Prince Of Secrets. Paula Marshall
Читать онлайн книгу.
‘He did more than laugh at them. He stole them, and now he blackmails the Prince with them, to keep himself in society, save himself from ruin. His Royal Highness has been generous…you understand me? But the thief grows careless, and behaves after a fashion which would have caused the Prince to—banish him, as it were. But he may not, because of the letters…
‘Now the man has become so indiscreet that he grows dangerous. Were his secret activities known he, being a friend of the Prince, would prove dangerous to the Prince, might even shake the throne. Cornered, he might try to use the letters to save himself—or even publish them, out of spite.’ He paused.
Cobie played a few slow bars of ‘God Save the Queen’, and said, as drily and anonymously as the man before him, ‘What has all this to do with me, sir?’
But he knew, he knew.
‘Why, I think you know the thief very well, Mr Grant. You have already dealt with one of his minions—and have plans for him, too.’ He began to hum the song from The Mikado which Cobie had treated him to earlier.
‘Need I say,’ he continued smoothly when he had finished humming, ‘that not only would you be satisfying yourself, and saving yourself from trouble, but you would also be doing the state some service if the Prince’s letters were…somehow…to be recovered…’
Cobie thought rapidly again. No one had disturbed them. He swung his head and looked down the corridor. Since the grey man had appeared the double doors at the far end had been closed—were probably locked, he thought. He had been tracked as carefully as though he were in the desert in Arizona, being followed by the law. He was, in effect, a kind of prisoner.
He laughed.
He murmured, his voice reproving, ‘The more things change, the more they remain the same. That’s the most delicate attempt to blackmail me into doing something that I have ever suffered. Tell me, does your master know of this—or of Sir Ratcliffe’s vicious life?’
The grey man smiled ironically. ‘It all depends which master you mean. If you are referring to the Prince, then my answer is, No.’
‘I thought not.’ Cobie shook his head. ‘You have read Francis Bacon, sir? I am sure you have. He said a number of things worthy of remembrance. He is particularly good on revenge, Mr Beauchamp, sir…’ The last phrase came out in his most insolent Western drawl.
‘He said that revenge is a kind of wild justice, and also that it is a dish best eaten cold. When I was very young, I agreed with him… When I was a little older—I was not so sure. Sometimes the best revenge is no revenge at all. What we do, Mr Beauchamp, sir, has consequences for us, as well as those to whom we do it. I will think your proposition over.’
The grey man hesitated. ‘That is your considered answer?’
‘I have no master but myself,’ replied Cobie negligently, ‘and therefore the only duty I owe is to myself, and to none other. No fear of demotion, no hope of promotion can move me, you understand, no threat to blast my reputation, either. I think that what you have found out about me is hearsay.
‘If I do what you want me to do, it will be because I want to do it, not because you are trying to blackmail me into stealing back the Prince of Wales’s letters—as Sir Ratcliffe is blackmailing the Prince. I don’t like blackmailers, Mr Beauchamp, sir, not even in a just cause. You must live in hope.
‘Now had you asked me, pat, as the Bard says, you might have gained a different answer.’
His smile was as provoking as he could make it.
The grey man said slowly. ‘I see that I have underestimated you.’ He paused, before asking, ‘Tell me one thing—out of curiosity, you understand, not to use against you. Is it true that you possess total recall? I have heard of such a talent, but I have never met anyone who genuinely possessed it.’
Cobie began to laugh. ‘Of course, if I told you the truth you would use it against me after some fashion. I know that because were the situation reversed I would use such a thing against you! Live in hope, Mr Beauchamp, sir, that you might one day find out. I have no intention of satisfying your curiosity at present.’
The grey man laughed with him, and for once his mirth was real. ‘I shall leave you now, Mr Grant. I hope that you will give me the answer I want, but I see that I must wait. Give me a few moments before you follow me.’
He turned away without waiting for a reply—and then turned back again.
‘By the by,’ he said, his smile shark-like, ‘I believe that we are cousins—distant, it’s true, but cousins. The Sir Beauchamp Hatton whom you and your uncle, Sir Alan Dilhorne, so greatly resemble, was named after my great-great-grandfather, his first cousin. Interesting, Mr Grant, sir, interesting?’
He was gone, leaving Cobie to reflect that Machiavelli’s Chance had been brought along, once again, like a horse ready for him to ride.
Chapter Two
‘E xactly like the other one, Lizzie Steele. But not thrown in the river this time, just dumped in an alley.’
Inspector Will Walker thought that there were some things in his line of work which he would never get used to, and examining the sexually mutilated bodies of murdered girl children was one of them.
He sighed. He could imagine the excited headlines in the new popular press, the criticism of the police for not being able to track the brutal murderer down. Just his luck that he should have been involved in the previous case.
‘Turns your stomach, don’t it, guv?’
Walker nodded wearily.
‘True, Bates. I shan’t rest until the beast who did this has been stopped. But it’s not going to be easy. No clues at all—other than that this one was killed and maimed exactly like the Steele girl was.’
‘So it wasn’t Hoskyns who killed Lizzie Steele?’ said Bates thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that the Ripper has come back from wherever he vanished to?’
Walker shook his head. Four years ago, in 1888, Jack the Ripper had stalked the East End, killing and mutilating prostitutes in the most gruesome manner. And then, as suddenly as they had started, the murders stopped.
‘No, Bates. This ain’t the Ripper’s handiwork. It’s a different way of going on altogether. No, this means another interview with our friend Mr Dilley. If it weren’t that he had an unbreakable alibi for the night Hoskyns was killed…’
His voice trailed off. He was a frustrated man these days. Things were not going well with him. He had walked upstairs only the day before to be told that his record of success in clearing up crimes was not good enough. He had wanted to retort that so long as he was not given proper back-up, his record would remain poor. But he held his tongue.
Now he had a multiple murderer on his patch. The similarity between this death, and that of Lizzie Steele was too great to believe that two men were involved. Dismally he had little doubt that this would not be the last body he would be called out to see…
A fortnight ago the word had come down from on high to lay off Mr Jacobus Grant, alias Mr Dilley, amateur magician and former outlaw. What a thing it was to have friends in high places, being his cynical reaction to that. On the other hand, he had to allow that, so far, he had uncovered nothing to support his belief that Grant was responsible either for the fire by the river or Hoskyns’s death.
But if Grant had thought that Hoskyns had murdered the girl, as well as procured her, what was he thinking now? Hoskyns dead, Madame Louise and the rest of her cohorts in prison—and a killer of girl children was still on the loose.
What magic trick could Mr Dilley answer that with?
Dinah sat at breakfast with Cobie. Their Sandringham excursion was safely over without any further trouble from Sir Ratcliffe or anyone else. Not that she was aware of Cobie’s session with Hervey Beauchamp.
Sir