The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [90]
‘Oh, I believe your intentions are of the best. Forgive me if I became a trifle heated. I bear you no ill will. In fact, when I catch the real murderer I will hand him over to you. I want no credit save the satisfaction of doing my duty. Good day, Inspector.’
Cuff was too moved to speak. He bowed deeply, and remained in that position as I left the building.
Waving my umbrella, I summoned a hansom cab. As it drove away I saw, entering Scotland Yard, a form that was strangely familiar; but before I could get a good look, it vanished within.
Emerson at Scotland Yard? Somehow I was not surprised.
Where to go next? The reader can hardly suppose I had any doubt about that. It was possible that Ahmet had invented a false address in order to get rid of me, but it was worth a try at any rate.
In recent years the fine old street bordering Hyde Park had undergone a transition from aristocratic elegance to pure ostentation. This change was due in large part to people like the Rothschilds and their great good friend, the Prince of Wales. Why His Royal Highness preferred the company of upstart millionaires to that of his peers was something of a mystery. Some claimed it was an inherent coarseness of character, or rather, an absence of the delicate sensibility one would like to find in a British monarch. But if that were the case, the inevitable question arose: Whence derived this deplorable tendency? Certainly not from his father, the primmest, properest prince of all time. As for Her Gracious Majesty his mother . . . she may have been stuffy, priggish, and somewhat inferior in intelligence, but vulgar? Never! (I give no credence whatever to the disgusting rumours concerning Her Majesty and a certain Mr Brown. Admittedly her servants sometimes took advantage of her good nature in order to elevate themselves above their proper station. Brown had certainly done so, and her latest favourite, Abdul Karim, who called himself the Munshi, was almost as arrogant and unpopular. But that they were anything more than favoured servants I would vehemently deny.)
As the hansom proceeded along Park Lane, I saw the opulent grey stone mansion owned by Leopold Rothschild, where, it was said, the Prince had often been entertained in the lavish style to which he had become only too accustomed. Not far away was the ostentatious outline of Aldford House, which had been completed, since I last was in London, by a South African diamond magnate. Another South African millionaire had the lease of Dudley House, and at Number 25 work was in progress on a structure which would, according to rumour, surpass all the others in expense and lavishness. The builder, one Barney Barnato, had been born a cockney in the slums of Whitechapel. To such had the dignity of Park Lane fallen, from dukes and earls to the nouveau riche. Perhaps Ayesha was not so out of place after all. She and Barney Barnato ought to get on well.
The cab stopped in front of a handsome old house not far from the corner of Park Lane and Upper Brook Street. A neat parlourmaid answered my knock. She wore the usual black frock, crisp white apron, and ruffled cap, but her olive complexion and liquid black eyes betrayed her nationality. Evidently Ahmet was more reliable than I had expected.
I gave her my card. ‘Tell your mistress I would like to speak to her.’
The maid’s behaviour made it all too evident that she was not accustomed to visitors of my sort. Overcoming her surprise, she took my card and invited me to step into the parlour while she went to see if ‘the lady’ was in.
If I had not by then been certain I had found my quarry, the room into which I was shown might have made me wonder, for there was not a single object in it that might not have been found in the most up-to-date, well-furnished English parlour. In fact, a cynical person might wonder if it was not meant to be a caricature of an up-to-date, well-furnished English parlour. The walls were thickly covered with pictures and mirrors in gold frames so wide