she had been when her photograph had appeared once on the front page of the Daily Mail showing her attending a suffragette rally. She had jilted England’s latest hero. The announcement had appeared in the Times and the gossipy papers had recognized a story. All the facts of Dolly’s murder were dragged up again. A nasty bit of speculation began to run through society that someone as unstable as Lady Rose Summer might have killed Dolly herself in a fit of jealous rage.
Daisy was angry with her, wondering if she would ever see Becket again. Three days after the announcement Daisy felt she could not bear it any longer and slipped out of the house and took a hansom to Chelsea.
When Becket answered the door, Daisy burst into tears and fell into his arms.
He drew her gently inside, saying, “Please don’t cry. We’ll think of something.”
At last, Daisy, fortified with hot gin, gulped and said, “My lady is in such disgrace. Some people are beginning to think she might have murdered Dolly herself.”
“But that is ridiculous!”
“I know. But mud like that sticks. Invitations have been cancelled. Lady Polly is in fits. It’s all her fault for encouraging Rose to break off the engagement, but of course she puts the blame for everything all on Rose.”
“It is a pity there is no other gentleman in Lady Rose’s life.”
“Why?”
“Because society would assume that she was so much in love with this other fellow that she had to ditch the captain.”
“There’s only Sir Peter and we both know what he is.”
“That might be gossip. We may be mistaken.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then perhaps Sir Peter might agree to an arranged engagement. If he does prefer men and were ever caught out, he would go to prison.”
“Do you think that might do the trick?”
“It would certainly save my master’s face and would stop a lot of the gossip about her.”
“I’ll suggest it.”
“Then there is charity work. There are soup kitchens in the East End. If she were to work some hours in one of those and the press got to hear of it, she might be regarded as an angel of mercy.”
“You are clever, Becket. I wish we could get married.”
“We will,” said Becket. “I don’t know how, but I will do everything in my power to make that happen.”
When Daisy returned, Rose listened to Becket’s suggestions. “It would mean I would have to propose to Peter,” she said.
A footman entered. “Sir Peter Petrey has called, my lady.”
“I will see him. Are my parents at home?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then put him in the drawing-room. Come, Daisy.”
As they walked down to the drawing-room, Daisy hissed, “You can’t propose to him with me there.”
“We will take tea and then I will ask you to fetch my shawl.”
Peter advanced to meet them. “I am so sorry, Lady Rose,” he said. “It is unfair that you should be in disgrace for refusing to continue in an engagement that had become distasteful to you. Surely everyone knows he neglected you shamefully.”
“Everyone has conveniently forgotten that.”
Rose rang the bell and ordered tea. Peter chatted away of this and that and then Rose said, “Please fetch my shawl, Daisy.”
When Daisy had left the room, Rose said bluntly, “I have often thought of marrying just anyone in order to have a household of my own.”
“You might find a husband tyrannical.”
Rose took a deep breath. “Not if it were someone like you.”
Peter carefully replaced a half-eaten crumpet on his plate. “Lady Rose, are you proposing to me?”
“I suppose I am. I shall be very rich on my majority. I would not interfere with you if you would not interfere with me.”
“Meaning a marriage in name only?”
“Why this sudden desire to marry me and not someone else?”
“I do not like anyone else. If I were to announce an engagement to you, people would assume that was the reason I jilted the captain.”
“All very Byzantine. Yes, I don’t see why not. We are friends. Ah, I hear your parents returning. I shall ask you father’s permission.”
Lady Polly was in a high good humour. Ever since Rose’s disgrace, she had been diligently making calls, reminding society how Cathcart had snubbed her poor Rose, how he had never been at her side; how, having sunk to trade, the captain spent all his time working like a common labourer. Her last call had shown her that the gossip had taken. “Poor Lady Rose,” fickle society was now saying. “Of course she could not go on.”
The earl, who had just returned from his club, was told by Brum, “Sir Peter Petrey wishes to speak to you, my lord.”
