Sick of Shadows (12 page)

Sir Peter Petrey was leaving The Club two days later. London was in the grip of a particularly nasty thick yellow fog. It was one of those lung-searing fogs of winter blanketing London, blotting out landmarks. He knew if he could even get a hansom, it would take him ages to get home.

It was late afternoon and he realized he would need to walk home if he was to manage to change into his evening clothes and escort Rose to a dinner party.

He bumped into someone in the fog. “I say, I am sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right. Beastly weather,” said a young voice. “Do you know the way to Charles Street?”

“I’m going there myself. Come along.”

They walked on together. As they passed a lighted shop front, the fog swirled for a moment and thinned. Peter looked at his companion and caught his breath. He was looking at the face of an angel. Golden hair like guineas glinted under a silk hat, large deep eyes, a perfect skin, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow.

“Are you visiting London?” he asked.

“No, I live here. I’m going to visit friends. This is awfully good of you, sir.”

“My name is Peter Petrey. And you are . . . ?”

“Jonathan Wilks.”

“I am glad of the company on such a filthy night, Mr. Wilks.”

“Do call me Jonathan, everyone does.”

They talked about plays they had seen and poetry they had read. Peter began not to notice the fog. He felt he was enclosed in a golden bubble with this dazzling youth.

Just before they reached Peter’s house, the young man stopped. “This is where I leave you.”

“Here is my card,” said Peter. “Do call. I’ll wait to see you get in safely.”

Jonathan knocked at the door. Then he came back down the front steps. “They don’t seem to be at home. I must have forgotten the day. This is Friday, is it not?”

“No, it’s Thursday.”

“Oh dear.”

“Look, come in with me and have a sherry while I dress.”

When Peter arrived slightly late and out of breath, Rose noticed he seemed to shine with an inner glow. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I haven’t made a mistake about him. He looks like a man in love.

Peter had never been in better form than during the dinner. He told jokes, he told gossip, and he delighted the company.

Shrewd Daisy watched him with anxious eyes. I hope it’s Rose that has given him this extra sparkle, she thought. I hope it isn’t anyone it shouldn’t be.

Daisy’s concerns grew when, after dinner, she heard Peter tell Rose that he was going away on Friday and would not return until the following Monday.

“Where?” asked Rose. “Anywhere pleasant?”

“Just visiting some friends.”

“You will miss the ball tomorrow.”

“Oh dear. Can you find someone to escort you? Captain Cathcart, perhaps?”

Rose raised her brows in amazement. “Have you forgotten I ended my engagement to the captain and became engaged to you?”

“No, my dearest. It is just that it is very important that I go away this weekend.”

“What is so important?”

Peter manufactured a laugh. “You sound like a wife already. Ah, there is Lady Simpson looking for me.”

He darted off.

Daisy joined Rose. “I heard that.”

“Most odd,” said Rose. “Just a day ago he seemed to delight in my company.”

“Let’s just hope he isn’t delighting in anyone else’s.”

Peter and Jonathan went down to Oxford the following day. The fog had disappeared, but Oxford was shrouded in a hard frost. They walked along by the icy river where the last leaves hung rimed with the frost, which glinted like rubies under a hard red sun. Peter kept glancing at his companion, becoming even more and more besotted. Those large eyes that he had first seen in the fog were green with flecks of gold. His black eyelashes were thick and curled at the ends. He had a wide-brimmed hat perched rakishly on his golden curls.

Peter considered him too perfect for any carnal thoughts. His sexual adventures had been very few and he had avoided that brothel in Westminster which catered to tastes like his own. Discretion was all-important. Discovery meant prison and hard labour.

They had a pleasant dinner that evening at the Rose and Crown. When they had finished, Peter dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Now what shall we do?”

Jonathan leaned forward and fixed him with a glowing look. “I know somewhere in Oxford where we can end the evening . . . together. It’s not much of a hotel, but it would serve our purpose.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “Y-you c-can’t mean . . .” he stuttered. That beautiful mouth smiled at him lazily.

“Oh, but that’s exactly what I mean.”

Rose sat at the ball and watched the dancers. Now that she was engaged to Peter and seemed happy with him, the heiress-hunters of society had decided to leave her alone.

The next dance, a waltz, was announced. She looked at her dance card. Nothing for the next dance and then a few dances with elderly friends of her father.

She looked up and found Harry bowing before her. “Lady Rose, may I have the honour?”

