Lord Foxbridge Butts In (37 page)

“But what’s it all
for
?” I was starting to wonder if this is where I’d end up if I kept on with my amateur detective ambitions, allowing blackguards like de Mazan to inflict their viciousness on innocent girls and servants so that I could collect blackmail material the way other old men collect stamps or butterflies or Egyptian artifacts.

“As I said, it becomes a habit.  I spent a quarter of a century in His Majesty’s Government, serving in a capacity that had no title nor official recognition, gathering secrets and leveraging them against each other, using them for the benefit of the nation.  My retirement was not entirely voluntary, but neither was it complete: I keep my hand in, keep my networks in motion, and sometimes find myself in a position to help someone in need. It’s the morally ambiguous habit of accepting collateral damage in the service of a greater good; most of us who work behind the scenes in Government become so habituated.”

“What greater good justifies a creature like de Mazan?” I was trying to see his point of view, but my code of ethics was a schoolboy’s code, where everyone was either good or bad, a chum or a blighter, with no shades of gray in between.

“Louis is a treacherous wart, but he knows things about very important and potentially dangerous people — which is why he’ll be very quietly deported rather than tried for kidnapping.  Although he has hurt a number of young people, I have been able to use his information to prevent a
great
many
others
being hurt, such as your little friend Gabriel and the other denizens of places like the Green Parrot.  Knowing that one of the very-high-ups at Scotland Yard likes to wear nappies and get fed from a bottle, and that another likes to be shaved all over by a uniformed nurse, has allowed me to prevent
quite
a few raids on queer pubs and molly-houses over the last few years.  Ask any of the older gentlemen here, such raids used to be a great deal more common before the War than they are now.  Reputations ruined right and left, sweet young boys sent to be destroyed in vile prisons, suicides everywhere you turned.  I hope I am making a difference on that front.”

“You’re like a combination Robin Hood and Mycroft Holmes, aren’t you?” I grinned delightedly, making up my mind to overlook his shortcomings in light of what good he did.

“I modeled myself something along the Mycroft Holmes lines,” he grinned back, “Though I hope I’m not
quite
so stout.”

“But how did you get from Sherlock to Mycroft?” I wanted to know, “How did you get from amateur detective to professional spymaster?”

“
Spymaster
!” he guffawed, “My dear boy, you read too many bad novels: I was just a boring old civil servant, complete with bowler hat and rolled umbrella.  But the story of that transformation will have to be served over another dinner on another night.  I am quite tired of talking about it just now.  While we wait for our dessert — I hope you like
profiteroles —
why don’t you tell me about some of your own experiences?  I have heard whispers that you entertained a professional assassin in your rooms last month.  What must
that
have been like?”

I started to ask how he knew about Professor Beran being an assassin, but realized that
of course
he’d know such a thing.  So instead, I just enjoyed telling the unexpurgated tale for the first time, heard by the only man I knew who wouldn’t judge me poorly for condoning and consorting with a hired killer.

*****

The next day, I wanted to show off my new motorcar to Twister, so I drove along the Embankment and parked just out of snooping-range from New Scotland Yard; I knew that unless Twister had been given a new case, he was in a period of paperwork doldrums following the resolution of the Cumming kidnapping case, and would be going home at five like any other worker-bee.  I only hoped that he didn’t decide to go have tea with me at Hyacinth House, which would have destroyed my plans.

But I needn’t have feared: at exactly five minutes after five, I saw him emerge from Derby Gate and come sauntering up the Embankment, his overcoat under his arm and his hat pushed well back on his head.  It was a completely unguarded moment that I never would have seen if I hadn’t been spying on him, and it gave my heart a bit of a wrench.  I got out and leaned negligently against the bonnet, waiting for him to come alongside.

“Hey, you,” I hissed at him as he walked past the car, poking an imaginary gun inside my coat-pocket, like a gangster in a pulp, “Get in the car.”

“What’s all this?” he laughed and ambled over to examine my new motor, “Did you
buy
this thing?”

“Just yesterday.  Isn’t she beautiful?”

“How much did you pay for it?” he wondered, running a finger along the wheelguard, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Far too much, according to Pond,” I opened the passenger door and gestured for him to get in, “‘Like a lamb in a lions’ den, you are,’ he said.  It was seven thousand guineas.”

“Whew!” he whistled admiringly, “It must be nice to be a millionaire.”

“It’s simply
wonderful
,” I agreed, getting in on my side and starting the engine, “Would you care to come for a drive?  I have a picnic tea in the dickie.”

“Sure, where did you have in mind?”

“I thought Hampstead Heath,” I pulled out into the slow traffic and started flowing along with the other cars, “It’ll be awfully pretty this time of day, and only a twenty-minute drive.”

“They’re always finding men in the bushes on Hampstead Heath,” he said suspiciously.

“Like babies under cabbage leaves?” I laughed at his wording.

“More like satyrs in a heavily censored Roman mural,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if his tone was of disapproval or of admiration — perhaps it was a bit of both.  He had some pretty complicated psychology going on in that handsome head of his.

“I promise not to compromise you under a bush,” I reached across and caressed his hand where it lay on the seat, then grinned at him when he didn’t pull it away.

We chatted a bit about motorcars and traffic and other such topics as arise when driving somewhere; it was really lovely, the easy intimacy that we’d developed after sleeping together, a happy blend of our former camaraderie and our previously unspoken passions.  I hoped it would last.

We drove around the outside of the Heath first, enjoying the scenery, then stopping to have our tea under a weeping willow alongside an ornamental stream that someone had built long ago to look like a natural brook; we walked about a bit, then returned to the car and drove around some more.  Finally we fetched up at a quaint little inn at the end of a tiny side-road, which had a wonderful view over Leg of Mutton Pond, where we ordered some supper.

