‘Do squeeze in if you can,’ someone said. She was in a hat shaped like a two-tier cakestand and he recognised her as the woman he’d just watched getting out of the minivan. Better start thinking of her as a lady if she was indeed Lady Paris. When she stepped back a little and pushed down on the hoops of her skirt to make room, he saw that the cakestand was topped with a round, stuffed fabric object made to look like a bun, with quite believable currants and flakes of sugar. A Bath bun, of course. These people didn’t take themselves as seriously as he’d assumed.
‘Thanks.’ But he was only able to take one step. Tube trains in the rush hour had more standing room.
She released the dress and the hidden hoop sprang up and lodged against his shins. ‘Don’t back off,’ she said. ‘Touching is part of the fun.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You’re new to this, aren’t you? You must be Georgie’s top detective. I was instructed to look out for you. I’m Sally, the Beau’s ball and chain.’
So this had to be Lady Paris. He managed a nod. ‘Peter Diamond.’
‘Gorgeous rug, Pete,’ Sally said, evidently meaning his wig. She was about his own age and already making him feel as if he should lighten up. ‘One like that gives a guy style. You could pass for George Washington. I wish my other half was allowed to sport a white one, but Beau Nash wore this long black shoulder-length thing that makes him look like Fred Basset, the cartoon dog. Don’t laugh when you meet him. He’ll bark if you do. He may bite.’
Diamond felt sudden pressure on the backs of his knees. Someone else in a hoop dress was trying to enter the room.
Sally grabbed his arm and pulled him close. ‘It gets like this, I’m afraid. Every time anyone else comes into the room we all get more intimate, but you can relax. I defy anyone to go the whole way dressed like this.’
Going the whole way hadn’t crossed Diamond’s mind. Right now he was trapped by whalebone digging into his lower limbs from front and back and it was uncomfortable. He edged sideways.
‘Have I shocked you?’ Sally said.
‘No, ma’am. I’m trying for a better position.’
A peal of laughter came from her. ‘If Ed hears that, it’s pistols at dawn. You haven’t met the old tosser, have you? I can’t introduce you because he’s way over the other side of the room.’
‘Actually I was told there are some senior members I ought to meet.’
‘You don’t want to bother with them,’ she said. ‘Geriatrics. A man in his prime like you should be chatting up the girls.’
A man in his prime? He enjoyed that, but he still had a job to do. ‘Seriously, that’s why your husband invited me.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, ducky. I was there. It’s about the skeleton, isn’t it? You think it could have been one of our members.’
‘That’s only a theory,’ Diamond said. ‘It was wearing the clothes. And a long black wig. What happens when a new president takes over? Is the same costume handed on?’
‘I’ve never heard that it is,’ Sally said. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Presidents come in all shapes and sizes. Orville Duff, the one Ed took over from, was a stick insect. Ed would never have got into his clothes.’
‘So they provide their own?’
‘I suppose if the incoming Beau is short of a few pennies, he might enquire what happened to the last one’s outfit, but that certainly didn’t apply in Ed’s case. Anyway, Orville died in office and you don’t want to wear a dead man’s clothes, do you?’
‘Was he wearing them at the time?’
‘That’s not what I meant. And he didn’t end up in a loft in Twerton.’
‘But the skeleton was dressed in a genuine eighteenth-century outfit.’
‘Really? Ed’s was made in a sweatshop in Indonesia, far as I know.’
‘What about his wig?’
‘Polyester. Take a look when you meet him.’ She shook with amusement. ‘It’s far too shiny.’
‘So the wig doesn’t get handed on either?’
‘If I had my way it would get handed on to Oxfam. Yours is something else. Is it powdered?’
‘It may be. Paloma — she’s a friend — got it for me. She’s quite an expert. Ouch.’ He felt more pressure on the backs of his calves. Someone else was trying to get into the room. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Estella. She winked and smiled.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ Diamond said. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘There you are,’ Sally said. ‘All the ladies want a piece of you, but I have you trapped.’
He turned his head again. Estella was already talking to someone else. It was amusing listening to Sally, but he couldn’t see any prospect of meeting the veterans he’d come to see. How did anyone get about in private houses in the eighteenth century when the women wore these vast skirts? The only movement possible was from fans being used by ladies. The air had become far too stuffy.
Like a mind reader, Sally answered his question. ‘This is the anteroom. We all transfer into the main reception room in a moment and then we can breathe again.’
Already some movement at the other end was relieving the pressure. Soon he’d be able to look about and see if he recognised anyone.
‘What happens in there?’ he asked Sally.
‘The meeting, hopefully short, and a chance to get a drink. You’re not driving, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Neither are we. Our chauffeur spends a boring evening waiting for us.’
Some of the people behind them were now moving. Sally nudged him. ‘Come on. Use your elbows.’
The main reception room had undergone some modern alterations, two fair-sized rooms opened up to become one, but whoever did the job had finished it in eighteenth-century style — a fine plastered ceiling and ormolu wall fittings with real lighted candles. The pictures were mostly copies, he guessed, several of people he recognised from the books he’d studied: Frederick, Prince of Wales, Princess Augusta, the Duchess of Marlborough, the Countess of Huntingdon, Ralph Allen, John Wood and of course Juliana Papjoy. The Beau himself wasn’t on the wall. He was by the fireplace on a plinth in marble, a copy of the statue in the Pump Room.
‘Grab a glass before the meeting starts,’ Sally told Diamond.
Footmen in blue and gold livery were circulating with trays of what looked like champagne, so he took her advice, moved about with glass in hand and got his first proper look at the membership. Difficult to recognise people in wigs and bonnets, but he spotted an ex-mayor, two headmasters, his own bank manager and two of the clergy from the Abbey.
Sally was in animated conversation, so he moved off to a distant corner where he could observe rather than socialise. A few chairs were provided along the walls, but it was clear that all but the old and infirm intended to remain standing. One thing he noticed had no possible bearing on the investigation. He’d thought it would be impossible for the women in their skirts to sit down, and then one managed it expertly by lifting the top hoop above her hips as she lowered herself on to the chair.
Near the fireplace someone thumped the wood floor with his stick to get attention and several of the company squeaked in surprise.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the Beau.’
An overweight man in a black wig waddled forward and one of the flunkeys helped him up to an antique footstool. Sir Edward Paris, ruddy-faced, double-chinned, full of his own importance. You needed to be self-assured in this company if your accent wasn’t Oxbridge and his certainly wasn’t.
‘Everybody in? Right. Welcome one and all. We can get through this quick.’ He was speaking into a hand-held microphone, definitely not antique. ‘I’m going to start with a personal statement. I’ve been your Beau for the best part of twenty years now and I reckon it’s time for some other mug to take over. That’s a joke, about the mug. Don’t take it personal.’