“Does he now!” Lady Polly and her husband exchanged glances.
When they entered the drawing-room, Peter rose to meet them. “My lord, my lady, I will get directly to the point of my call. I wish to marry your daughter.”
“You have my permission,” sighed the earl. “I’ll send Rose to you, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“Lady Rose has already intimated that she would be pleased to accept my suit.”
“Splendid! Splendid!” said the earl. “Leave you to it.”
Harry was so furious when he read the announcement that Becket did not dare tell him it had been his idea.
Instead Becket said cautiously, “I fear, sir, that Lady Rose may have been anxious to set up her own household and found in Sir Peter someone amiable who would let her have her own way.”
“Oh, to hell with her,” raged Harry. “I’m well out of it. I’m going to see Kerridge.”
At Scotland Yard, Kerridge looked sympathetically at Harry. “It’s your own fault,” he said. “You did neglect her.”
Harry shrugged. “I may as well tell you now. It was an arrangement between us to stop her being sent out to India.”
“That’s a pity. I always thought the pair of you were eminently suitable. Still, that’s an end to her detecting. She won’t be getting into any more trouble now.”
In the following weeks Rose began to relax and feel she had made a wise decision. Peter was always in attendance and was a free and easy companion. But there was still some black little piece of sorrow inside her. She told herself it was because she missed the excitement of being with Harry and Becket and solving cases.
One morning, she remembered guiltily that it had been some days since she had last visited Miss Friendly. She went up to the attic. She stopped outside the door. Miss Friendly was singing in a high reedy voice:
“Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.”
Rose pushed open the door and went in. “I heard you singing. I assume that means you are still happy with us, Miss Friendly?”
“So very happy, Lady Rose. Funnily enough, I was just remembering when Roger, the blacksmith’s son, used to sing that song. It was originally a Longfellow poem. He had such a lovely voice.”
“I wish I knew where this Roger is now,” said Rose. “What are you working at?”
Miss Friendly flushed slightly. “I regret to say that I am working for myself just now. I have put on weight and I am letting out a gown.”
Rose laughed. “You needed to put on weight.” Then she said, “Did you ever do any charity work?”
“When Papa was alive I used to call on the unfortunate of the village. There were so many. I would give them what food we could spare.”
“Miss Levine has suggested that I might do some work in the soup kitchens of the East End. Perhaps you might care to accompany me?”
“Gladly. Charity work is very rewarding.”
“Then I shall let you know when we are setting out.”
Rose went back down the stairs and told Daisy they would be taking Miss Friendly with them when they set out on charity work. To Daisy, a trip to the East End of London was a journey back into her past that she was reluctant to make.
She asked, “Did Miss Friendly remember anything more about Dolly that might be important?”
“No, she was just saying, however, that this Roger Dallow had an excellent singing voice.”
Daisy’s green eyes gleamed. “If I were a blacksmith’s lad and had a good voice and had endured enough hard labour to last me a lifetime, I’d try to get a job in the music hall.”
“I never thought of that. But there are so many theatres in London.”
“I could go out and buy a copy of The Stage Directory. The offices are in Covent Garden opposite the Theatre Royal.”
“And you think he might be in there?”
“Perhaps.”
“Good. Let us go now. I do not have an engagement until this evening.”
They took one of the earl’s carriages to Covent Garden. Rose waited until Daisy went in and bought a copy of the paper. She emerged pleased with herself. “It only costs a penny now.”
“Let’s go to Swan and Edgar for tea. We can look at it there and quiz the ladies’ hats.”
The department store of Swan and Edgar at Piccadilly Circus was famous for its teas. They also had an orchestra to entertain the customers.
“Now,” said Daisy, “let’s see if he’s in here.”
Rose leaned back in her chair and listened to the sugary strains of the orchestra playing “Poor Wandering One” from The Pirates of Penzance. Did Harry ever think of her? she wondered.
“There’s something here,” said Daisy. “It doesn’t say Roger Dallow, but it says there’s someone called Sam Duval and he’s billed at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as The Singing Blacksmith.”
