‘Yes. No end of a donkey in many ways but a good woman. The boy’s a young dog.’
‘Bunchy,’ said Alleyn, ‘you’re better than Victorian, you’re Regency.’
‘Think so? Tell you what, Roderick, I’ve got to come out of my shell and do the season a bit.’
‘You always do the season, don’t you?’
‘I get about a bit. Enjoy myself. Young Donald’s paying his addresses to a gel called Bridget O’Brien. Know her?’
‘That’s funny,’ said Alleyn. ‘My mama is bringing out brother George’s girl and it appears she’s the bosom friend of Bridget O’Brien. She’s Evelyn and Paddy O’Brien’s daughter, you know.’
‘I know. Called on Evelyn this morning. She married that ass Carrados. Pompous. Clever in the City, I’m told. I had a look at the gel. Nice gel, but there’s something wrong somewhere in that family. Carrados, I suppose. D’you like the gel?’
‘I don’t know her. My niece Sarah likes her.’
‘Look here,’ said Lord Robert, spreading out his hands and staring at them in mild surprise. ‘Look here. Dine with us for Lady C’s dance. Will you? Do.’
‘My dear Bunchy, I’m not asked.’
‘Isn’t your niece goin’?’
‘Yes, I expect she is.’
‘Get you a card. Easy as winking. Do come. Troy’s dining too. Donald and I persuaded her.’
‘Troy,’ said Alleyn. ‘Troy.’
Lord Robert looked sharply at him for about two seconds.
‘Never mind if you’d rather not,’ he said.
‘I can’t tell you how much I should like to come,’ said Alleyn slowly, ‘but you see I’m afraid I might remind Miss Troy of—of that very unpleasant case.’
‘Oh. ‘m. Well, leave it open. Think it over. You’re sure to get a card. Now—what about business?’
He made a funny eager grimace, pursed his lips, and with a deft movement of his hand slung his glasses over his nose. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘We rather think blackmail,’ said Alleyn.
‘Lor’,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Where?’
‘Here, there and everywhere in high society.’
‘How d’yer know?’
‘Well.’ Alleyn laid a thin hand on the file. ‘This is rather more than usually confidential, Bunchy.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. All right. I’ll be as silent,’ said Lord Robert, ‘as the grave. Mum’s the word. Let’s have the names and all the rest of it. None of your Mr and Mrs Xes.’
‘All right. You know Mrs Halcut-Hackett? Old General Halcut-Hackett’s wife?’
‘Yes. American actress. Twenty years younger than H-H. Gorgeous creature.’
‘That’s the one. She came to us last week with a story of blackmail. Here it is in this file. I’ll tell you briefly what she said, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one Madame X.’
‘Phoo!’ said Lord Robert.
‘She told us that a very great woman-friend of hers had confided in her that she was being blackmailed. Mrs H-H wouldn’t give this lady’s name so there’s your Mrs X.’
‘Um,’ said Lord Robert doubtfully. ‘Otherwise Mrs ‘Arris?’
‘Possibly,’ said Alleyn, ‘but that’s the story and I give it to you as Mrs H-H gave it to me. Mrs X, who has an important and imperious husband, received a blackmailing letter on the first of this month. It was written on Woolworth paper. The writer said he or she had possession of an extremely compromising letter written to Mrs X by a man-friend. The writer was willing to sell it for £500. Mrs X’s account is gone into very thoroughly every month by her husband and she was afraid to stump up. In her distress (so the story went) she flew to Mrs Halcut-Hackett who couldn’t provide £500 but persuaded Mrs X to let her come to us with the whole affair. She gave us the letter. Here it is.’
Alleyn laid the file on Lord Robert’s plump little knees. Lord Robert touched his glasses and stared for quite thirty seconds at the first page in the file. He opened his mouth, shut it again, darted a glance at Alleyn, touched his glasses again and finally read under his breath:
‘ “If you would care to buy a letter dated April 20th, written from the Bucks Club addressed to Darling Dodo and signed M., you may do so by leaving £500 in notes of small denomination in your purse behind the picture of the Dutch funeral above the fireplace in the ballroom of Comstock House on the evening of next Monday fortnight.” ’
Lord Robert looked up.
‘That was the night the Comstocks ran their charity bridge-party,’ he said. ‘Big show. Thirty tables. Let’s see, it was last Monday.’
‘It was. On the strength of this letter we saw the Comstocks, told them a fairy-story and asked them to let us send in a man dressed as a waiter. We asked Mrs H-H to get her distressed friend to put the purse full of notes, which we dusted with the usual powder, behind the Dutch funeral. Mrs H-H said she would save her friend much agony and humiliation by doing this office for her.’ Alleyn raised one eyebrow and bestowed a very slow wink upon Lord Robert.
‘Poor thing,’ said Lord Robert.
‘Did she suppose she’d taken you in?’
‘I don’t know. I kept up a polite pretence. Our man, who I may say is a good man, attended the party, saw Mrs H-H tuck away the bag, and waited to see what would happen.’
‘What did happen?’
‘Nothing. Our man was there all night and saw a maid discover the bag next morning, put it unopened on the mantelpiece and call Mrs Comstock’s attention to it. Mrs Comstock, in the presence of our man and the maid, opened it, saw the paper, was surprised, could find nothing to indicate the owner and told the maid to put it aside in case it was asked for.’
‘And what,’ asked Lord Robert, suddenly hugging himself with his short arms, ‘what do you deduce from that, my dear Roderick?’
‘They rumbled our man.’
‘Is it one of the Comstocks’ servants?’
‘The whole show was done by Dimitri, the Shepherd Market caterer. You know who I mean, of course. He does most of the big parties nowadays. Supplies service, food and everything.’
‘One of Dimitri’s men?’
‘We’ve made extremely careful enquiries. They’ve all got splendid references. I’ve actually spoken to Dimitri himself. I told him that there had been one or two thefts lately at large functions
