Read Online The Dorset House Affair by Norman Russell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Norman Russell
Ads: Link
. But I could have been mistaken. Who are you, anyway, mister?’
‘This is the famous Inspector Box of Scotland Yard, Joe,’ said Tom Fallon. ‘He’s here to see fair play up at the house, so you keep a civil tongue in your head, do you hear? Well, it looks as though the lane’s clearing, now, and we can close the yard gates. Nice to have met you, Mr Box. Perhaps we’ll meet again, some time.’
‘Good night, Tom,’ said Box. ‘And by the way, young Joe, your three tipsy gents couldn’t have come out of the garden passage, because it was locked from the inside. I know, because I unlocked it just now to step out here. Well, I’d better be on my way. My overtime runs out at eleven.’
‘Money for old rope,’ laughed Tom Fallon. He and the lad called Joe turned back under the stable arch, and Arnold Box went back into the house.
Box found that the grand saloon was almost deserted, as most of the guests were assembled in the entrance hall or on the steps of the great Corinthian portico, waiting for their carriages to be driven up to the door. People were talking in low tones about the incident in the vestibule.
‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ one elderly lady was saying to another. ‘I happen to know something about Elizabeth de Bellefort. A friend of Lady Claygate told me about it in confidence . She’s French, of course,’ the lady continued, ‘but from a very good family, I’m told. Oh, there’s my husband at last! I thought I’d lost him.’
‘And what did your informant tell you about her?’ asked the second lady. ‘Of course, I shan’t tell anyone.’
‘Well, it was just that this Elizabeth de Bellefort has a history of odd behaviour – hallucinations, or something. She was always in and out of institutions when she was a girl. Perhaps it was that, tonight, in the vestibule? A vision, you know. She may have imagined that something unpleasant was lurking behind the door, and reacted accordingly.’
‘So that’s why Lady Claygate didn’t want Maurice to marry her! Well, well, I never knew that….’
Box watched as the first lady’s husband joined her and her friend. He was a stout, apoplectic man in his sixties, with an angry red face and protuberant eyes.
‘Ah! There you are, Maude, and you, Carrie. What an extraordinary business.’
‘You mean Mademoiselle de Beliefort’s vision?’ asked his wife.
‘Vision fiddlesticks. I’m talking of young Maurice Claygate. Hang it all, Maude, his father throws this grand affair for his birthday, and he doesn’t even stay till the end! He was supposed to make a little speech from the dais, and then we were to drink a final toast to him in old Claygate’s champagne. But no – damn it all, Maude, the fellow slopes off with his chums to play the gaming-tables till dawn! His brother Major Edwin Claygate had to make the speech in his place. Damn bad form….’
Within the half-hour, Dorset Gardens were deserted. It was time for Box to make his way back to King James’s Rents, where he would stay in the upstairs bunks for the night. The indiscreet letter from the French minister’s foolish wife would not leave his possession until he had handed it over to Sir Charles Napier next morning.
Field Marshal Claygate and his wife Margaret sat in the private parlour of Dorset House, and listened to the powerful, sinuous tones of Alain de Bellefort as he wove an elaborate apology for his sister’s hysterical behaviour in the vestibule. It was nearly midnight.
Earlier, a doctor had been summoned to examine the prostrate young woman, and he had agreed at once with her brother that she must have experienced a simple visual or auditory hallucination followed by a fainting fit. There was nothing to worry about. He had accepted a sovereign in payment for his brief consultation, and had hurried away.
‘I feel that I owe you both an apology and an explanation for my sister’s conduct this evening,’ said De Bellefort. ‘When we received
‘This is the famous Inspector Box of Scotland Yard, Joe,’ said Tom Fallon. ‘He’s here to see fair play up at the house, so you keep a civil tongue in your head, do you hear? Well, it looks as though the lane’s clearing, now, and we can close the yard gates. Nice to have met you, Mr Box. Perhaps we’ll meet again, some time.’
‘Good night, Tom,’ said Box. ‘And by the way, young Joe, your three tipsy gents couldn’t have come out of the garden passage, because it was locked from the inside. I know, because I unlocked it just now to step out here. Well, I’d better be on my way. My overtime runs out at eleven.’
‘Money for old rope,’ laughed Tom Fallon. He and the lad called Joe turned back under the stable arch, and Arnold Box went back into the house.
Box found that the grand saloon was almost deserted, as most of the guests were assembled in the entrance hall or on the steps of the great Corinthian portico, waiting for their carriages to be driven up to the door. People were talking in low tones about the incident in the vestibule.
‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ one elderly lady was saying to another. ‘I happen to know something about Elizabeth de Bellefort. A friend of Lady Claygate told me about it in confidence . She’s French, of course,’ the lady continued, ‘but from a very good family, I’m told. Oh, there’s my husband at last! I thought I’d lost him.’
‘And what did your informant tell you about her?’ asked the second lady. ‘Of course, I shan’t tell anyone.’
‘Well, it was just that this Elizabeth de Bellefort has a history of odd behaviour – hallucinations, or something. She was always in and out of institutions when she was a girl. Perhaps it was that, tonight, in the vestibule? A vision, you know. She may have imagined that something unpleasant was lurking behind the door, and reacted accordingly.’
‘So that’s why Lady Claygate didn’t want Maurice to marry her! Well, well, I never knew that….’
Box watched as the first lady’s husband joined her and her friend. He was a stout, apoplectic man in his sixties, with an angry red face and protuberant eyes.
‘Ah! There you are, Maude, and you, Carrie. What an extraordinary business.’
‘You mean Mademoiselle de Beliefort’s vision?’ asked his wife.
‘Vision fiddlesticks. I’m talking of young Maurice Claygate. Hang it all, Maude, his father throws this grand affair for his birthday, and he doesn’t even stay till the end! He was supposed to make a little speech from the dais, and then we were to drink a final toast to him in old Claygate’s champagne. But no – damn it all, Maude, the fellow slopes off with his chums to play the gaming-tables till dawn! His brother Major Edwin Claygate had to make the speech in his place. Damn bad form….’
Within the half-hour, Dorset Gardens were deserted. It was time for Box to make his way back to King James’s Rents, where he would stay in the upstairs bunks for the night. The indiscreet letter from the French minister’s foolish wife would not leave his possession until he had handed it over to Sir Charles Napier next morning.
Field Marshal Claygate and his wife Margaret sat in the private parlour of Dorset House, and listened to the powerful, sinuous tones of Alain de Bellefort as he wove an elaborate apology for his sister’s hysterical behaviour in the vestibule. It was nearly midnight.
Earlier, a doctor had been summoned to examine the prostrate young woman, and he had agreed at once with her brother that she must have experienced a simple visual or auditory hallucination followed by a fainting fit. There was nothing to worry about. He had accepted a sovereign in payment for his brief consultation, and had hurried away.
‘I feel that I owe you both an apology and an explanation for my sister’s conduct this evening,’ said De Bellefort. ‘When we received
Similar Books
