Lessons in Power (6 page)
must have meant good deal of custom lost. He wondered, irreverently, whether the material had already been cut to make whatever garment the man had ordered. “A great sorrow for his lordship’s family,” he interposed, as a tape measure shot up his inside leg.
“A tragedy, sir. His brother was in here just days later. The funeral…” Waite added,
sotto voce
. They all understood what he meant. “He wanted to take away the half-prepared clothes we’d made for Lord
Jardine. Sentimental value. Now, shall we look at some styles?”
The ordeal by inches having finished, they began to peruse pattern books. Orlando had known from
the start what he wanted, but it gave them some extra opportunity for questioning as he
ummed
and
ahed
over the exact cut.
“I’d warrant that Jardine was here to pick up some of your excellent hunting jackets.” Stewart gave
the illusion that he couldn’t have cared less what his lordship wanted and was just making conversation while his friend dithered.
29
Charlie Cochrane
“No, Mr. Stewart. Quite the contrary. He ordered some lightweight suits. Now would you like this,
Dr. Coppersmith? It’s favoured by several of our more academic clients.” Mr. Waite indicated a style
which must have been worn by Noah when he was up at the University of Ararat.
“That’s very distinguished, thank you, but I’ve decided on this one.” Orlando indicated the pattern
he’d seen at the start and they began to look at the rich samples of material, which Waite produced by the cartload. Orlando knew exactly which cloth he, or to be more precise, Jonty, wanted, but their plan had been clear in terms of taking his time and maximising every opportunity for gossip.
“It would turn Mrs. Stewart’s hair quite white to think that we’re in the same place where Lord
Jardine had been only hours before he died.” Mr. Stewart produced a grave face, one suited to the
discussion of death. “Probably the last place in London the victim visited…”
Waite smiled, inclining his head. “Ah, I think not, sir. He told us that he was off to Trimbles for
lunch. He was always very talkative and entertaining, his lordship.” He cast a sideways glance at someone he no doubt regarded in neither category. “Are we settled, sir?”
Orlando felt that they had sufficient information to be going on with, so he pointed to a rich Welsh
woollen mix.
“A very good choice, Dr. Coppersmith.” Waite meant it; the swatch was the finest fabric they had in
the collection and he was more than impressed that Orlando had selected it. He motioned for the young man who had noted down the measurements to fetch the diary, so that the fitting could be arranged. They settled on a fortnight ahead, with the suit to be ready for picking up when Coppersmith was en route to Sussex for Easter.
“Put this on the Stewart account, please.” Mr. Stewart smiled at the surprise, soon masked, on Waite’s face. “Dr. Coppersmith is a protégé of my wife’s. He was orphaned young and Mrs. Stewart has had him
under her wing. She promised him a suit from here when he had his next paper published.”
They left the shop, having gained some interesting information and leaving some wondering looks
behind them. Stewart beamed. “I feel just like Sherlock Holmes. The Woodville Ward case was
entertaining, but that was just a matter of old dry papers. This is much more fun—the game’s afoot, eh?
And now…” He drew up his shoulders and exhaled with gusto, “Lunch?”
“Indeed. At Trimbles, do you think?” Orlando grinned and they set off.
30
Chapter Four
There was a spring in Orlando’s step. One of the unexpected advantages of having acquired Jonty
Stewart as a lover was that he came complete with a family—a family whom Orlando liked and who,
miracle of miracles, seemed to like him. He adored Mrs. Stewart much more than he had his own mother, but then Mrs. Coppersmith had never hugged or petted or made him feel secure in the way that Mrs.
Stewart did. And the latter lady had only once smacked his bottom.
Now he was beginning to forge the sort of relationship with Mr. Stewart that he’d always wanted to
have with his own father—easy yet respectful, serious at times and humorous at others. They took
enormous satisfaction in each other’s company and, while the thought of having lunch at a ridiculously posh restaurant would normally have made Orlando want to disappear into a hole in the ground, the thought of doing so with Richard Stewart was a most welcome one.