“I wish we could go this evening but we are invited to the Pocingtons for dinner.”
“You could have a headache.”
Rose smiled. “So I could. My parents are so pleased with my engagement that they will not mind me having one night off. The minute they leave, we can take a hansom to Fulham Palace.”
Daisy was excited. If they found out anything, surely Rose would want to tell Harry and Kerridge.
When they climbed into the hansom that evening, Daisy twisted around and peered out of the back window.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rose.
“Funny,” said Daisy, turning back. “I thought I saw two men standing under the trees opposite the house.”
“That is odd. Some time ago I looked down into the square and saw Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow standing there.”
“I wish you were still engaged to the captain,” fretted Daisy. “He would have come round and lain in wait for them and demanded to know what they were doing.”
“I’m sure Sir Peter will do the same thing should I ask him.”
“He’s not frightening enough,” said Daisy. “The captain is.”
“Oh, do stop talking about Captain Cathcart. That part of my life is finished.”
“So you say,” muttered Daisy sulkily.
They had to pay for a box at the Fulham Palace Music Hall as all the seats had already been booked.
There was to be a guest appearance of George Chevalier, famous for his song “My Old Dutch.”
Rose fidgeted restlessly while Daisy heaved a sentimental sigh as Chevalier sang:
“We’ve been together now for forty years,
An’ it don’t seem a day too much;
There ain’t a lady livin’ in the land
As I’d swop for my dear old Dutch.”
Then came the comedians, the jugglers, and a conjurer, all followed by a massive corseted lady who sang, “I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” The first half was over.
Rose saw various members of the audience staring up at the box and lowered her veil. But to Daisy, who had been on the halls herself, it was all fascinating.
The second half opened with a man with his performing dogs. Rose stifled a yawn. And then Sam Duval came on. He was an exceptionally good-looking man with dark curly hair and a strong figure. He was dressed in a blacksmith’s costume and standing by a “forge” and looking at an empty birdcage on a table in front of the footlights. He sang in a clear tenor voice:
“She’s only a bird
In a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see,
You may think she’s happy
And free from care,
She’s not
Tho’ she seems to be.
‘Tis sad when you think
Of her wasted life,
For youth cannot mate with age,
And her beauty was sold
For an old man’s gold,
She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”
There was a throb in his voice while he sang. There was a brief silence when he finished and then there was a roar of applause. Daisy clapped until her hands were sore. Then she nudged Rose. “Come on. I’m sure that’s him. Let’s get round to the stage door.”
Frost glittered on the pavement outside the theatre, shining under the stuttering gaslights, as they made their way round to the side of the building.
Rose presented her card to the stage-door keeper. “Follow me,” he said, and winked at her. Oh dear, thought Rose. He thinks I’m the female equivalent of a stage-door Johnny.
They followed the stage-door keeper up narrow stairs and along a passage. “That’s him,” he said, jerking his hand at a door. He turned and left them.
“Here we go,” said Daisy. She rapped at the door and a voice called, “Come in.”
They entered a small dressing-room which smelled strongly of dog. The Singing Blacksmith was sitting in front of a mirror.
He stared in the mirror at them. “Who are you?”
Rose stepped forward. “I am Lady Rose Summer and this is Mrs. Levine. Are you really Roger Dallow?”
“So what’s it to you?”
“I was briefly a friend of Miss Dolly Tremaine. I am trying to find out what happened to her.”
He swung round. “I remember your name now. It was in the newspapers.”
“Was Miss Tremaine going to join you?”
“Yes. I stood outside the house and she dropped a note out of the window. She said she would join me. She said she couldn’t bear it any longer because they were forcing her to marry some old man. She said I was to meet her the following day at the Shaftsbury Monument in Piccadilly at four in the afternoon. The following day, I waited and waited, but she didn’t come. Then I heard the newsboys calling out about some murder. I bought a paper. I can’t read very well but enough to know she had been murdered.”
