City of Bells (12 page)

             
“Yes,” Rayley said evenly.  “And did I catch your own name?  Eversure?”

             
“Everlee,” the man replied.  “Benson here is my attaché.  Attache as in the word ‘attached,’ you understand.  In a business sense, of course.”

             
“Oh of course,” Rayley said, just as evenly.  Benson nodded in their general direction but his gaze was fixed on a point just above their heads.

             
“Shall we sit?” asked Geraldine, choosing a chair as she spoke.  “I was telling Mr. Everlee that I had a long ago acquaintance with his mother and father.  And stepfather as well.”

             
“But my dear Miss Bainbridge,” said Everlee, still standing.  “As I told you out on the terrace, there is no need to dissemble.  I know well enough who you all are and why you are here.”

             
And we know your purpose as well,
Trevor thought, keeping the socially required smile plastered on his face. 

             
Geraldine soldiered on.  “Do sit just a minute, for it is such an honor to meet you,” she said.  “I understand you are the youngest man to have ever won an election to the House of Commons.  That is quite an accomplishment.”

             
“Yes, I shall be thirty-three next month,” Everlee said. “Which makes me the youngest man to sit in Parliament.”  The words had the false ring of an oft-repeated speech and after saying them he looked restlessly around the room.  “I hope you will forgive me if I don’t join you for the next round of pegs, but, as I’m sure you can all imagine, this is not a social visit for me. I do appreciate you for offering up your names so promptly. Yes, it was most helpful, and I shall see you again soon.” 

             
And with that he bowed and even snapped his heels a bit, giving rise to unfortunate comparisons with Bonaparte, then bustled away from the group, Benson trailing wordlessly behind.

             
“We shall all await that pleasure with bated breath,” murmured Geraldine, when the men were safely out of earshot.  “What a thoroughly unpleasant boy Roland sired, which is a pity.  On first impression, I must say Michael doesn’t seem half the man his father was, in either character or stature.  Roland stood well better than six feet, broad shouldered, the whole lot.  And yet his son…”

             
“Is clearly trading on his family reputation to establish his rise in Parliament,” Rayley finished.  “For it’s hard to imagine he is climbing on the basis of his social charm.”

             
“The man he said was attached to him,” Davy asked.  “Is he…”

             
“Most likely,” said Rayley.  “That’s my impression.”

             
“Good fishing to have found the pair of them at all, Geraldine, “Trevor said.  “What led your attention toward Everlee in this great crowd?”

             
“Mrs. Tucker,” Geraldine said promptly. “She is hardly the most agreeable companion with which to share cocktails, but she does know everyone at the Byculla Club and was quite happy to help me ferret out the location of dear Rose’s long departed boy.  A rather strange remark about this not being a social evening, was it not?  What would you imagine that means?”

             
But before Trevor could answer, the butler approached the group.  He was dressed not as the butler of a London club might be, but rather in garish colors of orchid and lime green, and was festooned with more brass and silver than a military hero. 

             
“Which of you is Mr. Abrams?” he said, with only the slightest hint of the sing-songy Indian accent. 

             
“I am he,” said Rayley.  “As I suspect you are quite aware.”

             
“I regret that I must ask you to leave, Sir.”

             
“On what basis?” snapped Trevor, scrambling to his feet.

             
“The Byculla is a private club, Sir, and thus –“

             
“It’s all right, Welles,” said Rayley, also rising.  “Perhaps this gentleman can find me a carriage?”

             
“It’s far from all right,” Trevor said. 

             
“I should say not,” said Geraldine.  “We have come here as a united party, my good man, and if necessary we shall leave as one.”

             
“No,” said Rayley.  “No we shall not.  A carriage, please.  Tell me when it is here.”  The butler turned away and Rayley was aware that half the room was covertly observing their little drama over the rims of their cocktail glasses . The other half was openly gaping.

             
“Come, Abrams,” said Trevor, “surely you see that buggered chap Everlee is at the root of it all.  You heard the way he repeated your name.”

             
“Yes, I did,” said Rayley. “Which is why I have been mentally preparing for my departure ever since.  It is truly to be expected, Trevor, Geraldine, and if Everlee hadn’t noted my name, it was a matter of time before someone else did.  A man cannot move through life without introductions and I refuse to change to Adams, as did my brother.  No, I refuse to try and pass.”

             
“I will come with you, Sir,” said Davy.

             
“It is not necessary,” Rayley said.

             
“I insist.”

             
“Ah,” said Rayley.  “Make note of this, Welles.  Our young Mr. Mabrey insists.”

             
“And right he is,” said Trevor, for the only thing more distressing that Rayley being escorted from the club was the idea of him leaving alone.  It rankled Trevor to think that by staying, as they truly must, the rest of the group seemed to be giving tacit approval to Rayley’s ouster.

             
“We shall all come,” said Geraldine.  “And we shall knock things over on the way out.”

             
“No,” Rayley said.  “What you shall do is stay and finish the task of the evening, which is to see if any of the people gathered within in this fine room are likely suspects or witnesses.  And we shall confer on the morrow, just as we always do.”

             
“But what shall the two of you eat?” said Geraldine, her mind running to trivial matters as it often did when she was upset.  “Dinner has not yet been served.”

             
Rayley chuckled.  “I have a great curiosity about the local curries, haven’t you, Davy?”

