“Glensheil’s in Scotland. Wait, my card. Call on me as soon as you have anything.” While she ferreted for her card-case, the captain rang the bell and asked Becket to fetch a cab.
Soon her majestic figure, once more veiled, had departed and there was only the faint scent of patchouli in the room and a large roll of banknotes as a reminder of her visit.
∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧
Three
When leaving town, it is usual to send round cards to all your friends with the letters P.P.C (pour prendre conge) written in the corner. This obviates the necessity of formal leavetakings.
– FLORA KLICKMAN, HOW TO BEHAVE
The earl’s well-sprung carriage bore them off to the country. It was a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. The striped blinds and awnings on the shops and houses gave the city they were leaving behind a festive air.
Rose sat in a corner of the carriage, trying to read, trying to escape from the feeling that as much as she had been tricked by Sir Geoffrey, she was as much to blame for her disgrace.
If only she had cultivated the friendship of the other debutantes, she thought again, she might have picked up useful gossip about the season in general and Sir Geoffrey in particular.
The fact was she had armoured herself in learning to combat her shy nature. She had felt her superior education had given her the edge over those other silly girls. And yet she was the one being banished from London in disgrace.
She also felt a slow burning resentment for Captain Harry Cathcart. There was no need for him to have produced such dramatic evidence to overset her. If he had not interfered, then Geoffrey would have propositioned her and her eyes would have been opened to what kind of man he really was.
If she and the captain ever crossed paths again, she hoped she could think up some way to humiliate him.
♦
The morning after Lady Glensheil’s visit, Harry strolled along the King’s Road and found a pub opposite to where the artist, Freddy Hecker, had his studio. Most of the windows were of frosted glass, but one which had been smashed recently had been replaced by plain glass.
He bought a half pint of ale and positioned himself at a table at the window and began to watch.
After an hour, a maid opened the door and handed a man his hat and stick. That must be Freddy, thought Harry.
He waited until the artist had strolled off down the road and then left the pub and went across and knocked on the door.
The maid, who was buxom and pretty, answered his knock.
“Hecker in?” asked the captain languidly.
“I am afraid the master is out, sir.”
“When are you expecting him back?”
“In about an hour, sir.”
“Good, I’ll wait.”
The maid hesitated. “Would you not like to leave your card, sir, and come back later?”
“No, my good girl, I would not. The wretched man is supposed to be painting my portrait.” He loomed over her and she nervously stood aside. “Where is the studio?”
“Upstairs, sir, but –”
“I’ll find my own way.”
Harry went up a narrow staircase. A door on the landing was open, revealing the studio, a vast room made up of two storeys that had been knocked into one.
“May I bring you some refreshment, sir?” said the maid’s voice behind him.
“Nothing, I thank you. Run along. I must figure out which is my best side.”
He closed the door behind her and began to look around. Now where would the wretched man have hidden the letters?
As he searched around behind easels propped against the wall and through boxes of materials which the artists used as back-cloths, Harry realized that this was where he worked but not where he lived.
He opened the door and went down the stairs again. The maid was waiting at the bottom.
“I’ve made a frightful mistake. I was supposed to call at old Freddy’s home to make the arrangements. He’ll be waiting there for me. Lost the address. Give it to me.”
“It’s at Twenty-two, Pont Street, sir. May I have your card?”
“Listen, I don’t want Freddy to know I was such a chump. Don’t tell him I called here first.”
Harry produced a sovereign and held it up. “Promise?”
The maid took the sovereign and bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, certainly, sir. Most grateful, my lord,” she added, elevating him to the peerage.
Harry hailed a hansom cab in the King’s Road and directed the cabby to Pont Street. He took out a half hunter and checked the time. If Freddy had gone to his home and if he had meant that he really would be back in his studio in an hour’s time, he should be leaving fairly shortly.
He strolled from Pont Street to a news vendor’s kiosk and bought a copy of a newspaper. He strolled back to Pont Street, occasionally stopping to look at the paper as if he had just noticed a fascinating item. At last he was rewarded with the sight of the young artist he recognized as Freddy leaving his house. He certainly was a very handsome young man, with thick curly fair hair and a cherubic face.
The captain waited until the artist had disappeared down Pont Street. He went up to the door and rang the bell. An imposing manservant opened the door to him. Freddy must be doing well, thought Harry. The tyranny of visiting cards. He wished he had thought to have some fake ones printed.
The butler inclined his head as Harry cheerfully presented his own card and said he had just met Mr. Hecker in Pont Street and Mr. Hecker had told him to wait for him.
He was led upstairs to a drawing-room on the first floor. Harry refused refreshment and said he would sit and read his paper. When the butler had left, he looked around. The furniture and ornaments were expensive. Harry wondered for the first time if Lady Glensheil was the only victim of the artist’s blackmailing.
There was no desk in the drawing-room. He reflected that if there was a study it would possibly be on the ground floor.
He cautiously eased out of the drawing-room and stood on the landing. The house was silent. He went quietly and swiftly down the stairs and listened again. A murmur of voices came up from the basement. He opened doors until he found a study and went over to the desk by the window. He opened drawer after drawer. The bottom left-hand drawer was locked.
He took out a sturdy Swiss knife and selecting the tool designed for taking stones out of horses’ hooves, prised the drawer open. There were bundles of letters. He took them all out, deciding not to risk looking through them in case he was caught. Harry looked around for something to carry them in and finally put them all in a wastepaper basket, then went out to the street door and, after lifting his visiting card from the tray in the hall, let himself out.
♦
When he had reached the safety of his own home, he went through the letters and put them into neat piles on his desk. Apart from the ones from Lady Glensheil, there were letters from six other members of society.
He wrote down the six names and asked Becket to find him their addresses, and when his manservant returned with the information, he set out. First he called on Lady Glensheil, who cried this time with gratitude, and then he tracked down the six others, making sure each time to see them on their own and without their husbands. It seemed unfair that the six should get his services for nothing whereas Lady Glensheil had to pay, but he was afraid that if he asked for money, they would assume he was a blackmailer as well.
When he returned to his home in the evening, it was to find a furious artist on his doorstep. Hecker’s manservant had remembered Harry’s name. “I am bringing the police into this,” shouted Hecker. “You broke into my desk and stole my property.”