Lady Emmeline and the Swansong Caper Page 2

  Purdie felt her world tip out of focus, and clung to the arm of the sofa as she tried to stop her legs from giving way.

  “It’s quite alright,” Lord Alverstock said, temporarily relinquishing his brandy to the safety of a teak side-table. “Really, I’m feeling distinctly sanguine about the whole thing.”

  “You might be, Pa,” Purdie managed to say, “but I’m not.”

  They remained where they were for some time, fixed in a silent tableau of wretchedness. The ship’s clock above the fireplace kept ticking as the minutes drifted by; a nightingale sang irrepressibly outside the bay window; and Purdie tried to comprehend the enormity of what her father had just told her in the most unusual of circumstances. Eventually her scattered thoughts returned to Shakespeare’s diamante head, the sudden grief locked away until it could be faced in a private moment. British boarding schools may be queer old places, but at least they teach one exceptional emotional restraint.

  “But what has it all got to do with the bust, Pa?”

  “Aha!” Lord Alverstock cried, thankful for the diversion. “Before I shuffle off this mortal coil,” he began, “I’ve decided that I’d like to have a spot o’ fun.

  “Raffles the gentleman thief is something of a hero of mine, as you know, my love – and I thought it might be rather entertaining to try to emulate some of his capers. Steal the odd painting or precious jewel – that sort of thing.”

  His eyes lit up at the very thought of it, and the benumbed Purdie found her mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “I should far rather spend my final few months kicking up a bit of a lark, instead of fading out with a whimper. Of all the people to have bumped into during my first sortie, though, Em…”

  “Manifestly absurd, I agree,” Purdie concurred, tears of mirth and sorrow pricking the back of her eyes. “Putting the coincidence of you invading my particular party aside, might I ask why you chose the bust? I sincerely hope that you weren’t motivated by its aesthetic appeal, Father - because it is absolutely revolting, and does not bode well for my twenty-first birthday present if that is what you consider to be The Thing.”

  Lord Alverstock’s eyes twinkled appreciatively, as he moved to refill their glasses. “It’s absolutely vile, isn’t it? I wholeheartedly believe I have undertaken a public service by removing it from sight and hiding it in my sock-drawer.”

  Purdie snorted and lit another cigarette.

  “However,” Lord Alverstock continued, circumnavigating the room with great energy, “I confess that I wasn’t wholly motivated by the ugliness of the trinket. No, my love, it was the simple desire for revenge that did it. I was, you see, paying Arnold Butterby back for the Great Wrong he did me in 1913.”

  “How very romantic of you,” Purdie remarked, still caught somewhere between laughter and tears. “And what did he do, precisely?”

  “It was the height of summer,” her father intoned with relish, casting his mind back across the years, “and I was the captain of the Peterhouse first eleven….

  “It had been an illustrious cricketing season – never before in the history of the College had our bowlers achieved such economy, or our batsmen such feats of endurance. I myself had scored a double ton against St. John’s, and had high hopes of replicating the achievement in the final match against Tit Hall – generally agreed to be a lacklustre bunch.

  “Birds trilled, the sun shone, and the Pimm’s was flowing,’ he continued, eyes closed in reverie as he painted a portrait for Purdie. “As I approached the crease, however, willow in hand and a spring in my step, I noticed Butterby in the crowd, sitting next to my repulsive Latin professor – one St. John Archibald. Now, my love, Butterby knew that I was not, at the time, in favour with that particular academic. Indeed, the scoundrel was in fact well aware that Dr Archibald had threatened to have me sent down if I failed to hand in a translation of a truly dreary excerpt from Pliny the Elder, which I’d been putting off for weeks.

  As it happens, Butterby and I were also at odds - due to some inane punting accident which I can hardly now recall…. although I believe it may have involved a stray apricot and a ladies’ hat…In any case, the point is that I knew he had put Archibald right in my line of sight, so that I would find myself confronted by his penetrating monocle as I tried to loft my sixes into the air.

  “It was utterly distracting, as you might imagine, and I was eventually bowled on my tenth ball. To cap it all, I was so upset that I utterly mismanaged the fielding, so that we eventually handed Tit Hall a gift-wrapped victory.