“Did she ever tell you she was frightened of anyone?” asked Rose.
“I wasn’t allowed to go near her in the village after someone reported we’d been seen together. I got a whipping from my dad. I wouldn’t have run away but then I heard Dolly had been taken off to London. I don’t earn much here but it would have been enough for us to live simply.” He buried his head in his hands. “I loved her.”
“The police have been looking for you,” said Rose. “May I tell them we found you?”
“No!” he cried. “I’d nothing to do with it, but if the police come round here and take me away for questioning, innocent or not, I won’t have a job when I get back.”
“What’s the awful smell in here?” asked Daisy, wrinkling her nose.
“I’ve got to share with the dog act. He’s taken them out for a walk.”
“So you have no idea at all who might have killed her?” asked Rose.
“Who would want to kill Dolly except that Lord Berrow? Maybe he got mad when she told him she wouldn’t marry him.”
“I do not think she would be allowed to do anything other than accept his proposal,” said Rose.
“Someone tried to kill you, didn’t they?” asked Roger.
“Yes, the police now think it was some hired assassin. I will not tell the police about you.”
The dressing-room door opened and a pretty chorus girl came in. “Nearly time for the curtain call, darling.” She perched on Roger’s knee and gave him a hearty kiss. Roger threw a sheepish look at Rose.
“Who’re they?” asked the chorus girl.
“Nobody, really,” said Roger.
Rose and Daisy left.
“So much for undying love,” said Rose. “He seems to have found someone new pretty quickly.”
“It’s been months since the murder,” said the ever-pragmatic Daisy. “Life goes on.”
Rose brooded on Harry on the journey back. She had never thought until that moment that Harry might fall in love and get married. The idea depressed her.
Daisy broke into her thoughts. “Going to tell the captain about Roger?”
“No.”
“He might have done it.”
“He hasn’t enough money to pay an assassin. Don’t tell Becket anything.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Harry had been visiting a house a few doors away from the earl’s town house to report that he had managed to quash a scandal.
As he left, he suddenly stopped on the front stairs. Two men were looking up at the earl’s house. When they saw Harry, they moved away.
Berrow and Banks, thought Harry. Why are they spying on Rose? I don’t like this at all.
They were walking away quickly, but he caught up with them. “Stop!” he shouted. “What were you doing watching Hadfield’s house?”
Cyril stared at him insolently. “We stopped to have a cigar.”
“You were not smoking.”
“See here,” said Berrow, shoving his fat and florid face at Harry, “you’re a cheeky upstart. You’ve betrayed your class. How dare you question me!”
“I’m warning you,” said Harry, “if I catch you here again, I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, and if either of you had anything to do with the murder of Dolly Tremaine, I’ll find out.”
They backed away from him, turned, and walked rapidly out of the square.
“Needs to be taught a lesson,” growled Berrow. “Have you seen that motor of his? He’s making a fortune out of his grubby business. I’d like to punish him. Are you sure Lady Rose really fancies you? I mean, she got engaged to Petrey.”
“And we all know what Petrey is. I tell you, Lady Rose was all over me. Think of her fortune. Think of getting the Ice Queen into bed. But I’ve got to get rid of Petrey and I’ve thought of a way.”
Sir Peter Petrey was leaving The Club two days later. London was in the grip of a particularly nasty thick yellow fog. It was one of those lung-searing fogs of winter blanketing London, blotting out landmarks. He knew if he could even get a hansom, it would take him ages to get home.
It was late afternoon and he realized he would need to walk home if he was to manage to change into his evening clothes and escort Rose to a dinner party.
He bumped into someone in the fog. “I say, I am sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right. Beastly weather,” said a young voice. “Do you know the way to Charles Street?”
“I’m going there myself. Come along.”
They walked on together. As they passed a lighted shop front, the fog swirled for a moment and thinned. Peter looked at his companion and caught his breath. He was looking at the face of an angel. Golden hair like guineas glinted under a silk hat, large deep eyes, a perfect skin, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow.
