Black Cat Weekly #14

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIXMrs. Royce lived, so Inspector Bull discovered without much trouble, in a four-storey red brick Georgian house in the Windsor High-street. She would have preferred to live in one of her houses in the country—she had two, with adequate funds for maintenance and operation—but her principles would not permit it. Mrs. Royce believed that it was someone’s duty to protect the rear view of the royal household. When new tea-shops were opened in the High-street she wrote letters to the Times. Her letters seemed not to deter Messrs. Lyons, or whoever it might be, but they exhibited Mrs. Royce doing her duty as a British subject. She refused all offers for her own house with great violence. Once, Bull learned, she had called in a surprised constable to eject a still more surprised London agent who had not fully realised that she really did not mean to sell.

Mrs. Royce—though Inspector Bull would not have put it this way—was an Edwardian. Edwardians are much worse than Victorians, for the reason that when they reverted to type after the wicked but thin veneering of the gay Nineties they reverted even further than type. More than that, they had had a sip of life, and knew just how heady a drink it really was. This the Victorians in their innocence had only guessed.

Mrs. Royce had had a gay youth. A royal prince had passed her house every morning for a week just to catch a glimpse of her. That was in 1887. She had managed to push a kitten out of the drawing-room window. The Prince had actually picked it up and returned it to her. Mrs. Royce thus knew very well how dangerous life could be, and how delightful. So when, in her middle age, she started to go native —for surely the Victorians are the quintessence of English-ness—she went native with a vengeance. She became a veritable dragon. Only a sharp observer could see a fiery twinkle in the old grey eyes under the grizzled Lily Langtry coiffure.

Mrs. Royce wore heavy purple grosgrain silk dresses with beaded collars in the winter, and lavender grosgrain silk dresses with a black velvet band around her neck in the summer. In the winter her hats were black velvet, resembling a section of stovepipe, topped with mink tails. In the summer they were straw with pansies. In all seasons she was a formidable figure. She never hesitated to express herself in a manner as terrifying as her person. She had once said to George Colton, her friend and business adviser, “’Pon my soul, George, I do believe you’re the only person I know in England who doesn’t shiver when I appear. It’s most extraordinary, ’pon my soul it is. And my own son at that.”

That was true, in spite of the non sequitur, which was characteristic. Mr. Colton was not afraid of her; her own son was very much so, or so people thought.

“Mother’s so beastly unpredictable,” was his chief comment in the thirty years of his existence by her. He hardly knew, when he opened his morning’s mail, whether he would have a letter from her solicitor cutting him off without a shilling, or one directing him to step around to the Piccadilly show rooms to view the Mercedes she had ordered for him.

When Inspector Bull arrived mother and son were, it appeared, in the upstairs drawing room. He was shown up. It was a room after his own heart. Everything on which an ob-jet could be placed was covered, and draped landscapes and portraits on easels, sofas and chairs with velvet fringes and white antimacassars, palms, aspidistras, huge Chinese vases, and elaborate screens with portraits in the panels completely filled the room except for a narrow passage that led from each door to a small clear space, like an oasis (with palms outside) in the centre. Into this space Inspector Bull tried to insinuate his great bulk without tipping anything, or everything, over.

Mrs. Royce sat in state against her formidable background. Bull could not see her very clearly, he discovered. The heavy, long, dark green silk window drapes were partly drawn, giving to a naturally light room a depressing twilight gloom. That in spite of the fact that outside the sun was shining mildly—indeed brightly, for February.

Her son was standing behind her. It was obvious that he felt no more at home in his mother’s drawing room than Bull did. He was a discordant note, Bull felt at once; even more so than the expensive wireless set in the corner behind a section of the palms.

“So you’re the police, young man!”

Bull almost jumped at the sound of that deep bass voice. He had never felt so keenly his personal inadequacy to represent New Scotland Yard.

“And have you found my diamonds? And who killed George Colton, eh?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” Bull said.

“Well, my son says you never will. Not that I take much stock in what he says.”