They moved together on the dance floor. “Have you any more news about Dolly’s death?” asked Rose.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Have you?”

Rose thought of Roger but decided to remain silent. She shook her head.

“Where is your fiancé tonight?”

“He has gone off to see friends.”

“That is surely most unlike him. I would have thought him a dutiful escort.”

“He usually is.”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this marriage? Don’t you want children?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Daisy told me that you know exactly what I mean. Peter is not interested in your sex.”

“There is no proof of that,” said Rose, her face flaming. “In any case, all I want is an arranged marriage. I would have my own household and I would have freedom. I owe you an apology. I only found out later that you had been the hero of that terrible train crash.”

“On another matter, I found Berrow and Banks outside your house. I warned them off. What are they up to?”

“I don’t know.”

“While we had our pretend engagement, at least I could feel I was protecting you.”

“Fiddlesticks. You were never there.”

“I could change,” he muttered.

“What did you say?” demanded Rose, but the waltz had finished and an elderly partner was waiting for her.

She danced impatiently, wanting to speak to Harry again, wondering if he had really said he could change, and what had he meant by that?

When the dance was over, her eyes searched the ballroom, but there was no sign of Harry.

Peter and Jonathan lay side by side, naked, on a bed in a seedy hotel in Oxford’s Jericho district. Jonathan was smoking a Russian cigarette and blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.

“That was beautiful,” said Peter in a choked voice.

“I can make it more exciting.” Jonathan stubbed out his cigarette and then fished on the floor on his side of the bed. He brought up a leather mask. “If I put this on, it will titillate you even more.”

“I am in love with you,” said Peter in a stifled voice. “I do not need to play silly games.”

“You’ll love it. See!” Jonathan put the mask on and then wound his arms around Peter. “Indulge me.” Then he raised his voice. “I have the mask on!”

The bedroom door burst open and a magnesium flash blinded Peter. The man behind the flash was holding a camera. He, too, was masked. The cameraman snapped at Jonathan, “You’ve done your work. Now get out of here.”

Jonathan scooped up his clothes and darted from the room. Peter struggled out of bed and ran to the door, which was slammed in his face. He hurriedly dressed and ran downstairs and into the street.

He looked frantically up and down. No one. He went back to the hotel. “Who was that man with the camera?” he demanded.

The man at reception looked at him with flat eyes. “I never saw nobody with a camera.”

“You’re lying,” howled Peter.

The man smiled at him. “Want to go to the police?”

“That is what I am going to do,” said Peter, knowing miserably that that was the very last thing he could do.

He could only assume that whoever took that photo meant to blackmail him. Then he thought of detective Harry Cathcart, who was famous for covering up scandals. But would Harry report him to the police?

It was either that or kill himself.

Harry had gone to visit his father, Baron Derrington, a duty call he had been putting off for ages, and so Peter had to fret and worry all weekend.

When Harry arrived at his office on Monday morning, it was to find Peter waiting for him.

“How can I help you, Sir Peter?” asked Harry.

“May I talk to you in private?” Peter cast a nervous look at the secretary, Ailsa.

“By all means,” said Harry. “Come into my office.” He cast a shrewd look at the trembling and sweating Peter and said to his secretary, “Miss Bridge, would you please go to Fortnum’s and buy me some chocolates? A large box. Take the money out of the petty cash.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Inside his inner office, Harry held up his hand for silence until he heard Ailsa leaving.

“Now, Sir Peter, you may begin.”

“You will despise me!”

“Sir Peter, I know so many shocking things that anything you say will fail to amaze me.”

So, in a trembling voice, Peter told him of Jonathan and of how he had been betrayed. He ended by saying, “Do you think they will blackmail me?”

“Probably. Unless—”

The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” said Harry. A voice quacked down the receiver from the other end. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said Harry.

“I am afraid,” he said to Peter, “that the photograph has gone to Lord Hadfield.”

“I am ruined,” said Peter, beginning to sob.

“I will make sure Lord Hadfield says nothing of this. But I must get that photograph and negative back.”

“But how can you?” wailed Peter. “I don’t know who they are.”

Harry thought of Berrow and Banks lurking in the square outside Rose’s house.

“I want you to go to your home. Speak to no one. Do not answer the door. I will call on you later. I will give three knocks and then two so that you know it is me.”

SEVEN

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.

—OSCAR WILDE
  

Rose wondered what on earth was going on. Her father had put down his newspaper and had stared to look through the morning post. He slit open a square manila envelope. He drew out a photograph. He goggled at it, thrust it back in the envelope and shouted, “Get Cathcart. Now!”

