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Authors: Charles Kingston

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“That means she'll be emotional for a week at least, and I want our party to take place next Tuesday.”

“We can do without her. I'll help, and so will Nancy for that. She's wonderfully domesticated considering she's an artiste. Besides, we can rope Freddie Neville in, and Mrs. Carmichael will be unhappy unless she's nosing around all the time. Oh, here's Florence approaching, so exit young master in search of silence.”

Ruby watched the girl arrange the tea things and did not speak until the seventh sniff.

“Sorry to hear of your disappointment, Florence,” she said, trying to infuse something else into her tone than politeness.

“Thank you, ma'am. But Mr. Robert has been so sympathetic-like and kind. I thought he'd have laughed at me but he didn't. You should have seen his face when I was telling him how Tom and Bert had killed their uncle for his money. At least, it's my opinion that they did.”

A horrible sense of discomfort pervaded Ruby. She shrank from the association of “murder” with “uncle,” and she escaped from panic only because it was so obvious that the girl was utterly incapable of discovering a parallel in Galahad Mansions to the temptation which must have assailed the alleged murderous Tom during the weeks preceding the profitable tragedy.

“You mustn't bring charges you can't prove, Florence,” she said, severely. “The cousin wouldn't have risked his own life to help Tom.”

“He didn't ma'am,” was the unexpected retort. “Mr. Robert guessed that as well as me. Wanted to know particularly what Bert's name was.”

Ruby seized an empty cup and rattled it unwittingly against a saucer.

“We'll have toast for tea,” she said weakly.

Chapter Two

The preparations for the party by providing a diversion for Ruby Cheldon's oppressive and apprehensive thoughts quickly restored her to her usual serenity of outlook and manner. She loved entertaining, and was, therefore, always at her best no matter how poor her surroundings or how inferior the ingredients of the feast might be. A gracious friendliness towards all, attentiveness to everybody, combined with a tactful avoidance of iterated invitations to eat and drink, an unobtrusive supervision, and yet a total absence of dominance gave her the control and leadership of every party of which she was the hostess without anyone suspecting that she was something more than one of those present.

But then she left nothing to chance, not even the apparently smallest details. The commandeered rooms were with their contents subjected to a disembowelling cleansing which rendered parts of them almost as shiny as the “payway” products of the new era. Even the sofa, thrust into the least conspicuous of corners, was nearly redeemed from passive hideousness by gaily-coloured cushions distributed at strategic points. A couple of rugs from the bedrooms broke the drab monotony of the drawing-room floor, and the shaded electric light mercifully reduced the three engravings to symmetrical frames and nothing else. Flowers in glass vases were assigned positions where Ruby thought they would show most effectively, and whenever possible inartistic evidences of their poverty were banished to the kitchen.

Her chief glory and pride, however, were her photographs, those relics of gentility which the poor wear like medals. The photograph of General Sir Hildebrand Cheldon complete with Crimean whiskers and cast-iron regimentals. (“Oh, yes, he was my husband's uncle.”) Hubert Cheldon in his uniform as a deputy-lieutenant. (“I've got a book about him somewhere.”) Jonathan Cheldon in the dress of the late eighteenth century which the twentieth regards as a uniform. (“That's a photograph of his portrait. Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Yes, he does look like Lord Clive. Lots of people have remarked it.”) Broadbridge Manor with its extended frontage and vast lawns. (“Belonged to the Dukes of Weybridge before Bobbie's ancestor bought it. Lady Emily Cheldon. Daughter of the Earl of Ditton. Married Bobbie's grandfather. His aunt, who jilted a marquis, used to tell me that Disraeli was crazy about Lady Emily.”) Thomas Delaforce Cheldon in his legal robes. (“Yes, but all the Cheldons are handsome. That book in his right hand? I don't know, but probably it's one he wrote himself. He was always writing.”) And in the place of honour a large photograph of Colonel Henry Bertram Cheldon. Ruby had no need to voice her pride in her husband, neither was it necessary for her to parade his virtues or add to them by invention. His silver frame was always the centre of the array of Cheldon memorials and reminders that it was a distinct come-down in the world for a member of that illustrious family to dwell in Galahad Mansions, Fulham. They formed a goodly company for the edification and sneers of guests according to their degree of humility or jealousy.

“I don't think we've forgotten anything,” Ruby said pensively to her aide-de-camp, Florence, at half-past eight on the night that was to witness the appraisement of the girl who was a candidate for entry into the exclusive ranks of the Cheldons. “I don't suppose anyone will arrive for another hour.” She had been ready herself since a quarter to eight when Bobbie had gone off to offer himself as escort to Nancy Curzon.

“Don't forget, ma'am,” said Florence, who could enjoy a party no matter how complicated her amatory troubles might be, “that Mr. Davidson mustn't use the sofa. It won't bear his eighteen stone.”