I had not found that inn by accident, though: Mr.
 Silenus had told me about it.  It was one of a network of ‘gay safe-houses,’ as he called them; and on his recommendation, I’d phoned ahead to secure a room for the night.  When I told Twister about the room and the nature of the inn, about halfway through dinner, he was suddenly no longer hungry, and wanted to go ‘have a lie-down’ right away.

*****

“Can I ask you something?” I was curled up with him some time later, tangled in a sheet on the floor beside the inadequate single bed in our tiny room under the thatch.

“Sure,” he agreed absently, dozing a little with his head tucked under my chin.

“How did Bunny get his nickname?”

“What kind of question is
that
?” he pulled back to look at me incredulously.

“I’ve often wondered,” I replied, running my hand over his arm, “He looks nothing like a rabbit and never has.  And he refuses to tell.  But you went to school with him, he was your fag.  I’m sure you know how it came about.”

“If he doesn’t want you to know, I don’t think I should tell you,” he frowned thoughtfully, his morality rearing its Victorian head again.

“I promise I won’t tell him I know,” I pleaded.

“You’re not very good at keeping secrets, Foxy,” he pointed out.

“I’m getting better at it,” in fact I was getting a little
too
good at it: it seemed my natural honesty was dying as fast as my natural curiosity grew, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out some other way.  Even if I have to sleep with every Harrovian in England.”

“You probably would, wouldn’t you?” he reached up and ruffled my hair like a little boy, making me laugh, “Alright, I’ll tell you: it’s because I was Raffles and he was My Bunny.”

“Raffles?  But they called you Twister.”

“Only my closest friends knew me as Raffles.  And only Bunny ever called me that as my name.”

“Why Raffles?” I frowned.

“Because I was Harrow’s foremost thief and prankster,” he said with a wonderful glow of pride.  “I stole only from those the House had decided were blisters and excrescences, and perpetrated some of the most brilliant pranks ever played at a public school in the history of this green and pleasant isle.  I was a young Raffles, and Bunny was my assistant, the only fag I could trust enough to help me in my work.”

“That’s so
sweet
,” I thought it over, liking the story very much, “Though I always thought Raffles and Bunny were more than just friends.  Did you and Bunny...?”

“Affection only, you dirty-minded lecher.  He was a little young for that sort of thing, and I was six years his senior.”

“Piffle, I seduced a prefect in my first month at Eton.”

“Well, you’re an exceptional case,” he smiled, nuzzling at my neck in a very distracting manner.

“And I’m having a hard time squaring the Sergeant Paget of Scotland Yard
I
know with the Boy Raffles of Harrow.”

“I think you’ll find that most policemen were scapegraces in youth.  Nothing teaches you a respect for law and order than a youth spent circumventing it.”

“I
do
promise to not tell anyone,” I kissed him to seal the promise, “Though I hope you won’t mind if I call you Raffles in private.”

“You can call me anything you like in private, Mrs.
 Savarell.”

“Beast!” I smacked him on the backside, which led to other, more interesting blows.

The End
 

Hyacinth House’s location, 34 St James’s Street, is currently the Westminster Branch of Barclays Bank. I chose this spot for two reasons: first, because it’s halfway between White’s and Boodle’s, which along with Brooks’s are the oldest and most aristocratic clubs in London; second, because the Barclays building is about the same size as Hyacinth House (as I’ve planned it).

I have not been able to determine what was actually there in 1927, as the maps I’ve found from the 20s don’t show buildings. The bomb maps I’ve found from the 40s indicate that there were a great many small commercial buildings, shops below and probably flats or rooms above. They were severely damaged by bombs during WWII and subsequently demolished; earlier maps from the 1870s show small buildings clustered around an oblong court in that spot, with a carriage entrance on St. James’s Street, which were apparently demolished when Jermyn Street was extended to connect with St. James’s Street. No mansion or club of the dimensions of Hyacinth House was ever there, at any rate. St. James’s Street was really a commercial street, there never were any great houses there, and all of the great clubs were purpose-built.

Carfax Yard is purely fictional, as there were no houses on St.
 James’s for it to serve; Carfax Yard House, though, is based on the building that now backs onto 34 St. James’s Street: 21-24 Bury Street, where famed haberdashers Turnbull & Asser occupy the space I’ve assigned to Monsieur Alcide. As far as I can tell, it was more small buildings with yards, the same as St. James’s Street, before WWII.

Our adventures in Soho were based on real places: all of the streets are as I described them (to the best of my ability, anyhow), though of course the actual businesses didn’t exist. Wardour Mews is really lined with tiny apartments, as well as a little pub in the middle; the Green Parrot on Dean Street is located (in my mind) on the site of the current Red Fort restaurant, chosen because it was about the right size and had once had an area (open space in front of the basement, below street level) in front, though it was subsequently filled in. Whether or not these locations looked as they do now back in 1927 is pure supposition, but old photographs from the area support the supposition.

Buckland House in Knightsbridge is based on Rutland House, which
was
one of the stately villas that once stood along that thoroughfare. However, the Duke of Rutland did not retain his house on Knightsbridge, as the Duke of Buckland did; the spot is now occupied by two large apartment buildings on Knightsbridge flanking a street of townhouses called Rutland Gate.

Lady Beatrice Todmore’s house is meant to be at 96 Park Lane, which is still standing, and is as far as I can tell still a private home. The Marquis’s row houses in Ilford also actually exist as described, though “Montrose Avenue” is fictional; the Hampton Hotel in Monmouth Street is based on what is now the Radisson Blu Edwardian, whose address is actually on Mercer Street.  The Chicago Club in the Strand was pure invention, there was no such place.