Lord Foxbridge Butts In (10 page)

“Oh! That’s beautiful!” I exclaimed over the little drawing, which was gorgeous and expertly drafted, interweaving all of the letters into an elegant sigil, “What would mine look like? S.A.S.St.C?”

“Ah! So many esses would require a slightly different approach,” he took the book back and scribbled for a moment, then showed me the result, just as exquisite as the first one.  The man was a talented artist, “And of course the embroiderer will add all the usual flourishes to make it somewhat more circular.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see it!” I enthused, following him over to the counter where he was beginning to write out the instructions for the embroiderer; once I caught up to him, I found some jewelry in a case and started examining it.

“Would
milord
care to have the jackets delivered together, or have the Earl’s sent directly to him?”

“Oh, directly, I suppose,” I thought it over for a moment; the old poop’s birthday wasn’t actually until late December, and getting a gift from me in June would confuse him; but then, confusing him was great fun, so I decided to go ahead and do it, “I don’t have his address at hand, though.  I’m sure you can find it in a directory.”

“Of course,
milord
. I have a new Debrett here. And your own address?”

“Hyacinth House, 34 St.
 James’s Street.”

“Oh!” he looked up in surprise, “But
milord
is just on the other side of the block!”

“I know.  That’s what brought me here, actually,” I leaned confidentially on the counter, “I’ve been curious what was on the other side of my sitting-room wall ever since I  moved in.  And I was hoping you might let me poke around in your back premises to see what’s there.”

“But of course, Lord Foxbridge!” he must have found my name in Debrett when he was looking for my father’s address, “It would be my pleasure to give you a tour.”

“That’s awfully kind of you,” I brightened, surprised that he was so much more amenable than I’d expected.

“If you would care to step this way,
milord
,” M. Alcide bowed toward a double-door near the long counter, which he opened to escort me through a spacious vestibule into an even more spacious office and workroom.  It was comfortably appointed in walnut and leather like any gentleman’s study, but the desk was cluttered with sketches and sales-slips, and the dresser to one side was covered with pale blue cardboard boxes, wrapping paper, and ribbons.

“Oh, there’s a yard!” I exclaimed, looking at the windows in the left-hand wall, “Is this building not flush against the one behind?”

“It is a court, rather than a yard,
milord
— little more than a light well,” he pulled back the curtain so that I could look out into the bleak empty space, which was only a little larger than the office; I could see the dark grey stone corner of Hyacinth House at the near edge, but it was the creamy sandstone house next door to mine that filled most of the courtyard’s open side, with several small windows peeking through, “I believe this building occupies land that once served as stable-yards to the houses on St. James’s Street.  The offices are called Carfax Yard House.”

“Oh, I see,” I was itching with curiosity to peek through the doors opening into this office, but it seemed M.
 Alcide would open them eventually if I waited, and I was not disappointed: there was a brightly tiled washroom behind his office, and two large stockrooms stacked to the ceiling with merchandise in neatly labeled boxes, with a ladder on rails going all the way around; broad work-tables filled the middle of each room, outfitted with sewing machines, steam irons, and small Eastern-looking men with tape-measures and mouthfuls of pins plying their mysterious craft.  He explained his organization system to me, though I wasn’t able to follow it very well, and then escorted me back through the vestibule down a little passage to a sort of foyer, which had doors into the showroom, the hall of the office block, and a beautiful little sitting-room.

“The secret to my success,
milord
,” he smiled, presenting the incredibly frilly pink-and-white room, where an elderly maid stood guard over a long dressing-table, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, “This ladies’ room has performed the office of a spider’s web for me; knowing that there is a lounge and washroom for ladies draws them in, and they so frequently make a purchase on the way out.  Not to be indelicate, but ladies do need to ‘powder their noses’ more frequently than gentlemen do.”

“What a wonderful idea,” I enthused.  I hadn’t had a great deal of experience with feminine company, but what little experience I
did
have was that ladies seemed forever to be scurrying off in groups whenever they were in a restaurant or an hotel; and when they
weren’t
in a restaurant or hotel, they were always pestering fellows to
take
them to one.

“I am gratified you think so,
milord
,” he beamed at me.

“So, who’s upstairs?  Are you acquainted with any of your neighbours in the offices?”

“I am not acquainted with many of them,” he looked up toward the ceiling as if he could see them all up there, “Most of the offices are occupied by family solicitors, I believe.  There is an importer I have had occasion to visit, and an architect who has a large studio on the top floor.  Many of the offices are empty.”

“Do you think they’d be offended if I went poking around?  I’m terrifically curious what’s on the other side of my sitting-room wall.  It’s thirty-eight feet up, so I suppose it’s the second or third floor of this building.”

“
Milord
is very precise,” he smiled at me in amusement, “I do not believe there would be any objection to your explorations.  The street door is not kept locked, people come and go as they please all day.”

“Well, thank you so much for your indulgence, M.
 Alcide.  I’ll stop back in when I’m done, I want to have a look at some jewelry I noticed in your case.  And I expect I’ll want to open an account.”

“
Milord
is too amiable,” he bowed again, “I will have an account prepared against your return.”

“Thanks!” I shook his hand as he opened the door into the office-block’s entrance hall for me, “I’ll be back shortly.”

Using my marked walking-stick, I discovered that the steps were exactly six inches high, which made my reckoning very easy: I just had to walk up seventy-six steps, and I’d be on a level with my own rooms.  This brought me twelve steps past the second-floor landing, not quite half-way to the third floor, so my cupboard must be just above the heads of whoever had been speaking.  Descending back the second floor, I walked toward the opposite end, where I had determined the axis through the center of Hyacinth House intersected Carfax Yard House; arriving there, I found a door with a frosted glass upper panel, in the center of which was fixed a large brass letter D. There was nothing else written on or around the door, so I assumed it must be one of the empty offices M. Alcide had mentioned.