  “My legacy was shattered, and all because of that damned apricot, and the fact that Butterby had placed a substantial sum on the odds that we would choke. Despite being a member of my own college, I might add.”

  Lord Alverstock scowled at the wretched recollection, and Purdie began to comprehend the importance of the betrayal – for nothing meant more to her father than cricket. Lord Butterby had, she concurred, crossed a line. “Well then,” she declared, I’d say that the bust must indeed serve as penance for his crime.”

  “I knew you’d understand,” her father replied, much moved by this display of solidarity.

  “That I do,” she continued, as brightly as possible. “I must ask, though, Pa - do Ma and Algie know all about this?”

  “About the bard?” he cried, eyebrows leaping upwards. “Absolutely not.”

  “Not the bard,” she replied, swallowing hard. “About your…indisposition.”

  “Ah,” Lord Alverstock said. “That. I am afraid not, Em. And I should like to keep it that way for the time being, if you don’t mind. There’s absolutely no point in upsetting everybody when I may very well rally and outlive you all.”

  “Right-o,” she answered, trying valiantly to emulate her father’s off-hand manner. “Well, if secrecy’s the name of the game, you’ll be in need of a wing-man.”

  “A wing-man, Em?”

  “Yes, Father, a wing-man. Raffles has Bunny, and you shall have me.”

  “Good God!” Lord Alverstock expostulated. “You cannot mean to suggest that you would join me in a life of crime? You must have bats in the attic if you think I spent all that money on your education for you to become a petty thief, Emmeline.”

  “I’m afraid that you really have no choice,” Purdie replied cheerfully. “I certainly won’t watch you gad about alone, and I’m hardly rushed off my feet – until Cambridge sees fit to let me back in, I’ve got absolutely nothing to do. I may as well learn to pick locks and filch diamond busts, if it comes to it. Consider this a spot of blackmail, if it helps,” she added, cheerfully, observing that her father remained firmly unconvinced. “If you don’t let me join the gang, I’ll sing like a canary. Blow your cover. Scupper the caper. Shop you to Mother. That sort of thing.”

  Lord Alverstock was on the cusp of firing back an impassioned riposte when the clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight.

  “Well, good night then, Pater,” Purdie said, moving across to kiss Lord Alverstock tenderly on the forehead. “I absolutely must get a good night’s sleep – I need to quash the Gussie situation first thing, and I’m promised to Pongo in the afternoon. Pip pip.” And with that she was gone, leaving her father with a great deal to think about.

  THREE

  “Purdie!” Gussie cried, throwing open the front door of his family’s indecently large town-house to find his betrothed standing before him in a smart plum sports frock and matching hat. “How absolutely topping to see you! I could barely stop myself from spilling the beans to Mater and Pater over breakfast.” Said breakfast was still very much in evidence, Purdie noticed with dismay, as a spot of egg-yolk clung stubbornly to Gussie’s greasy chin.

  “I’ve actually come to have a word about all that, Gussie,” Purdie replied briskly, desperately wishing she hadn’t embroiled herself in this uncomfortable predicament.

  “Keen to make plans already, eh,” Gussie replied with a poorly-executed wink, more akin to a squint. “Come on in. I warn you, though, the house is in utte
r uproar – it turns out that dear Uncle Arnold has lost his diamond bust of the bard, and there are strong suggestions of Foul Play.”

  “Really, Gussie?” Purdie asked as casually as she could, borne through the Featherington-Blyth’s Grecian-themed hallway on a rising wave of panic. “Whatever could you mean? Are you sure he hasn’t misplaced it?”

  “Misplaced it be damned,” Gussie said cheerfully, guiding Purdie into the drawing room. “The rozzers have found a cuff-link underneath Uncle Arnold’s library window, and it certainly doesn’t belong to Uncle Arnold. I must say that we evidently get a better class of criminals in Mayfair, if they’re running around in cuffs. Oddly comforting, what?”