“Are you visiting London?” he asked.
“No, I live here. I’m going to visit friends. This is awfully good of you, sir.”
“My name is Peter Petrey. And you are . . . ?”
“Jonathan Wilks.”
“I am glad of the company on such a filthy night, Mr. Wilks.”
“Do call me Jonathan, everyone does.”
They talked about plays they had seen and poetry they had read. Peter began not to notice the fog. He felt he was enclosed in a golden bubble with this dazzling youth.
Just before they reached Peter’s house, the young man stopped. “This is where I leave you.”
“Here is my card,” said Peter. “Do call. I’ll wait to see you get in safely.”
Jonathan knocked at the door. Then he came back down the front steps. “They don’t seem to be at home. I must have forgotten the day. This is Friday, is it not?”
“No, it’s Thursday.”
“Oh dear.”
“Look, come in with me and have a sherry while I dress.”
When Peter arrived slightly late and out of breath, Rose noticed he seemed to shine with an inner glow. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I haven’t made a mistake about him. He looks like a man in love.
Peter had never been in better form than during the dinner. He told jokes, he told gossip, and he delighted the company.
Shrewd Daisy watched him with anxious eyes. I hope it’s Rose that has given him this extra sparkle, she thought. I hope it isn’t anyone it shouldn’t be.
Daisy’s concerns grew when, after dinner, she heard Peter tell Rose that he was going away on Friday and would not return until the following Monday.
“Where?” asked Rose. “Anywhere pleasant?”
“Just visiting some friends.”
“You will miss the ball tomorrow.”
“Oh dear. Can you find someone to escort you? Captain Cathcart, perhaps?”
Rose raised her brows in amazement. “Have you forgotten I ended my engagement to the captain and became engaged to you?”
“No, my dearest. It is just that it is very important that I go away this weekend.”
Peter manufactured a laugh. “You sound like a wife already. Ah, there is Lady Simpson looking for me.”
He darted off.
Daisy joined Rose. “I heard that.”
“Most odd,” said Rose. “Just a day ago he seemed to delight in my company.”
“Let’s just hope he isn’t delighting in anyone else’s.”
Peter and Jonathan went down to Oxford the following day. The fog had disappeared, but Oxford was shrouded in a hard frost. They walked along by the icy river where the last leaves hung rimed with the frost, which glinted like rubies under a hard red sun. Peter kept glancing at his companion, becoming even more and more besotted. Those large eyes that he had first seen in the fog were green with flecks of gold. His black eyelashes were thick and curled at the ends. He had a wide-brimmed hat perched rakishly on his golden curls.
Peter considered him too perfect for any carnal thoughts. His sexual adventures had been very few and he had avoided that brothel in Westminster which catered to tastes like his own. Discretion was all-important. Discovery meant prison and hard labour.
They had a pleasant dinner that evening at the Rose and Crown. When they had finished, Peter dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Now what shall we do?”
Jonathan leaned forward and fixed him with a glowing look. “I know somewhere in Oxford where we can end the evening . . . together. It’s not much of a hotel, but it would serve our purpose.”
Peter’s mouth went dry. “Y-you c-can’t mean . . .” he stuttered. That beautiful mouth smiled at him lazily.
“Oh, but that’s exactly what I mean.”
Rose sat at the ball and watched the dancers. Now that she was engaged to Peter and seemed happy with him, the heiress-hunters of society had decided to leave her alone.
The next dance, a waltz, was announced. She looked at her dance card. Nothing for the next dance and then a few dances with elderly friends of her father.
She looked up and found Harry bowing before her. “Lady Rose, may I have the honour?”
They moved together on the dance floor. “Have you any more news about Dolly’s death?” asked Rose.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. Have you?”
Rose thought of Roger but decided to remain silent. She shook her head.
“Where is your fiancé tonight?”
“He has gone off to see friends.”
“That is surely most unlike him. I would have thought him a dutiful escort.”