Of course the door would be locked, which stopped me in my tracks.  I stood there for a minute, wondering what to do: I considered knocking on the door across the corridor, which was marked ‘Private: Enter Room A,’ leading me to believe it was part of a larger complex of offices facing the street; I could follow the instructions and enter Room A to inquire
there
about the empty office, but it seemed unlikely they’d know anything; or I could go back downstairs and ask M. Alcide to give me the name of the estate agents who represented the building’s owners, and request a tour — but that would take ages, and I wanted in there
now
.

“Can I help you, sir?” an elderly man in a gray cap and a long gray duster, with a mustache like a push-broom and matching eyebrows, emerged from a closet at the end of the corridor, from which came a strong smell of cleaning fluid and pipe-tobacco, “There’s nobody in that office, there.”

“So I noticed,” I said happily, “Would it be possible to see inside it?”

“You want to ask the estate agents, sir,” he scratched his head thoughtfully and examined me from head to toe.

“Well, it’s more a matter of curiosity than of business,” I explained, fishing in my pocket for an appropriate coin, “I don’t want to lease it or anything, I just want to have a look at it.”

“What for?” he asked, leaning in and frowning at me as if not sure I was really there.

“The back wall of my sitting-room is the other side of this office’s back wall,” I handed him a couple of florins, which he examined closely, “And I heard someone talking in there this morning. I just want to see what’s in there.”

“Well, I could let you in, sir,” he put the coins in his pocket and actually tugged at the bill of his cap like an old serf, “Not like there’s nothin’ to steal.  But you be quick about it, I have work to do.”

“You’re an angel!” I grinned as he pulled a mighty ring of jangling keys from some inner pocket of his costume, then went through them one by one until he found the one he wanted — by which time I was practically
dancing
with impatience.  He eventually opened the door for me, and followed me inside to see I didn’t get into any mischief.

The office was cavernous, made up of four rooms separated by arches, which let the meagre light from the courtyard reach into the farthest corners.  Previous occupants had erected half-height pebbled glass partitions in the arches, with glass doors giving access to each room, but it was otherwise wide open.  Some old wooden file cabinets stood by the back wall, and a few timeworn desks were littered about, along with a good deal of assorted trash.

“
Och
, what a mess,” the old man snorted at the dust that lay over everything, “Must’ve left in a hurry, last tenants.”

“Who
was
in here before?” I asked idly, measuring my steps from the window to the archway in the middle; six full steps brought me a few inches from the glass partition.

“Some bright young lads thought they could sell stocks and bonds,” he shook his head sadly, “But don’t nobody buy stocks and bonds outside the City, do they?  Stockbrokers in St.
 James’s?  I ask you.”

“Not very smart,” I agreed, stepping over to the door leading into the next room to resume my measurements.  Another seven steps brought me up short against the far wall, where more large windows looked out at a blank brick wall just a few inches away.  Thirty-one feet, I reckoned, from wall to wall.  If Hyacinth House started about two feet outside the courtyard wall, my fireside cupboard would be about seven or eight feet into the second room.  I stood and stared at the spot, disappointed again: it was just a blank wall.  But two men had stood there arguing, while I was crouching in a cupboard on the other side, six feet up, eavesdropping.

My curiosity was satisfied, but not my sense of romance.  There should have been something
there
, a map with pins showing plotted bank robberies, a cork-board covered with photographs of proposed kidnapping victims, a pledge of allegiance to some Bolshevik cause painted in the blood of aristocrats.  But it was just a plain plaster wall, painted a boring biscuit-colour, with nothing on it but an unattractive brass light fixture missing its electric bulb.

“Jumpin’ Christ!” the old man ejaculated loudly, startling me not a little.  I went over to where he was standing, as white as a ghost and pointing like a pantomime actor, and saw what disturbed him: a man lying on his side, partially covered with a dust-sheet, his head turned at an impossible angle, nearly facing backward.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped, rooted to the spot.  He was not a young man, nor yet middle-aged, with very dark oily hair and broad, almost gypsy-like features, dominated by large surprised black eyes; his somewhat disordered clothes were flashy and expensive-looking but not well-made, and his shoes were too pointed and bright, with an almost metallic sheen. Not a gentleman, certainly, but further than that I couldn’t say.

The old man and I both just stood there for the longest time, gawking uselessly, before I managed to spur myself into action, “You stay here — no, not right
here
, stay in the next room and don’t touch anything.  I’m going to go get help.”

“Not much help for
him
, poor mug,” the old man shook his head sadly; nevertheless, someone had to be called, so I ran across the corridor and started hammering away at the door marked ‘Private: Enter Room A.’

“Can’t you read?” the door flew open to reveal a stout old buster in a black frock coat and the kind of massive white beard one usually only sees in the National Portrait Gallery, “Go around to Room A!”

“I need to use your telephone,” I pushed past him rudely, heading for his desk and plucking the instrument from its cradle.  Jiggling the cradle brought a chirpy response from some unseen receptionist, no doubt perched on a stool in Room A, “Hello! I need you to ring the police. Sergeant Oliver Paget at Scotland Yard.  Hurry!”

“Mr.
 Hardcastle?” the voice queried with a note of disbelief.

“No, this is Lord Foxbridge.  There’s been a murder across the hall.  Call Sergeant Paget
right now
.”