Despite wondering frantically what had been in that photograph, Rose felt a surge of pleasure at the thought she might see Harry again.

“What on earth is going on?” she asked her mother.

“I am sure your father will cope with whatever it is. Eat your breakfast,” said Lady Polly.

“Pervert,” muttered the earl.

“What did you say?” demanded Rose.

“Hey, what? Oh, I said perishing newspapers.”

Rose had never seen her father look so upset. His face was scarlet. At last he said to his wife, “A word with you, dear.”

Rose and Daisy picked at their food. Then Rose heard her mother scream.

They ran to the office. The earl shouted at them, “Get out of here! Go to your rooms and don’t come out until I tell you.”

They went upstairs and stood by the window. At last they saw Harry arriving. Becket was not with him.

“Now what?” asked Rose.

Daisy gave a dismal little shrug. She had been expecting to see Becket.

Harry looked at the photograph. “Nasty,” he said. “Sir Peter was entrapped.”

“You can’t be entrapped unless you’re a . . . you’re a . . .”

“Quite,” said Harry. “Will you leave this with me? I think perhaps I might be able to get the negative and any prints. Petrey will go abroad for an extended period and it will all blow over.”

“Rose will need to cancel the engagement!”

“Not yet. I have a feeling that that was just what someone wanted her to do. Leave it to me.”

“Usual fee?” asked the earl glumly.

“No, you may have my researches as a present, for it will be my pleasure to deal with whoever did this.”

“What do we say to Rose?” asked Lady Polly.

“I think you will find out that your daughter knew of Peter’s tastes.”

“What?”

“I do not for a moment think she believed that men actually had sexual intercourse—”

“Lady present,” growled the earl.

“But that she thought their love was platonic. She craved an arranged marriage.”

“Why?”

“Because she does not want to be shipped off to India. If you threaten her with that, she will find someone else.”

The earl mopped his brow.

“And I thought you were the worst thing that could have happened to her.”

“Thank you for the compliment. Now, leave this with me.”

Harry did not go back to his office but returned to Chelsea to ask Becket’s advice. He told his manservant about the incriminating photograph. “Do you know anything about the homosexual underworld, Becket?”

“There is that brothel in Westminster that no one is supposed to know about. Who do you suspect, sir?”

“I suspect Berrow and Banks.”

“Perhaps they hired a youth from there.”

“I am sure a place like that would give me no information whatsoever. I wonder why the police haven’t raided the place.”

“Possibly there are too many important people who visit there.”

“Where exactly is it?”

“Verney Street. I’ve heard servants gossiping about it.”

“I’ll go down tonight and watch who comes and goes. I’ll visit Petrey first.”

Harry went to Petrey’s home and knocked as arranged. Petrey himself answered the door, looking haggard.

Harry followed him in. He sat down and removed his hat. “The situation is this. Your engagement to Lady Rose stands. You will invent a dying aunt in the south of France. You will write Lady Rose a letter saying you have the leave the country immediately. I think the purpose of your entrapment was to get Lady Rose to break off your engagement. We will not give them that satisfaction right away.

“Now, give me a full description of this Jonathan Wilks.”

“He is very beautiful—young, with golden hair and large green eyes with flecks of gold. He is quite tall with a slim body. His skin is clear and without blemish. Believe me, there cannot be very many young men as beautiful as he is in London.”

“Leave it to me.”

Harry walked to Westminster that evening after the lamps had been lit. To his relief, Verney Street was short. He found a dark doorway and settled down to watch.

At first it was hard to tell which of the dark houses could be a brothel, but then, as the evening drove on, he saw a house in the middle of the street was beginning to be visited by various men who looked nervously up and down before hurrying inside. To his amazement, he recognized a major-general and then a member of Parliament. Still, he waited patiently as the evening dragged on past midnight. There was a cold nip in the air and he wished he had worn a warmer coat. The old wound in his leg was beginning to throb, and as the time approached two in the morning he was just about to give up when he saw a young man emerging from the building. Before he crammed his hat on his curls, they shone gold in the lamplight.

He started to walk briskly and Harry followed him. The youth went as far as the seedier end of Westminster and turned in at a doorway and disappeared.

Harry went up and lit a match and studied the names beside the bell-pulls.

Jonathan Wilks lived on the top floor. Goodness, thought Harry, he even used his own name.