She stared belligerently at him.

“We’ll do our best, ma’am,” he said, recovering what was his best approximation to some sort of professional suavity. “And I’d like any information you can give me.”

“Information indeed,” said Mrs. Royce. “That’s your business, my good man, not mine.”

Bull found himself actively disliking Mrs. Royce. He always and above all things hated to be called “my good man.” It made him unaccountably angry.

“It will save me time, ma’am,” he said stolidly, “if you will answer a few questions.”

Mrs. Royce breathed heavily. Inspector Bull got out his black notebook. Mrs. Royce shook her grizzled curls almost savagely. “Very well!” she said.

“What was the value of the jewels Mr. Colton had last night, please?”

“The assurance people can tell you that better than I can, I’m sure. That’s their business. You know as well as I do that with the market what it is it’s hard to say what anything’s worth.”

“Then approximately, ma’am,” Inspector Bull said patiently.

“Between £ 20,000 and £ 30,000, I’m told.”

“Were they fully insured against theft?”

“Of course they were. With the police what they are you have to insure your false hair.”

Mrs. Royce nodded her old head at him with the grimmest of smiles.

Bull had no gift of repartee, which partly explained his considerable success as a policeman. When unduly goaded he managed, through no particular merit of his own—or none that he would have been aware of—to give the impression of a Newfoundland ignoring the yapping of a Mexican hairless. Not that Mrs. Royce resembled such an animal in the least. Now he managed to remain imperturbable—until, glancing at young Mr. Royce, he saw a twinkle of amusement in his eye. Inspector Bull gave him a glance of placid dislike.

“Who beside yourself knew that Mr. Colton was taking the jewels to town last night, Mrs. Royce?” he said stolidly.

“Mrs. Colton, I suppose. That scatter-brained wife of his. In my time, I can tell you, sensible men didn’t discuss their business with their wives.”

Bull nodded, easily understanding such a reticence on the part of the deceased Mr. Royce. There was a second flicker in the younger man’s eyes.

“My son here knew. He got them from the vault yesterday afternoon. I suppose Mr. Thornton, the manager, knew. Eh, Michael?”

She turned towards Michael.

“Michael, come out here where I can see you. And, Inspector, sit down!”

Michael Royce slipped out into the cleared space. Bull sat down on a tan plush chair with castors that made it a precarious seat until his weight anchored it into the rug.

“Yes, I told Thornton, Mother. He was worried about letting them go. I told him Colton was taking them into town that night.”

“Well, then. I’m sure that’s all. Of course that person in Hatton-gardens may have known.”

“Hatton-garden, ma’am,” said Inspector Bull politely. “Mr. Steiner.”

Whatever Mrs. Royce might be, Bull saw, she was not dull. She gave him a fierce stare. It was followed by a subterranean chuckle.

“You’re not as big a fool as I thought you were, Inspector. What difference does it make what it’s called or what he’s called. I don’t even know that Colton told him when he was bringing the jewels. And I’m sure that’s all.”

“Servants, ma’am?”

“Stuff and nonsense. Murry is sixty-five and as deaf as a post. The parlour maid is too stupid to be in an institution, much less conduct a robbery.”

“Are they your only servants?”

“Don’t be inane, young man. Certainly not. There’s the cook; the chauffeur, and the house-maid. Out of the question.”

Bull thought about it. He wondered.

Mrs. Royce continued.

“The diamonds are all very well, young man.” Her voice was grim, and she fixed Bull with an unflinching eye. “But what I want to see is that ruffian hanged who shot George Colton down in cold blood. George Colton was the best friend I ever had. When I think it was a few paltry baubles of mine that were responsible for his death, I’m ashamed, Inspector. I’m ashamed!”

Bull felt himself strangely moved just then. There was something almost gentle about the old woman. The deep hoarse voice demanding justice for her friend was curiously tender. Inspector Bull happened to glance at Michael Royce. That young man was obviously ill at ease.