Orlando knew the minute he set eyes on Trimbles that the price would have been out of his league a
few months back. Never well off, he’d managed to get by well enough until Jonty had come along and
introduced him to all sorts of new delights which had increased his expenditure although his earnings remained much the same. The disparity in income between him and his lover, who’d been well provided for by his grandmother, had been a source of friction between them on many an occasion, until Jonty had been possessed of a brilliant idea.
The old countess, who had been worth a small fortune, had thought that only one of her
grandchildren—Jonty—possessed sufficient spark to be given a share of her estate alongside Helena, her only daughter. Among other things, she’d left a boxful of jewellery which was earmarked for his wife, the countess having been oblivious to where her beloved Jontykin’s inclinations lay. He’d been in secret consultation with his mother during the summer about whether, morally, he could sell the stuff and set up a trust so that Orlando, who was the nearest thing he’d ever have to a wife, could have a decent income. Mrs.
Stewart had talked the matter over with her husband, who’d thought it a splendid plan, especially as it removed the chance that the jewellery might at some point end up in the hands of certain members of his wife’s family. People of whom he didn’t approve, as they were adulterers and didn’t pay their bills on time.
Mrs. Stewart had organised it all within a matter of weeks, and Orlando had entered into life at
Forsythia Cottage with, for the first time in his life, an income which would allow him to do things at a whim. Like pay for lunch at Trimbles.
Charlie Cochrane
The maitre d’hôtel greeted Mr. Stewart with the merest hint of recognition, which was sycophantic
compared to the sneers he usually gave people who tried to acquire a table without booking. He found them a suitable place then left them to the ministrations of the headwaiter, who handed them menus and slid napkins onto their laps. “Not our pleasure to see Mrs. Stewart today, sir?”
“I regret to say that she’s visiting a sick friend. I will tell her you asked after her.” Mr. Stewart smiled, exuding a patrician air.
“Thank you, sir.” The waiter turned his attention to Orlando, recognised the tie, then smiled. “A St.
Bride’s man, sir?”
“Indeed.”
“This,” said Stewart with a great swell of pride, “is Dr. Coppersmith.”
The waiter, Caddick, beamed. “Not
the
Dr. Coppersmith? From the article in
The Times
?”
“The very same.”
Caddick bowed to Orlando. “An honour to serve you, sir. I shall take your order whenever you’re
ready.” He scuttled away, full of secret satisfaction.
“What did he mean by
the
Dr. Coppersmith?”
“Don’t you remember the article I put in
The Times
about you and Jonty solving the Woodville Ward case? I suspect that in certain circles, the fans of Mr. Holmes for example, you’ll have achieved a certain celebrity.”
Orlando wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or otherwise, and was rather wary when the waiter
returned. The man took their order, although he didn’t immediately go to despatch it. “I wonder if I might be impertinent as to ask whether you’re here in connection with Lord Christopher Jardine?” Caddick cast a knowing look at
the
Dr. Coppersmith.
“We would certainly be interested in hearing anything that you can tell us in that regard. We know
that he took luncheon here on the day he was killed,” Mr. Stewart interposed, spotting that Orlando was contemplating murder himself.
Caddick nodded, lowering his voice. “Then I’ll find the opportunity to come and talk to you at the end of your meal. If there’s anything I can help you with, I would be honoured to do so.”
Which he was, finding a quiet alcove in the entrance hall where they could speak confidentially;
anywhere else would have “not been done”.
“Mr. Stewart, Dr. Coppersmith, I know it’s true that when someone is murdered, or commits a crime,
then people tend to look back and say ‘I knew there was something wrong at the time.’ Very easy to
embroider one’s memories, just to impose an idea on them.”
“That’s correct.” Stewart nodded. He had heard such fanciful stuff often before, particularly from his maiden aunt.
32
Lessons in Power
“But in this case I did notice something and I said so at the time to the chef. He was most perturbed that Lord Christopher Jardine had sent back his Beef Wellington almost uneaten. I had to reassure him that the dish was excellent, indeed all the other diners had said so, and it was simply his lordship’s humour.
