"Good day, miss," Charles said, raising his brown felt hat. "I am making inquiries for the police about-"
"Tradesman's entrance round back," the maid said. She gave his canvas coat a scornful glance and shut the door.
Charles frowned with irritation. His hand was poised to ring again, but he thought better of it. He would return later, and trust that a more receptive person might answer his knock. He went back down the stoop, out to the sidewalk, and up the stairs of the next house. This door was opened by a butler with a brilliant red nose. Taking no chances, Charles swiftly inserted his foot in the opening.
"I represent the police," he said, "in an inquiry of great importance." He held up the photograph. "This man is said to have visited a house on this street. Have you seen him?"
The butler sniffed. "I have not," he said with grave dignity. "Are you the police?"
"No," Charles said, "I merely-"
"Pray remove your foot, sir."
Charles held his ground. ' 'I would like to inquire of other members of your household. Perhaps your mistress-"
The butler's right arm disappeared behind the door and reappeared again with a silver-tipped cane. "Your foot, sir," the butler said, and stabbed Charles's toe smartly.
The third door, which Charles approached with trepidation and a slight limp, was not answered at all. The fourth, however, was opened by a middle-aged man whom Charles took by his dress and manner to be the gentleman of the house. He was apparently on his way out, for he wore a velvet-collared chesterfield and held one end of a leather leash, the other end of which was attached to a fluffy white poodle
about the size of a lady's muff, furiously yapping. When he saw Charles, he looked alarmed.
"If it's the money you're after," he said over the dog's din, "I have already-"
"I am not a bill collector," Charles said with dignity.
"Good," the man said. He looked down, obviously flustered. "Be quiet, Precious." The poodle ducked behind the man's ankle and glowered at Charles, continuing to bark. From somewhere within the house, a woman's voice fretfully commanded, "Take that dog out of here, Frank, before my brain explodes."
"Yes, Irene," Frank replied nervously, over his shoulder. "Precious and I are just leaving." He looked out at the gray drizzle. "Is it raining?" he asked Charles.
Charles held up his photo. "Have you seen this man?"
"Can't say that I have," Frank said, giving the photograph barely a look. He reached behind the door and Charles stepped back quickly. But when his hand reappeared again, it held only a gray bowler and an umbrella.
"Are you sure?" Charles persisted. "It is a matter of some importance. The police-"
"Frank!" The female voice was loudly petulant. "Can't you manage to do even one simple thing? Get that dog out of-"
"Yes, my dear," Frank replied, putting his hat on his head. Precious launched a swift sortie at Charles's trouser leg. He retired to the top step. Frank yanked the dog back, stepped out of the door, and closed it behind him. "Never saw the fellow," he muttered, pushing past Charles. "I say, old chap, I really must be off."
Charles stared at him. A jaunty trio of peacock feathers was inserted into the band of trim that encircled Frank's bowler. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as if one were broken. He was seized by a sudden excitement. "Pardon me," he said, gesturing at the hat, "but I wonder if you would permit me to have a look at those feathers."
Frank frowned. "Feathers? I don't know about any-" He apparently recollected them, for he reddened and, still holding the leash, snatched off his hat and pulled out the cockade of
feathers. Precious took advantage of Frank's inattentiveness to lunge at Charles's shoe.
"Do the feathers have a special significance?" Charles asked. "Perhaps-"
"I tell you," Frank said loudly, "there are no feathers!" He stuffed them into his pocket, jammed his bowler back on his head, and put up his umbrella. He walked smartly away, dragging Precious with him. As he did so, a gentleman wearing a caped Inverness came toward him. The two were apparently acquainted, for as they passed on the sidewalk, Frank tipped his gray bowler and the other inclined his head. As the man in the Inverness drew nearer, Charles saw that in his lapel was fixed a cluster of peacock feathers.
26
"It's worse than wicked, my dear, it's vulgar."
Charles was fully soaked by the time he retrieved Brad-'ford's horse from Taylor's Livery Stable, but the rain stopped as he rode back to Marsden Manor, his portfolio under his arm. He was able to contemplate the outcome of the morning's inquiry in the pale light of an afternoon sun, as he rode under trees that scattered raindrops with every breeze.
But there was regrettably little to contemplate. His efforts on Queen Street had come to nothing-well, almost. There was still the matter of Frank's feathers to be looked into, and those of the man in the Inverness. Surely some significance
lay in those odd lapel decorations. For the moment, he couldn't imagine what it was, and although Charles was resourceful, he had been pulled up short. Hunting a single peacock feather was hard enough. Hunting one peacock feather in a blizzard of peacock feathers was much harder. Still, he was confident. Something would come to him.
Something did, but not quite in the way he might have imagined. To Charles's surprise, the Marsden stable yard was crowded. The indoor and outdoor servants were standing in a circle, talking and gesturing excitedly. As he dismounted and turned his horse over to a groom, he saw that everyone was looking at a motorcar, a Panhard-Levassor with a forward-mounted vertical engine, tiller steering, and a red parasol canopy. An elegant machine.
"Charles!" Eleanor cried breathlessly, running up to him with Patsy behind her, and, to his surprise and quickly stifled pleasure, Miss Ardleigh. ' 'Whatever do you think?''
Charles regarded the motorcar with interest. He had considered buying a similar model the year before, but its engineering problems had deterred him.
"I doubt," he said, "that you bought this in London. The Honorable Thomas Milbank must have favored us with a visit."
"Indeed he has," Eleanor said. "Have you and Mr. Mil-bank met?''
"Actually, yes," Charles said. "Last autumn, on the occasion of his driving this car through Windsor at the speed of fourteen miles an hour."
"Fourteen miles an hour on the road?" Miss Ardleigh was aghast.
"Indeed," Charles said.
"But what about the Red Flag Act?" Eleanor asked. "Did the police not arrest him?"
"No, blast it," drawled a lazy voice. They were joined by a tall, thin young man in a khaki-colored twill dustcoat, leather helmet and goggles and leather gloves. Bradford Marsden accompanied him.
"Hello, Tommy," Charles said cordially.
"Hullo, Charlie," the young man said. They shook hands.
"They did not arrest you, Mr. Milbank?" Patsy's tone and glance were openly admiring, and Charles wondered if he might be about to experience a reprieve from the matrimonial sword Lady Marsden and her daughter were holding over his head.
Milbank took off his helmet and goggles. "They were meant to, but I'm afraid the pater's connections discouraged 'em."
"Which is not to say," Charles said to Patsy, "that Mr. Milbank's action was anything but heroic. Quite the contrary. He deliberately flouted the law."
"Mr. Milbank's father," Bradford explained to Miss Ar-dleigh, ' 'is Lord Howard Milbank. He is influential in Whitehall circles. The police were understandably reluctant to collar his son and haul him off to jail like a common criminal, even though he volunteered."