  Purdie blanched, and did some swift calculations – her father, it seemed, had jumped straight into some seriously hot water with his novice burglarising. “How thrilling, Gussie,” Purdie countered, trying to peel herself away from his determined grip and hot breath. “I’d love to take a peek at the item in question – I’ve never seen a piece of actual Evidence. Do you know where the cuff-link is?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Gussie replied, delighted by this sudden display of interest from his beloved, “it’s in the morning-room. The Constable brought it over to see if it might belong to my father – he and Uncle Arnold played a very vigorous game of Tiddlywinks in Uncle’s library not two nights ago, and they were keen to rule out the possibility that Pa might have dropped it during a particularly flamboyant move with the old squidger.”

  “And was it his?” Purdie asked, wishing, not for the first time, that Gussie had a greater respect for personal space – hers in particular.

  “It was not,” he replied, leering at her in an attempt to appear mysterious.

  “Are you feeling quite the thing, Gussie?” Purdie asked, mistaking his enigmatic expression for trapped wind.

  “Oh yes – fit as a flea,” he replied, unperturbed. “Let’s have squiz next door – see if we can’t let you clap your eyes on that cuff-link.”

  And so, the pair made their way across the deserted hall, up the staircase and into Mrs Featherington-Blyth’s astonishingly hued morning-room. Purdie shuddered involuntarily. She appreciated a bold colour palette as much as the next girl, but the combination of mauve and gold was almost enough to make one nauseous – George IV would not, one suspected, have felt out of place in this particular establishment.

  “Good – they’ve nipped out,” Gussie said, creeping forwards towards the gold-edged coffee table in the centre of the extraordinary room. “And there it is.”

  With a sinking stomach, Purdie immediately spied one of the cuff-links she had given her father the previous Christmas lying brazenly on the mahogany. She had even, she remembered rather faintly, seen fit to have his initials engraved in the otherwise flawless platinum discs. And there they were – “FDIP”. Frederick Dettmer Ivanhoe Alverstock.

  “Good lord,” she said rather weakly.

  “I know – rather smart, aren’t they? One never really imagines that thieves sport personalised accessories. It’s enough to make one consider a life of crime.”

  “I wonder if we could just have a look at him in the light…” Purdie said, plucking the cuff-link from the table and moving across to the bay window.

  “I say, steady on there,” Gussie cautioned, suddenly rather alarmed by his Innamorato’s gung-ho attitude towards police-work. “I should think that Inspector Dashwood would rather we didn’t put our fingerprints all over his evidence.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a flat,” Purdie said with disdain, “I’m only touching the clasps, after all. Now do be a dear and open this sash – this glass is filthy.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gussie cried, by now looking decidedly nervy, “I can’t see why you need to stand by an open window with them, Purdie.”

  “Chiaroscuro,” Purdie replied without missing a beat. “If you love me, Gussie, you will open this window.”

  Purdie, feeling rather ashamed of herself for resorting to such levels of emotional manipulation, knew that she had said the one thing that was guaranteed to chivvy Gussie along – and sure enough, her words inspired him to bound across the room and fling open the window with abandon.

  “For heaven’s sake, do have a care though, my love,” he said anxiously. “Uncle Arnold will have my guts for garters if I compromise the recovery of Shakespeare’s head.”

  Now that she was confronted by Mrs Featherington-Blyth’s window box, Purdie was not entirely sure what her next move should be. She could hardly fling her father’s cufflink outside - to do so would look distinctly suspicious, as well as leading to its almost-immediate recovery. As she was staring thoughtfully down at the street below, a young man approached the Featherington-Blyth’s doorstep, and paused before knocking on the door. He glanced up, sensing a pair of eyes somewhere above him, and found himself looking up into the face of an unfeasibly pretty young woman, with a slight frown creasing her forehead. For her part, Purdie was surprised to see that she was being appraised by a smart young man in a charcoal grey suit and matching fedora, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  “Who’s that man, Gussie?” she asked, glancing back at her accidental fiancé.

  “What man?” Gussie asked, peering over her shoulder just in time to see a figure passing from the street into his parents’ hall.

  “Never mind,” Purdie said, dismissing the fellow from her thoughts as she scrambled for a solution to the Cufflink Conundrum. Just as she was considering how best to secrete the item upon her person, the sound of approaching footsteps reached her from the staircase. Presented by the prospect of immediate discovery, Purdie did the first thing that came to mind: namely, slipping her father’s cufflink between her lips and tucking it underneath her tongue.