He’d seemed out of sorts, terribly unsettled all through the meal, and as he left he’d made a particular point, or so it seemed, of finding me to have a word. ‘Want to thank you for your excellent service. May not see you again
.
’
I think he had a premonition of his own death.” Caddick’s face lit up at the thought that he’d been party to such a revelation. “And now I must be back to my tables. Thank you sir, good day.”
“A premonition, Orlando?” Richard Stewart raised his eyebrows as the two men descended the marble
stairs gracing the front of Trimbles.
“I doubt it.” Orlando grinned, alive with the chase. “He was planning to take a trip somewhere and not return for a long time, if at all.”
“I agree. No one would be buying lightweight suits at this time of year, otherwise.” Mr. Stewart held out his hand for it to be shaken. “I regret that I have to leave you now, to go and attend to some rather tedious business. Give my love to my renegade of a son and tell him you must stay with us when you come up for your fitting.”
Orlando nodded. “I’ll pass on your orders, although it may take a word from his mother to make him
obey.”
“Indeed—they’re as wilful as each other.” Stewart waved for a Hansom cab and strode away
purposefully to embark in it.
Jonty was waiting, walking to and fro across the foyer of their hotel. “Come on, Dr. Coppersmith,
there’s not a moment to lose. Been waiting here ages—well, ten minutes at least.” There was a nervous energy about him which made his friend uneasy.
“What’s up?”
“You’ll soon find out—need to get a cab.” Jonty almost dragged his lover out of the hotel onto the
pavement, frenetically looking up and down the road to catch the eye of a driver, oblivious to the fact it should have been the doorman performing the task.
“What happened at Platt’s? I can see that the game’s afoot again but I have no idea what it is I’m
playing.”
“I found out who Jardine argued with. That’s the chap we’re going to see now, courtesy of the club
committee making sure that all guests give their address in the visitors’ book.”
His efforts to find a Hansom proving fruitful, Jonty bundled Orlando inside the vehicle, giving an
address in Chelsea to the driver. He sat looking out the window, rather than the road ahead, the nervous energy that was quite uncharacteristic of him coming to the fore again.
33
Charlie Cochrane
“Does this chap have a name?” Orlando was ill at ease. Something was going on and he wasn’t sure
he liked it.
The answer took a while to emerge, Jonty’s tense breathing almost as loud as the sounds of hooves on
the road. “Taylor. Timothy Taylor.” Jonty looked his lover straight in the eye, just for a moment, then contemplated the London crowds once more.
“Jonty!” Orlando grabbed his lover’s hand, made the man turn towards him. “Taylor? From your
school?”
“The very same.” Small points of red flared on Jonty’s cheeks, fiery indicators of the strain he was
under.
“Isn’t this being a bit precipitate? Shouldn’t we talk it over first?” Rushing headlong into peril—this was wrong, perhaps endangering the whole investigation.
“It’s now or never, Orlando. If I have time to think about it then I might never find the courage.
Carpe
diem
and all that.” The peaks of colour on Jonty’s face began to fade now that the truth was all out, being replaced by a steely glint in his cornflower blue eyes.
Orlando nodded, that all made perfect sense. Some tides were made to be taken at the height of the
flood. “And did you find out more than the man’s name?”
“I did. An old pal of Troughton’s was there, one who’d overheard part of the row. It hadn’t been very long, or not when they were inside the club. The members soon complained, so the management made
Jardine and Taylor leave if they wanted to have such a loud difference of opinion. If the witnesses are to be believed, and I see no need to doubt them, they’d continued their set-to on the pavement.”
“Did anyone hear what was said?”
“By the time the voices were raised enough to bother people, it had reached the name-calling stage.
Apparently
traitor, scoundrel
and
scrub
were some of the more repeatable ones.” Jonty looked out at the London streets again, refusing to talk, until the cab drew up outside a rather fine town house in a small exclusive square.
They climbed a short flight of steps then Jonty, taking a huge breath and composing himself, knocked