He took out a set of lock picks and got to work on the outside door until he was able to enter.

He walked silently up the stairs to the top. The name “Wilks” was there, pencilled on the peeling wall beside the door.

Harry knocked. “Who is it?” he heard him call.

Taking a gamble, Harry shouted, “Banks!”

The door swung open. Harry shoved Jonathan backwards into his flat. The young man stumbled and fell on the floor. Harry pulled him up by the lapels and thrust him into an armchair.

“Now,” he said, “before I ruin that pretty face of yours for life, you will tell me who paid you to entrap Sir Peter Petrey.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Harry jerked him out of the chair and drew back his fist.

“No!” screamed Jonathan. “I’ll tell you. They said it was just a prank. I was to pretend to bump into him. Then we arranged to go to Oxford, so they said they would book a hotel and gave me the name. They also gave me a leather mask. They said I was to put it on and say in a loud voice something about having the mask on and then they would do the rest.”

“And just who are ‘they’?”

Jonathan hung his head. “Lord Berrow and Cyril Banks,” he whispered. Then he began to cry, saying between his sobs, “Don’t hurt me.”

“You gave me what I wanted. Now, a word of advice. You will forget this ever happened or I will come looking for you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes.”

“I suggest you find yourself a protector and get out of that brothel or you will look like a diseased old man by the time you are thirty. Good night!”

“Wait! Where is Peter?”

“None of your business.”

Harry began to walk until he managed to hail a cab and directed the driver to Cyril’s address.

Once there, he paid off the cab and waited until the driver had driven off. Then he took out his lock picks and unlocked the front door.

He made his way silently up the thickly carpeted stairs, opening one door after another until he found Cyril’s bedroom. He lit the gas and stood and looked down at the sleeping Cyril. He had a sudden impulse to drive his fist into Cyril’s face but restrained himself. He looked around the room. There was a laudanum bottle on the bedside table with a spoon beside it. Cyril lay in a drugged sleep.

Harry was sure Cyril would have hidden any negative close to him. There was a safe in the corner, an old one which opened with a key rather than a combination. On a console table lay a bunch of keys. Harry picked them up and tried them until he found the key that opened the safe.

Inside he found a Kodak camera. He peered at the small film window, but saw nothing there. The film had already been removed and the camera was empty. He searched in the safe again and found an envelope with the negative and one print. He stuffed them into his inside coat pocket and locked the safe.

He then walked to Charles Street and gave his special knock at the door. Again Peter answered it. He was fully dressed and his face showed the mark of tears.

“I have a photograph and the negative,” said Harry.

“Oh, thank God! Who did this to me?”

“Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow.”

“But why? Why me?”

“As I told you in my office, I think the intention was to get Lady Rose to break off your engagement. I suggest you rouse your man and pack. Leave tomorrow. Where will you go?”

“The south of France, where I am supposed to be.”

“Stay there a few months and this will all blow over. Hadfield is not going to talk.”

“What about Berrow and Banks?”

“You need not fear them. I will deal with them.”

Jonathan awoke after an uneasy sleep. He dressed and glanced down at the street. Lord Berrow and Cyril Banks had just turned the corner and were heading in the direction of the house where he lived. Cyril had found the photograph and negative gone and knew that Jonathan must have talked.

Jonathan let out a squawk of terror.

The doorbell jangled furiously. Jonathan began to pack a bag. He kept glancing fearfully out of the window until he saw them walk away.

He darted down the stairs, carrying his bag, and called a cab. “Charles Street,” he said.

Peter walked out to his carriage. It was later in the morning than he had intended to leave, but sheer relief had made him fall into a deep sleep. The carriage was loaded with his luggage.

He had one foot on the step when he heard a voice shout, “Peter! Wait!”

Peter stared as Jonathan hurtled towards him.

“You little bastard,” hissed Peter. He started to climb into the carriage.

“They told me it was only a prank,” said Jonathan, tears running down his face. “They are going to kill me. Take me with you.”

“I am going to the south of France to forget about the whole sordid business.”

Peter climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof with his cane. The carriage lurched forward. Jonathan jumped on the backstrap.

Twisting round, Peter saw the youth’s anguished face through the back window.

He turned away in disgust.

When the hansom stopped in the forecourt of Charing Cross Station, where Peter was booked on the Dover train, he told his manservant, “Get a porter. Now, you,” he said, glaring at Jonathan, “run along.”

“Take me with you. I’ll do anything. I hate the life here. Please.”