  “I believe he’s just in here, Inspector,” Gussie’s mother warbled, before pushing open the door and clapping eyes upon her son and his companion.

  “Emmeline,” she expostulated, her viciously plucked eyebrows snapping together in displeasure, “what are you doing here?”

  Just as Purdie opened her mouth to offer a smart rejoinder, she realised in horror that she had dislodged the cufflink and that it was on the cusp of slipping down her oesophagus. Instinctively she swallowed, eyes wide with surprise, and raised a small hand to her throat.

  “Are you quite alright?” Mrs Featherington-Blyth’s escort asked, stepping forwards in some concern. It was, Purdie realised, the gentleman she had spotted on the doorstep. And he was appallingly handsome. Somewhere in the region of thirty years old, Purdie noted that he had blond hair, delicious green eyes, and the kind of jaw-line an engineer would happily use as a set-square.

  “Topping, thank you,” Purdie replied, smoothing the pleats of her sports frock. “Just a touch of hay-fever.”

  “Emmeline,” Mrs Featherington-Blyth repeated, calling Purdie to attention, “I asked you a question.”

  “Just popping in to say hallo to Gussie, Mrs Featherington-Blyth,” she replied breezily, as she made for the door. “I see you’ve had quite a morning, however, so I’ll leave you all to it.”

  “Hmmmm.” Mrs Featherington-Blyth, with the instinct of a mother who knows when her son is barking up the wrong tree, did not like Purdie. To her mind, young Lady Emmeline Purdew was a siren; a temptress; a heartless seducer leading her son into the realms of the broken-hearted.

  “I say,” Gussie cried in consternation, looking down at the coffee table, “have you still got that cufflink, Purd?”

  “No,” Purdie replied, the picture of innocence, “I gave it back to you when we were by the window.”

  “I say,” Gussie repeated, frantically patting his pockets and looking about him on the carpet, “I must have been miles away – I can’t remember having it at all.”

  Purdie felt the stranger’s eyes upon her, and desperately tried not to blush. “Well, I certainly don’t have it on me.” Purdie was rather comforted to know that this was true – “in” her, yes; “on” her, no.
/>
  Mrs Featherington-Blyth, who was predisposed to distrust everything Purdie said, was not so readily convinced – and yet even she had to admit that there was no reason for the girl to filch a piece of evidence.

  “I wonder, madam,” the unnamed man said, “why you were so interested in the item in the first place?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Purdie replied with her sweetest smile, “but I have absolutely no idea who you are or what any of this has to do with you. I’m also in danger of being late for lunch with my dearest friend. So, if you don’t mind….” Purdie made to walk past the stranger, but just as she drew level with him the young man lifted his hand and knocked the python-skin purse from her hands as if by accident, scattering its contents across the floor.

  “Good lord,” the gentleman said as he dropped to his knees, seizing the opportunity to rifle through Purdie’s possessions, “how awfully clumsy of me – I do apologise.”

  Purdie, comforted by the knowledge that the ploy to see the contents of her bag wouldn’t reveal anything other than a penchant for red lipstick, found that she was rather amused by this performance. The gentleman was certainly direct in his methods, which, as a woman of action, she could not but admire. “Not at all,” she replied brightly.

  A packet of cigarettes; set of matches; tube of lipstick; and matching wallet all made their way back into the purse. The man paused for a moment as he plucked a book of verse from the carpet, looking up at Purdie with one eyebrow raised.

  “The Waste Land,” he read aloud, flicking through the pages. “Sounds rather desperate.”

  “It’s poetry,” Purdie said sweetly, as though talking to someone rather dim. “And “desperate” isn’t quite the word I’d use.”

  “She’s terribly clever,” Gussie interjected proudly. “Always reading. Went to Cambridge, you know.”

  “Yes, that’s all very well,” Mrs Featherington-Blyth said impatiently, “but shouldn’t you be on your way, Emmeline? I’m sure Inspector Dashwood isn’t in the least interested in whatever modern flim-flam you care to fill your head with.Give me Palgrave’s “Golden Treasury”,” she said grandly, “that has always been quite good enough for my tastes.”