Beautiful Freaks (28 page)

It worked. He faltered and when he turned, the woman opening the door was the same woman depicted on the playing card. A chill spread over his skin and he hoped that she hadn’t seen him shudder. She was even more bewitching in real life. Her dark auburn hair was a shocking contrast against her cream skin. Her green eyes reminded him of something decidedly feline – or reptilian. She was as pretty as a pre-Raphaelite painting.

“I’m looking for Miss Evangeline Valentine, the owner of this establishment.” He said this even though he knew full well that he was already looking on her. He wanted to see if she might deny it.

“I am she,” Eve replied with a voice of honey and an innocent smile. She felt the fleeting taste of triumph.

“My name is Inspector Steptree, I work alongside Scotland Yard. May I speak with you?”

Eve opened the door wide and invited him in. She could tell from the way he glanced over his shoulder before entering, that Steptree was nervous. A smile lighted on her lips.

Steptree was indeed uncomfortable. Nothing about the start of this interview had gone as he imagined, and he was irritated that he should feel so submissive in front of her. There was something very commanding about her, a presence that he’d only felt with a few other individuals – all of them men.

The interior of No. 7 was incredible. Everything appeared to be dipped in gold, and the crystals were cut so brilliant that they could easily be mistaken for diamonds. The scent of roses filled the house to the point where it gave Steptree the promise of a headache. His hard heels clicked on the black and white tiles of the hallway. He noted how her footfalls were silent. When her dress swayed, he saw that she was barefoot. Her toes were decorated with small silver rings.

He saw that to his left was a large study and library. It was full of highly decorated volumes (a small fortune’s worth in leather and paper), and a selection of high-backed chairs. It looked to all intents and purposes a respectable gentleman’s club. The smell of beeswax lingered just below the notes of rose. If this was a whorehouse, it was nothing like Steptree had ever seen before – not that he was particularly experienced in such establishments.

“Please follow me,” she said, smiling as she led him through to the salon. When they arrived, she motioned him to take a seat on one of the deep purple sofas. “May I get you a drink?” She made her way to a selection of decanters on a silver tray.

“Yes, that would be good, thank you.” Steptree thought that he had never been in need of a drink as much as he did at this point.

Whilst she busied herself pouring the drinks he took advantage of her distraction to study her. She wore a full black water-silk skirt, which looked like the skirt of a mourning outfit, but at the top she wore a crisp white cotton shirt. It was a strange combination and not usual for a woman. The top buttons of the shirt were undone so that when she moved the tops of her breasts were exposed and the white lace of her corset visible. The sight of it made Steptree blush and he fought against the stirrings of arousal. A monocle on a black leather strap dangled under her collar and it swung rhythmically against her flat narrow stomach as she moved. On her left hand, on her wedding-ring finger, she wore an amethyst signet ring -- a man’s ring.

Eve could sense him watching her and she smiled to herself.

“Ice?”

Steptree’s response was not instant because the question was unfamiliar to him. Only the wealthiest houses had an ice cellar. Once he had processed the question he responded rather too enthusiastically, “Why, yes please!”

The crystal glass tinkled as the small chunks of ice tumbled into the glass. As Eve handed him the glass he noted how his hand showed the very smallest of tremors.

“So, Inspector, how may I help you?”

She took a seat in an armchair opposite, tucking her legs up underneath her. Steptree suddenly found the collar of his shirt incredibly tight. The way she sat was so relaxed and informal that it was uncomfortably intimate. The only other woman he had seen sit in such a way was his wife.

He cleared his throat before starting his well-rehearsed speech, “I’m investigating a series of murders – you may have read about them in the papers.”

Eve nodded her head, indicating that she was indeed aware of the murders. It would have been foolish to pretend otherwise; the whole of London was talking about them. She raised her glass and drank, signifying that she was entirely at ease with the subject.

“Well it just so happens that one of the victims had your business card in his possession, and so here I am – following up what is more than likely a dead end.”

“There are a lot of men with my business card in their pocket, Inspector Steptree.” She smiled but it was clearly not genuine.

“Of course.” Steptree gulped down a large mouthful of whisky. It was of an exceptional quality, and with the ice, it was the most perfect mouthful of whisky he’d ever tasted.

“We’re not what you think.” She smiled.

“I wouldn’t presume to …”

“We’re strictly a ‘No Touching’ establishment. The girls who work as waitresses here are under my protection and guardianship. No amount of money would alter the rules of the house.”

Steptree recovered the playing card and the business card from his pocket and placed them on the table between them. Eve moved forward to look at them then slouched back into her chair with an air of nonchalant disinterest.

“Do you have a casino here?” he asked.

“No, I don’t have a licence and it attracts the wrong kind of clientele.”

“So the card?”

“Some of the men like to spend their time playing cards, these are the house design. They’re a bit of fun. One of our patrons is quite a well-known artist, he’s known for his pen and inks. He designs posters for the theatres; he made the cards as a series of doodles over the course of a year or so. When he had finished the set I had them printed up into cards. We have several sets. How did you come by it?”

She asked the question from over the top of her whisky tumbler. Steptree knew that she knew full well how he’d come by it. What he didn’t know was why she would have left such an obvious calling card.

“I found it in my home.”

“A guest of ours must have dropped it. We request that the patrons don’t remove them, but you know how it is.”

Steptree drained his glass and put the tumbler down with a heavy thud. He pointed at the card and asked, “The Palace of Beautiful Freaks. What is that, exactly?”

“It’s an upmarket circus show. Between you and I, it’s a total fraud.” She raised her finger to her lips and breathed out a ‘ssh’. Long after she had removed her finger, Steptree found his eyes still lingering on her soft, perfectly formed lips.

