Chapter 8
Creighton lived in Mayfair, in one of the blocks of flats erected where a Zeppelin raid had leveled most of a street of gracious Georgian town houses.
The marble lobby, too cramped to be elegant, was guarded by a Commissionaire in the full glory of his braided, brass-buttoned, and bemedaled uniform.
Alec asked for Lord Henry Creighton.
“Is his lordship expecting you, sir?”
“No.” At least, he hoped not.
“I’ll just ring through on the house ’phone.”
“No, don’t do that. I’m a police officer. I have a few questions to ask Lord Henry and I’d prefer to do so without prior warning.” He presented his credential.
One hand that reached for it had two fingers missing and both were badly scarred.
The man shook his head dubiously. “Well, I’m sure I dunno, sir.
As a general rule we don’t like police in the house.
When we get ‘em, it’s usually a summons for driving a motor-car without due care and attention, or pinching a bobby’s helmet on Boat Race night, or
summat like that.” He studied the warrant card with a worried frown. “Detective Chief Inspector—This wouldn’t be anything like that, I s’pose.”
“Not exactly.”
Looking up, the man noticed Alec’s tie and his face cleared. “Royal Flying Corps, sir? That’s where I ended up, transferred out of the Navy. Flight Sergeant Cummings, sir.”
“Happy to see you’ve fallen on your feet, Sergeant.”
“Wait a bit—Fletcher—not Arrow Fletcher, sir? The only spotter that always brought home the goods?”
“Usually,” Alec amended. Flying a single-seater observer aeroplane during the War, he had become renowned as one of the few who actually found their objectives most of the time.
He was glad that he had dashed home to change his tie. Failing a public school Old Boys’ tie, he found his RFC colours often made his intrusions just a trifle less obnoxious to the upper levels of society.
“What’s this Lord Henry like, Sergeant?”
“A nice, quiet gentleman, sir, always a pleasant word. Can’t see him doing nothing as’d interest a Scotland Yard ’tec.”
“He probably hasn’t. We spend as much time clearing the innocent as catching the guilty. Does Lord Henry do much entertaining?”
“Not what you might call a lot, sir. These here service flats, they’ve got dining rooms you couldn’t swing a cat in—if so be you was wanting to do such a nasty, crule thing—and the kitchens is no more than a place to boil a kettle or wash up a few glasses. His lordship has a friend or two in for
drinks now and then, and maybe once or twice a month a luncheon or dinner for four sent up from our restaurant. We got all the facilities right here on the premises.”
“Very convenient.”
“If that’s what you likes. I’m a family man meself.”
“So am I,” Alec hastened to assure him. “Any ladies visiting Lord Henry?”
“His mother, the Marchioness, and his sisters, Lady Ann and Lady Alice. Then there’s a married couple, Captain and Mrs. Dixon.” Flight Sergeant Cummings’s craggy face managed to look coy. “And there’s another lady comes with ’em, often as not. I never heard her name.”
“A looker, is she?”
“Dunno, sir. She always wears this veil on her hat that hides her face, like ladies wear for motoring. As for the rest of her, as you might say, she dresses very smart and her shape’s what’s fashionable nowadays, though we’d’ve called it skinny in my young day.”
Alec thought with gratitude of Daisy’s cuddlesome curves. “This mysterious lady always arrives with the Dixons?” he asked. Dixon!—the name might almost as well be Smith, even with the “Captain” before it, if he had to run the couple to earth.
“Ah, now, as to that I can only speak to my shift, which is eight in the morning till eight at night, Tuesdays off and half day Saturday. I never seen her without them, coming or going, which ain’t to say Bert, that’s on night shift, hasn’t.
Which ain’t to say he’ll tell you if he has, being PBI and sour as an unripe gooseberry. ”
A Poor Bloody Infantryman, looked down on by every other branch of the services, was not to be won over by an
RFC tie, Cummings implied. Alec grinned at him. “I came at the right time. You’ve been most helpful, Sergeant. I’ll go on up now and see what Lord Henry has to say.”
“Right you are, sir. Fifth floor, second door to your right.”
Alec went on to the lift, where a cheeky-looking lift boy had been standing watching his conversation with Cummings. “Fifth floor, guv? ’Ang on tight!”
The lift cage jerked into motion and they moved with ponderous stateliness upwards past floor after floor.
The corridors visible through the door were narrow but carpeted, with prints on the walls.