“He usually is.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this marriage? Don’t you want children?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Daisy told me that you know exactly what I mean. Peter is not interested in your sex.”
“There is no proof of that,” said Rose, her face flaming. “In any case, all I want is an arranged marriage. I would have my own household and I would have freedom. I owe you an apology. I only found out later that you had been the hero of that terrible train crash.”
“On another matter, I found Berrow and Banks outside your house. I warned them off. What are they up to?”
“I don’t know.”
“While we had our pretend engagement, at least I could feel I was protecting you.”
“Fiddlesticks. You were never there.”
“I could change,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” demanded Rose, but the waltz had finished and an elderly partner was waiting for her.
She danced impatiently, wanting to speak to Harry again, wondering if he had really said he could change, and what had he meant by that?
When the dance was over, her eyes searched the ballroom, but there was no sign of Harry.
Peter and Jonathan lay side by side, naked, on a bed in a seedy hotel in Oxford’s Jericho district. Jonathan was smoking a Russian cigarette and blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.
“That was beautiful,” said Peter in a choked voice.
“I can make it more exciting.” Jonathan stubbed out his cigarette and then fished on the floor on his side of the bed. He brought up a leather mask. “If I put this on, it will titillate you even more.”
“I am in love with you,” said Peter in a stifled voice. “I do not need to play silly games.”
“You’ll love it. See!” Jonathan put the mask on and then wound his arms around Peter. “Indulge me.” Then he raised his voice. “I have the mask on!”
The bedroom door burst open and a magnesium flash blinded Peter. The man behind the flash was holding a camera. He, too, was masked. The cameraman snapped at Jonathan, “You’ve done your work. Now get out of here.”
Jonathan scooped up his clothes and darted from the room. Peter struggled out of bed and ran to the door, which was slammed in his face. He hurriedly dressed and ran downstairs and into the street.
He looked frantically up and down. No one. He went back to the hotel. “Who was that man with the camera?” he demanded.
The man at reception looked at him with flat eyes. “I never saw nobody with a camera.”
“You’re lying,” howled Peter.
The man smiled at him. “Want to go to the police?”
“That is what I am going to do,” said Peter, knowing miserably that that was the very last thing he could do.
He could only assume that whoever took that photo meant to blackmail him. Then he thought of detective Harry Cathcart, who was famous for covering up scandals. But would Harry report him to the police?
It was either that or kill himself.
Harry had gone to visit his father, Baron Derrington, a duty call he had been putting off for ages, and so Peter had to fret and worry all weekend.
When Harry arrived at his office on Monday morning, it was to find Peter waiting for him.
“How can I help you, Sir Peter?” asked Harry.
“May I talk to you in private?” Peter cast a nervous look at the secretary, Ailsa.
“By all means,” said Harry. “Come into my office.” He cast a shrewd look at the trembling and sweating Peter and said to his secretary, “Miss Bridge, would you please go to Fortnum’s and buy me some chocolates? A large box. Take the money out of the petty cash.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Inside his inner office, Harry held up his hand for silence until he heard Ailsa leaving.
“Now, Sir Peter, you may begin.”
“You will despise me!”
“Sir Peter, I know so many shocking things that anything you say will fail to amaze me.”
So, in a trembling voice, Peter told him of Jonathan and of how he had been betrayed. He ended by saying, “Do you think they will blackmail me?”
“Probably. Unless—”
The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” said Harry. A voice quacked down the receiver from the other end. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said Harry.
“I am afraid,” he said to Peter, “that the photograph has gone to Lord Hadfield.”
“I am ruined,” said Peter, beginning to sob.
“I will make sure Lord Hadfield says nothing of this. But I must get that photograph and negative back.”
“But how can you?” wailed Peter. “I don’t know who they are.”
Harry thought of Berrow and Banks lurking in the square outside Rose’s house.
“I want you to go to your home. Speak to no one. Do not answer the door. I will call on you later. I will give three knocks and then two so that you know it is me.”