“I'll head him off,” Ruby promised with a smile. “What's that?” The front door bell rang twice with an impatience to which only a genuine Cheldon was entitled.

Ruby moved to the front of the fire where for a few moments she watched the reflection of the infrequent flames in her soft dark blue silk dress. She was feeling excessively nervous, certain in her mind that it was Bobbie who had rung the bell and that soon she would be facing the ordeal of an interview with a common, aggressive young woman with Bobbie looking on and, perhaps, discovering the real reason for the party and hating his mother for it ever afterwards.

The door opened and Florence, who had been carefully coached in the respectful formality due to the Galahad Mansions branch of the Cheldon family, announced the caller with the stateliness of a veteran butler.

“Miss Hyacinth Curzon.”

Ruby advanced with a dignity of which she was unnecessarily conscious, and the instant she saw her son's fascinator her heart sank. For there was nothing common or flamboyant in her visitor's appearance. Here was a convincing imitation of the real thing, and, above all, here was an unusual and magnetic beauty.

Forty-eight involuntarily stared at nineteen and in one full scrutiny took in her five feet six inches of perfect and healthy womanhood, her head of brown hair, pale cheeks slightly touched with colour, broad, clever-looking forehead, bright, challenging dark eyes, firm and yet dainty chin, expressive lips vibrant with an earnest appreciation of life. She was certainly very pretty, this dancer of the night, and Ruby, vaguely summoning the ghosts of Lady Emily Cheldon and other aristocratic wives of dead and gone Cheldons, felt hopeless as she contemplated the possibility of convincing Bobbie that mere beauty did not guarantee the standard of bluish blood which she had a right to expect in the girl he intended to elevate to the position of her daughter-in-law.

“Miss Curzon?” she began nervously, when she found her visitor's eyes wandering round the room.

“Yes, that's me,” came the response set to the discordant music of a superfluous giggle. “Isn't Bobbie here?”

“I thought that he'd gone to meet you. Won't you sit down?”

Nancy smiled her thanks and lapsed into a momentary reserve which made her feel ill at ease.

“I expect he'll be back at any moment now, Miss Curzon,” said Ruby, as she became aware of several wave-lengths of a scent of penetrating virility. There was another pause.

“Nice room you've got here,” said Nancy in a toneless voice.

“It might be better.” The words were used merely to pass the time. The battle had already begun but only in skirmishes, neither being yet prepared to launch heavy artillery.

“I like the quiet colour scheme.” She giggled again, forgetting in her nervousness that she had resolved to show Bobbie's mother what a perfect lady could be or ought to be. “You'll excuse my curiosity, won't you?” The lower part of her face grinned.

“Curiosity is often a form of politeness.” Ruby Cheldon was feeling on top now and completely unafraid. The girl was common and her beauty and obvious cleverness merely underlined that fact.

Suspecting that she was losing ground Nancy regained her self-possession by initiating a discussion about herself.

“Of course, Bobbie's told you all about me, Mrs. Cheldon? He's such a dear boy. Quite unspoilt and a perfect lamb.”

“Bobbie did mention that you were a dancer.” Ruby's voice and manner would have earned the approval of Lady Emily Cheldon and her sister, who had married a colonial bishop. It was concentrated dislike touched with a veneer of contemptuous interest.

“I'm professionally known as Hyacinth—Nancy to my pals—Curzon of Curzon and Bright, speciality dancers. We do all the tip-top night clubs and our act is a regular riot.”

“That means it is a big success?” It was the grand lady of the manor evincing an interest in the under-gardener's daughter.

“I should think so.” She leaned forward in order to assume a more confidential attitude. “The managers will be fighting to get us soon, and don't you make no—I mean, don't you forget it.”

“I'm afraid I hadn't intended to remember it,” said Ruby, impulsively, and instantly regretted her rudeness. Fortunately, Nancy, accustomed to the curious humour of her underworld, chose to treat the remark as exquisitely funny.

“That's a good come-back, Mrs. Cheldon,” she said wiping her eyes.

“She can act,” thought Ruby, and for some unknown reason shivered.

“I'm very fond of Bobbie.” Bobbie's mother thought the tone oddly impersonal, even detached. “He's a gentleman—you can tell that at first sight. A perfect gentleman, I don't hesitate to say. None of your common crowd like the Belbills and Marjorie Grimes' pal who runs a cigar shop in the Edgware Road. No, Bobbie's a perfect gentleman, just as you're a perfect lady.”

“Only a lady—I don't claim perfection,” said Ruby ironically.

Nancy ignored the emendation.

“When Bobbie and I met in Bohemia—”

“Bohemia—is that a night club?”