             
“Yes, Sir,” Davy loyally lied.  “We will find a shop that sells them on our way back to Mrs. Tucker’s and eat ourselves full.”

             
“Stout lad,” said Rayley.  “And so we are off, because our transport has evidently just arrived,” he added, inclining his head toward the door where the blank-faced butler was waiting, Rayley’s hat clasped pointedly in hand.  “Don’t mention this to Emma and Tom, Welles, for it will only distress them. If Emma asks where Davy and I have gone, as she most surely will, tell her I am unwell and Davy has volunteered to see me back to our rooms.”

             
“Just as you wish,” Trevor said. “But I hate that you must always be the one to turn the other cheek.  Yes, I’m aware of the irony, so don’t bother to speak it, but God’s nightgown, man, Geraldine’s right.  Don’t you ever just want to break glass?”

              It was yet another full hour longer before dinner was served.  An hour in which Trevor trawled the room, more distracted than he should have been, and only hoping that Geraldine, Tom, and Emma were making better use of their time.  At one point he passed Everlee holding court in a corner, telling a seemingly impressed group of men about the latest turns in London politics. When Everlee raised his cocktail toward Trevor in a mock salute, it was all he could do to keep from sailing across the room and boxing the man's plump face.

`
              But otherwise he supposed it could be said that the Byculla Club was a reasonably convivial crew.  They got a bit louder the more they drank, but that was the case for any social gathering, and it struck him as more significant that there was such a marked surplus of men in the room.  He recalled Gerry’s claim that even the plainest and dullest of girls could find a husband among the men of the Raj and that certainly appeared to be accurate.  The handful of young, attractive women – of which Emma was certainly one – were seated within a virtual enclave of men, and being obliged to turn this way and that, keeping track of multiple conversations as each of the fellows vied for a few precious moments of feminine attention.

             
He missed the company of Rayley and Davy.  Tom, of course, was in his social element, as was Geraldine, and Emma was being fawned over so ostentatiously that one would think she was on the verge of coronation.  He was the one who didn’t fit in, who had no gift for gab.  He paused to gaze at a notice board which was crammed full of information about upcoming teas, sporting events, and parties.  He explored the bar (overstocked) and the library (understocked) and wandered out to the terrace where he could barely make out the forms of the swimming pool and tennis courts in the growing darkness. 

             
Such a lot of toys, he thought. 

             
And then at last came the gong, signaling them in to dinner.

             
Trevor walked back into the drawing room where the others were clustered, waiting to be escorted into the dining room in some order that defined logical analysis.  But they all appeared to take it quite seriously and stood oddly silent, each waiting their turn, like a bridal party about to proceed down the aisle.  Tom, he noted, was ushered in with a pretty blonde girl – he had undeniable luck, that boy – and Emma was on the arm of none other than Michael Everlee.  Not so fortunate for her, but a good stroke for the investigation, for perhaps she could gather from the man what, if anything, he had learned about the Weaver case.  Judging by Geraldine’s high color, she had not yet recovered from the insult to Rayley, but she too was in the party clustered around Everlee.

             
Trevor’s group entered last.  Impossible to tell what, if anything, that meant, but he was no sooner seated than he extended his feet under the table and jumped.

             
His foot had found something hard.  Hard and, after a moment of poking against it, even rather cold. 

             
He continued to nudge about, but the human foot is an improper instrument for investigation, far less subtle than the hand.  Abandoning his plastered social smile, Trevor was finally forced to raise the tablecloth and peer beneath.

             
“It is ice,” whispered the elderly lady seated to his right.  Trevor’s status, evaluated God knows where or when, had evidently not been deemed high enough to earn him proximity to either a young lady or an esteemed guest.  If Rayley and Davy had remained, they probably would have been seated out by the tennis courts. This woman, who had evidently waged centuries of war with the tropical sun and lost, was looking at Trevor down the length of her nose with amusement.

             
“New to India, I take it,” she said.

             
“Less than a day,” he admitted.

“
              Ah,” she said.  “They say the first ten years are the hardest.”

             
“Is it customary to put blocks of ice under the table?”

             
“I wouldn’t say customary,” she said. “For it is too expensive a practice to be common.  But it is pleasant, is it not?  Especially considering the layers of clothing we ladies are expected to wear beneath our skirts.  But all one has to do is prop one’s feet on a block of ice and voila, it is as if a cool breeze is blowing right up the legs.”

             
Well, that was a rather unexpected observation.  Most of the women Trevor knew would rather die than admit they had legs, much less that they enjoyed the notion of a cool breeze running up them.

             
“I am Trevor Welles,” he said.

             
“Scotland Yard,” she said, with a definitive nod. “I know all about it.  We have so little excitement here at the Byculla Club that of course your reputation has preceded you.  I am Evangeline Morrow.”

             
“A pleasure to meet you,” Trevor said, suspecting that for once the shallow statement would be truthful.  “But answer me this, Mrs. Morrow - how do they keep the ice under the table?”

             
“It rests on great silver trays,” she said, “which are placed under the table just before we are called in to dine.  We are to prop our feet on the ice while we can, you see, which is to say before it sinks and melts and turns the floor into a puddle.  Everyone in India is accustomed to propping up his feet the minute he sits down, Detective, but don’t let them tell you that it is for comfort.  It’s to make it less likely you’ll be stung by a scorpion or bitten by a cobra.”