'Yes, but it was my lobster. I'd bought it and paid for it. I had a perfect right –'
'Oh, you had, you had,' said Bundle hastily. 'But I'm sure that's all forgotten now. And I don't care for lobsters anyway. So let's go.'
'We may be raided by the police. There's a room upstairs where they play baccarat.'
'Father will have to come and bail me out, that's all. Come on, Bill.'
Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant, and they were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.
The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be. It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street , she noted the number.
A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she could have seen him before.
Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman. They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke – so much so that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was almost overpowering.
On the wall were rough charcoal sketches, some of them executed with real talent. The company was extremely mixed. There were portly foreigners, opulent Jewesses, a sprinkling of the really smart, and several ladies belonging to the oldest profession in the world.
Soon Bill led Bundle upstairs. There the weak-faced man was on guard, watching all those admitted to the gambling room with a lynx eye. Suddenly recognition came to Bundle.
'Of course,' she said. 'How stupid of me. It's Alfred, who used to be second footman at Chimneys. How are you, Alfred?'
'Nicely, thank you, your ladyship.'
'When did you leave Chimneys, Alfred? Was it long before we got back?'
'It was a about a month ago, m'lady. I got a chance of bettering myself, and it seemed a pity not to take it.'
'I suppose they pay you very well here,' remarked Bundle.
'Very fair, m'lady.'
Bundle passed in. It seemed to her that in this room the real life of the club was exposed. The stakes were high, she saw that at once, and the people gathered round the two tables were of the true type. Hawk-eyed, haggard, with the gambling fever in their blood.
She and Bill stayed there for about half an hour. Then Bill grew restive.
'Let's get out of this place, Bundle, and go on dancing.'
Bundle agreed. There was nothing to be seen here. They went down again. They danced for another half- hour, had fish and chips, and then Bundle declared herself ready to go home.
'But it's so early,' Bill protested.
'No, it isn't. Not really. And, anyway, I've got a long day in front of me tomorrow.'
'What are you going to do?'
'That depends,' said Bundle mysteriously. 'But I can tell you this, Bill, the grass is not going to grow under my feet.'
'It never does,' said Mr. Eversleigh.
Chapter 12
INQUIRIES AT CHIMNEYS
Bundle's temperament was certainly not inherited from her father, whose prevailing characteristic was a wholly amiable inertia. As Bill Eversleigh had very justly remarked, the grass never did grow under Bundle's feet.
On the morning following her dinner with Bill, Bundle woke full of energy. She had three distinct plans which she meant to put into operation that day, and she realised that she was going to be slightly hampered by the limits of time and space.
Fortunately she did not suffer from the affliction of Gerry Wade, Ronny Devereux and Jimmy Thesiger – that of not being able to get up in the morning. Sir Oswald Coote himself would have had no fault to find with her on the score of early rising. At half-past eight Bundle had breakfasted and was on her way to Chimneys in the Hispano.
Her father seemed mildly pleased to see her.
'I never know when you're going to turn up,' he said. 'But this will save me ringing up, which I hate. Colonel Melrose was here yesterday about the inquest.'
Colonel Melrose was Chief Constable of the county, and an old friend of Lord Caterham.
'You mean the inquest on Ronny Devereux? When is it to be?'
'Tomorrow. Twelve o'clock. Melrose will call for you. Having found the body, you'll have to give evidence, but he said you needn't be at all alarmed.'
'Why on earth should I be alarmed?'
'Well, you know,' said Lord Caterham apologetically, ' Melrose is a bit old-fashioned.'
'Twelve o'clock,' said Bundle. 'Good. I shall be here, if I'm still alive.'
'Have you any reason to anticipate not being alive?'
'One never knows,' said Bundle. 'The strain of modern life – as the newspapers say.'
'Which reminds me that George Lomax asked me to come over to the Abbey next week. I refused, of course.'
'Quite right,' said Bundle. 'We don't want you mixed up in any funny business.'
'Is there going to be any funny business?' asked Lord Caterham with a sudden awakening of interest.
'Well – warning letters and all that, you know,' said Bundle.
'Perhaps George is going to be assassinated,' said Lord Caterham hopefully. 'What do you think, Bundle – perhaps I'd better go after all.'
'You curb your blood-thirsty instincts and stay quietly at home,' said Bundle. 'I'm going to talk to Mrs. Howell.'
Mrs. Howell was the housekeeper, that dignified, creaking lady who had struck such terror to the heart of Lady Coote. She had no terrors for Bundle, whom, indeed, she always called Miss Bundle, a relic of the days when Bundle had stayed at Chimneys, a long-legged, impish child, before her father had succeeded to the title.
'Now, Howelly,' said Bundle, 'let's have a cup of rich cocoa together, and let me hear all the household news.'
She gleaned what she wanted without much difficulty, making mental notes as follows:
'Two new scullery maids – village girls – doesn't seem much there. New third housemaid – head housemaid's niece. That sounds all right. Howelly seems to have bullied poor Lady Coote a good deal. She would.'
'I never thought the day would come when I should see Chimneys inhabited by strangers, Miss Bundle.'
'Oh! one must go with the times,' said Bundle. 'You'll be lucky, Howelly, if you never see it converted into desirable flats with use of superb pleasure grounds.'
Mrs. Howell shivered all down her reactionary aristocratic spine.
'I've never seen Sir Oswald Coote,' remarked Bundle.
'Sir Oswald is no doubt a very clever gentleman,' said Mrs. Howell distantly.
Bundle gathered that Sir Oswald had not been liked by his staff.
'Of course, it was Mr. Bateman who saw to everything,' continued the housekeeper. 'A very efficient gentleman. A very efficient gentleman indeed, and one who knew the way things ought to be done.'
Bundle led the talk on to the topic of Gerald Wade's death. Mrs. Howell was only too willing to talk about it, and was full of pitying ejaculations about the poor young gentleman, but Bundle gleaned nothing new.
Presently she took leave of Mrs. Howell and came downstairs again, where she promptly rang for Tredwell.