The dancer wriggled in her mirth.

“Excuse me, but you are a one.” She laughed for several seconds. “Bohemia is where bohemians meet.”

“Oh, I see. And what are bohemians exactly?”

“Now you've got me, Mrs. Cheldon.” She laughed. “I suppose bohemians are people who live the sort of lives other people don't live—do unconventional things and—er—have their own views about everything. Oh, dear, I never thought before or tried to think what it does mean exactly. Perhaps Bobbie could tell you better than me.”

“If bohemians are persons who do unconventional things then I'm afraid you're mistaken about my son. He's the most conventional young man in London.”

Nancy laughed the laugh of superior knowledge.

“Do you really know Bobbie, Mrs. Cheldon? Oh, yes, of course, you've known him all his life and I met him for the first time three months ago, but I'll bet I know something more about him than you do. Why, he's said things to me he wouldn't say to you.”

“I expect he has.”

The dryness of her tone was a challenge, and Nancy Curzon decided that it was time she brought into action the superiority with which her conquest of Bobbie Cheldon endowed her.

“I can do anything I like with Bobbie—he's crazy about me.” She rose and opened her handbag. Ruby leaned forward and took a silver cigarette box from the table near her.

“Try one of Bobbie's,” she said quietly.

“Thank you.” The girl gracefully posed for her own satisfaction as she went through the preliminaries necessary to smoking.

“Look here, Miss Curzon,” Ruby resumed, “I'm expecting a few friends soon and so time is precious. I want to talk to you about Bobbie and his future. As his mother I'm naturally anxious. Please don't think I'm your enemy or your friend. There, I'm very candid. But Bobbie is all I have, and we've got so little.” There was a chance for a compliment here, but Nancy, too busy thinking of herself, missed it. “Bobbie has proposed to you, I suppose?”

That faintly cockney giggle pervaded the room again.

“You won't believe me, Mrs. Cheldon, but he actually went down on his knees. Delightfully old-fashioned, but so perfectly sweet. That was two days after we met in the ‘Squealing Pig', and I've taught him a lot since. He wanted teaching.”

“What he wants most of all is an opportunity to earn his living so that if he marries he'll be able to keep his wife in decent comfort.”

“Do you mean a job? Bobbie working! Oh, my hat!” She uttered a piercing scream.

“You know the world, Miss Curzon, and it must be obvious to you that we are poor. At present Bobbie can't afford to marry.”

“That's what they all say.” She wheeled round to face her. “Isn't Bobbie heir to a title and estate bringing in ten thousand a year?”

“There's no title—only a property.”

“Oh, I thought all estates had titles stuck on to them. Still it doesn't matter. Ten thousand a year will do to be going on with. After all, it's nearly as much as Happy Blibbs makes, but he's a top-liner.”

“No doubt Bobbie has told you exactly how he stands.” Her tone was one of suppressed irritation. “The Cheldon property is at present in the possession of his uncle, who is only fifty-three—”

“Fifty-three! Ye gods! Isn't the old man saving up to buy a wreath for his own funeral?” She stopped in her laughter, conscious that the atmosphere had become icy. “Sorry. Just a joke. But fifty-three! It's terribly old, isn't it?”

“Mr. Massy Cheldon may live for another twenty or thirty years. The Cheldons live long. But there is another possibility to be considered. He may marry and have a son, and in that event Bobbie would never get a penny or an acre.”

“I'll lay the odds against the old man marrying and having a kid, but the twenty years frightens me. I'd be thirty-nine then, and living in a bath-chair. That's not the game for me, Mrs. Cheldon, and you can tell Bobbie so. He only talked of coming into ten thousand a year, and I believed him. It wasn't fair—” She walked over to the fireplace and stood staring into the grate, and in spite of her feelings Ruby Cheldon envied the lovely young life which had so much that was unlovely and common about it.

“A young man in love is always optimistic, Miss Curzon,” she said, almost apologetically.

“Bobbie's talked as if he was a millionaire.” The voice was sulky. “I was very nearly chucking Billy Bright my partner, and retiring from the profession altogether. I thought Bobbie had pots of the ready. Why, it was on account of Bobbie that I refused last night an offer for a continental tour with Billy Bright.”

“From your point of view there must be better fish in the sea than my son,” Ruby began.

The girl turned on her angrily.

“You don't mean that—no mother could mean it.” The termagant peeped through the glistening eyes. “It ain't—it's not fair, Mrs. Cheldon. After all, I didn't propose to Bobbie, did I?”

The older woman went to her side and laid a hand on her arm.

“Why should we quarrel, Miss Curzon? We're both fond of Bobbie and want to do the best for him. We're two women of the world—you're nineteen and I'm forty-eight.”

BOOK: Murder in Piccadilly
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