This was definitely an expensive place to live.
Creighton might be a younger son but he was not a poor man.
Alec considered asking the lift boy for further information about Creighton.
Better not, he decided. The lad couldn’t be expected to adhere to the code of discretion required of the old soldiers of the Corps of Commissionaires.
If he knew, the world would soon hear of Scotland Yard’s interest in the Marquess of Addlestoke’s youngest son.
Alec wasn’t unduly impressed by aristocratic rank, but unnecessary tittle-tattle would not please his superiors, already annoyed by Daisy’s involvement.
He could always question the lift boy later if the information he needed was not forthcoming directly from Creighton.
Delivered to the fifth floor, Alec rang Creighton’s doorbell. The man who opened the door could have stepped straight from a Punch caricature. Tall and thin, with too much nose, not enough chin, and a pronounced widow’s peak, he wore a midnight blue silk dressing gown over his
shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. He peered at Alec through a gold-rimmed monocle.
“I say, my dear fellow, am I expecting you?”
“Not exactly, sir.” Alec handed over his card.
“Oh, right-oh. The fact is, I’ve a rotten memory for appointments—need to get a secretary, eh, what?—and people do get upset if you don’t remember they’re coming. As a matter of fact,” he went on apologetically, “I usually take my bath about this time.”
“I hope I shan’t have to take up much of your time, sir.” Alec advanced into the small entrance hall.
He thought Creighton was going to stand firm, but after a moment his lordship took a step backwards. Then he turned away with a gentle sigh, raising Alec’s card towards his face. Pushing the door shut behind him, Alec watched and thought he saw Creighton stiffen but could not be sure.
“New Scotland Yard?” he murmured. “Do come in and sit down, Chief Inspector. To what do I owe the honour?” His tone was gently ironic, the first hint that the man was not the fool he appeared.
Alec glanced around the spacious room. One long wall was entirely occupied by theatrical memorabilia.
Playbills and posters vied with photographs of actors and actresses in and out of costume.
Lord Henry appeared in some of the photos, and some were inscribed, presumably to him, in showy handwriting.
Below this display, low shelves ran the length of the room. On top stood a number of busts. Thanks to his university studies of the Georgian age, Alec recognized three nearby as Goldsmith, Sheridan, and Edmund Kean; presumably the rest were also theatrical luminaries. The lower
shelves held books. The few titles Alec could read without going closer were plays and books about the theatre.
The opposite wall had two doors with a fireplace between them where a welcoming fire flickered. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait of Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra. Comfortable chairs were grouped about the fireplace.
Alec walked the length of the room to take a seat on the straight chair at the escritoire between the two tall windows. He turned it to face an easy chair placed to catch the light from the window. On the occasional table beside the armchair lay a book with a leather bookmark protruding.
After a moment’s hesitation, Creighton followed and sat in the designated seat. “Well?” he asked.
“Have you read an evening paper, sir?”
“No. As a rule I only see the Morning Post, unless I have a review in one of the others. I review plays. Er … Was there something of interest to me in the late news?”
Alec said bluntly, “The death of a suburban dentist.”
Creighton blinked. His face, naturally pale, was very hard to read because of the monocle, which made one eye look smaller than the other and distorted the whole picture.
Behind the impassive facade his brain was alert, for only a few seconds passed before he sighed and said, “I assume I can guess the dentist’s name, and that he did not die a natural death, or you would not be here.
Mrs. Talmadge told me her husband occasionally indulged in a whiff of laughing gas.
I suppose he took an accidental overdose. ”
“Not exactly.”
“Don’t tell me he killed himself? How perfectly dreadful!”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We are fairly certain it was murder.”
“Murder.” Creighton pronounced the word without a tremor, then fell silent, contemplating it. Alec waited. “Mrs. Talmadge told you we lunched together?”
That was easy, Alec thought. “I’m glad to have confirmation of that, sir. I hope you can also confirm times and places?” He took out his fountain pen and notebook, wishing he had Piper, or even Daisy, to take notes for him.
Creighton’s face remained calm, but he started to tap steadily with one finger on the arm of his chair. He was beginning to realize the complications of his position.
If he had been unaware of Talmadge’s death, he could have no idea when it took place or whether the dentist’s wife was involved. Thus, assuming he cared for her deeply, he could not know whether he ought to try to provide an alibi for her, and if so, for what period.