“I think that will be all for the moment,” said Kerridge, rising to his feet.
♦
Tristram Baker-Willis was just as Kerridge remembered him. He had met the young man the previous year during investigations at Telby Castle. Tristram had a very white face, thick lips and black hair greased to a high shine. His waistcoat was a riot of brightly embroidered silk flowers.
“We have just been paying Lord Alfred Curtis a visit,” began Kerridge. “Judd, what did he say?”
The detective opened his notebook, flicked the pages and then repeated what Lord Alfred had said about Tristram being present when Freddy had asked for that loan.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Tristram. “Anything else?”
“Yes, of course. Do you mean that Mr Pomfret went straight up to Lord Alfred and said, ‘Lend me ten thousand pounds?’”
“Yes, something like that. I said, ‘Hey, Freddy! What are you doing?’ Lord Alfred had taken drink. He wrote out that cheque with such a shaky hand, I thought Freddy would never be able to cash it.”
“Well, he did. Mr Pomfret was also paid ten thousand pounds by two other people.”
“Good heavens! Good old Freddy. Wish I had his talent for getting money out of people. Do you mean two other people paid him ten thousand each?”
“That is so. Do you know if it is possible that Mr Pomfret was indulging in blackmail?”
“Hey, he was a friend of mine. Stout fellow. Wouldn’t harm a fly.” Tristram leaned forward and said earnestly, “Look here, Inspector…”
“Superintendent.”
“Superintendent. You usually deal with the lower classes and it has given you a warped view of life. Such as we do not go around blackmailing people.”
“Had Mr Pomfret any enemies?”
“No, everybody liked Freddy. I liked Freddy. Best friend I ever had.” Tristram took a handkerchief out of his sleeve and blew his nose loudly.
“So,” said Kerridge heavily, “my inspector has a note of your evidence. I gather you would be prepared to stand up in court, kiss the Bible, and say the same thing?”
“Court! It’ll never come to court.”
“Why not? It’s murder and I intend to find the murderer.”
Tristram kneaded the handkerchief between his fingers and scowled at the floor. Then his face cleared. “Ah, but only if Alfred is the murderer, and that is ridiculous.”
“That will be all for now,” said Kerridge. “If you would be so good as to call at Scotland Yard tomorrow, we will take your statement, type it up, and you may sign it.”
Tristram looked to right and left as if seeking a way out. “Can’t,” he said finally. “Going to the country tomorrow.”
“Then I suggest you come with us now.”
“No, I won’t,” said Tristram. “I must warn you that I have friends at the Palace.”
“Mr Baker-Willis, unless you are prepared to make an official statement, I must assume you are lying.”
Tristram stared at him for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “May as well get it over with. I’ll come now.”
♦
Later that evening, armed with a letter of introduction from an old army friend, Brigadier Bill Handy, Harry visited the late Freddy’s father. Colonel Hugh Pomfret read the letter carefully. Then he said, “Of course I want to find out who murdered my son. But what can you do that the police cannot?”
“I have more freedom to go about in society than the police and to find out what enemies your son had.”
“Very well. Go ahead.” Then, with a slight edge of contempt in his voice. “I suppose you want paid for your services.”
“No, because I came to you and not the other way round.”
“Very good of you,” said the colonel gruffly.
“Did your son keep any letters or correspondence with you?”
“No, the only time he came here was to ask for money, and when he got it or didn’t get it, he would leave. He came to the family place in the country at Christmas. Apart from that, we barely saw him.
“My wife is distraught. Like all mothers, she remembers him as a small boy now, but truth to tell, our son had become a nasty, jeering sort of person whenever we saw him. He didn’t like the fact that I haven’t a title. He hung around the fringes of the Kensington Palace set. He wanted me to buy him a title. That was in January. When I told him I had not that kind of money and if I had I would not spend it on such rubbish, he stormed out.”
So that’s what he wanted the money for, thought Harry. Who would have thought that such a lightweight young man could be so ferociously ambitious?
♦
“So you let them send you away?” Lady Polly demanded of the quaking Humphrey.
“I couldn’t do otherwise, my lady. It’s my nerves.”
“You know, Humphrey, I am tired of those nerves of yours. Mrs Cummings was telling me that there is a very good nerve doctor.” She rummaged in a capacious reticule and found a small notebook and flicked it open.
“Here we are. Dr Thomas McWhirter. He’s in Harley Street. Get Jarvis to phone and make an appointment for you and then perhaps we’ll hear less about your nerves.”
Lady Polly felt quite noble. She believed in looking after her servants. She did not know that she was setting in train a course of events that would put Rose in danger.
♦
The following afternoon, Rose and Daisy visited Angela Stockton. Rose was disappointed to find Mrs Stockton’s son, Peregrine, there as well. Fennel tea was served and some jaw-breaking biscuits.
“I found your lecture very interesting,” said Rose, averting her eyes from Peregrine, whose hot gaze was fastened on her face.
“Oh, go on with you,” laughed Peregrine. “Pretty creature like you. Got better to do with your time, hey?”
Angela put down her cup with an angry little click. “Peregrine, I wish to talk to these ladies alone.”
“I’ll tootle off, then. Don’t know how you can drink that muck.”
Peregrine left the room and Rose heaved a sigh of relief. “You must forgive Perry,” sighed Angela. “Such a naughty boy. So handsome, don’t you think?”
“Mmm,” murmured Rose, not wanting to encourage her. Then it suddenly dawned on her that if there was nothing about Angela that made her vulnerable to blackmail, there might be something about her son, and surely a rich and devoted mother would pay anything to suppress a scandal about him.
“But you were asking about my lecture,” Angela went on. “Mr Steiner is of peasant stock, which makes him more in touch with the earth, the soil, the birds and the bees. But the point of vegetarianism is that it cleanses the body and leaves us free to contact the spirit world. Animals have souls, too. Think of all those poor sheep, pigs and cows slaughtered to feed us.”
“But if we all stopped eating meat,” said Rose, “all those animals would have to be slaughtered, apart from a very few which would be kept in zoos. Samuel Butler said that if you carry that argument to its logical conclusion, then we would all end up eating nothing but cauliflowers which had been humanely put to death.”
Rose tried not to look at Daisy, who was surreptitiously pouring her tea into a potted plant.
“And,” Rose went on, “the perception of female beauty would need to change. One is really required to be plump to be considered a beauty.”
“But you see, you are talking of things of the world,” said Angela eagerly. “We, in my Vegetarian Society, eschew such frivolities.”
“What do the spirits say to you?” asked Daisy. “I mean, is it like ghosts?”
“No, no.” Angela gave a patronizing titter. “I shall quote the great Mr Steiner. ‘Common sense which is not led astray can decide of itself whether the element of truth rules in what anyone says. If someone speaks of spiritual worlds, you must take account of everything: the manner of speaking, the seriousness with which things are treated, the logic which is developed, and so on, and then it will be possible to judge whether what is presented as information about the spiritual world is charlatanism, or whether it has foundation.’”