“A circus show?”

“All smoke and mirrors but the patrons think they are witnessing something extraordinary. A good friend of mine is an illusionist.”

“Where does this ‘show’ take place?”

“Oh, nowhere special; here in the Salon and back there in the dining room area. It’s like an interactive stage show. I must confess that it all sounds much grander on the business card than in real life.”

“So you have no stage or theatre space?”

“No.” At the very corner of Eve’s mouth, a nerve twitched. To most people it would have been totally unnoticeable but Steptree saw it and he knew that she was lying.

“May I take a look around?”

“Of course,” she replied, draining her whisky and skipping out of the chair. “Would you like me to escort you or would you like some time alone?”

“I’d rather do it alone, if you don’t mind?”

Eve shrugged her shoulders and walked over to the decanter. She poured another measure of whisky into each of their glasses. She handed one to Steptree before settling into her chair. She opened the evening newspaper and inserted her monocle.

The chair she sat in was in front of a large floor to ceiling mirror. It was framed by black and gold drapes, giving the illusion that it was a doorway into another room. Of course it was just an illusion; the room you thought you were looking into was just the room you were standing in. It was a common trick of the eye to give the impression that there were more rooms than there actually were.

Of course, Eve knew that the real irony was that the illusion hid what it pretended to reveal, a secret room.

Eve listened to Steptree shuffling around the various rooms, heard the scrape of the screen being moved in the library and the door under the stairs being opened and then shut. He was looking for something specific, although Eve guessed that he didn’t quite know what that ‘specific’ thing was.

After twenty minutes he returned. He looked flustered.

“Upstairs, is that your private quarters?”

“It is Inspector. You are welcome to take a look. Please excuse the mess. Housework isn’t really my thing.”

Steptree knew the house was hiding something and the more time he spent walking around the house, with its perfect veneer of respectability, the more certain he was that the house hid a secret.

Steptree had never seen anything like the private quarters of Eve’s. Everywhere he looked was pale and white. It was like he had stepped through a magical doorway into a winter wonderland. At first Steptree couldn’t get his mind to register the space. It was as if he had lost the ability to see colour. For all its purity there was a sense of the exotic. The curious thought filtered into his mind that the whole place reminded him of female undergarments; pure white lace and cottons but a promise contained within. As if all that purity hid a raw passion underneath it.

He headed out of the lounge area and pushed open the next door on his right. It was Eve’s bedroom, and just like the lounge it was white. Her bed was unmade, the linen sheets pooling in a pile at the bottom of the bed. Pillows and silk cushions were scattered all over the floor. He walked in, feeling like a fox in the chicken house. Eve’s dressing table was a shambolic mess of perfume bottles and jewellery. Necklaces, heavy with diamond stones, were discarded as if of little value. Then something caught his eye, a large white Malmaison Carnation, scented strongly of cloves. It wasn’t in water but was on the floor by the bed as if accidently lost.

Steptree retrieved the flower; it was nearly the same size as the span of his palm. Something triggered in his mind. He’d recently seen someone wearing one; he remembered thinking at the time that it was a rather over-the-top expression but then again that was Kaspian Blackthorne all over.
Kaspian Blackthorne!
Yes, that was where he had seen one, only the day before yesterday.
But there are probably a hundred people a day that buy Malmaison Carnations.
He replaced the flower back on top of the detritus of
diamonds.

He moved around the bottom of the bed, blushed to see a corset scattered on the floor. Steptree used his experienced eye. The room looked as close to any crime-scene he had ever seen. There had been frenzied activity; a water glass had been knocked from the bedside cabinet, scattering a damp stain across the white cotton
rug,
the sheet was folded and creased, suggesting a struggle. A large.
black
ribbon lay half-tucked under a pillow.

Steptree’s eye wandered back to the buttonhole bloom now on the dresser and back to the scribble in his little black book –
Evangeline Valentine (Miss)
.
There had indeed been a crime committed but it was a crime against morality. He thought back to Eve’s bare feet and the rings on her toes.

Steptree let out a heavy sigh. He didn’t understand the new world that was coming. He lived his life simply, in the way he’d been taught to. He’d only made love to the woman he had married, he’d never gambled, never been in a fight, never come home after midnight drunk. All of these sliding ideas of right and wrong left him confused.

And then there was that really nagging feeling that refused to leave him, even though he knew he was making crazy, wild, leaping assumptions. Kaspian Blackthorne had been here, he was sure of it.
After all, he’s as weird as the rest of this place.
Then there was his behaviour in the morgue. He’d known.

Steptree downed the rest of the whisky and made his way down to the salon where Eve was waiting for him. When he walked in, she had the end of her fountain pen in her mouth. She was thinking and he guessed that she was doing the crossword.

“Four letters, second letter O; Shakespeare; one who thinks himself wise but the wise know better?”

“Fool.”

“By Jove! I think you’re right.” She flashed him a smile.

Steptree would bet money that the clue never even existed. He’d never felt such a combination of fascination and contempt for an individual. Just being in her presence made him question his own mind, something
he
had always relied on to get him through. Steptree was rarely outwitted in his life. Although he didn’t make a great demonstration of his intelligence he knew that his mind was sharper than most, that he was privileged to see the logic of the universe and have a reason which was stronger than superstition. But here, with her, it felt like his mind became something vague, lacking in substantiality. The whisky had loosened his body, making him feel weak and tired all at once. And although part of him needed to stay and press Miss Valentine further, he instinctively knew he must leave – right that very instance, or else he might just never again have the opportunity to leave.