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PART ONE
CHRISTMAS EVE
It had been a hard day at the salon and
Chelsea was feeling more than usually languid as she drove through the
twisting, high-hedged darkness of the remote Devonshire countryside.
Snow had been falling ever since Tiverton and flurries of white flakes
fluttered against the windscreen of her 1933 Bentley as she turned it
into the driveway of Doddesley Manor.
A loud, rhythmic snorting noise came from
the passenger's seat. Trish had nodded off and had been snoring like
a bronchitic Saint Bernard ever since Winkleigh. This was not at all
how Chelsea had planned to spend Christmas Eve. She had been looking
forward to a relaxing bubble bath at home in her luxury apartment in
Tipplestone Mews followed by an intimate dinner date with… well,
whichever of her many admirers might have taken her fancy. But it was
not to be. For, once again, the spectre of death had entered her life,
this time in the somewhat unexpected form of Lady Amanda Doddesley.
For she it was who had made such a dramatic telephone call to Bunnz
Salon that very afternoon.
In a voice palpably quaking with terror,
Lady Doddesley had told Chelsea of the mysterious, unsigned note which
she had received at breakfast that morning - "A death threat, that's
what it was, Miss Bunn! Nothing more and nothing less. So vulgar, don't
you think. Rat me! I almost choked on my stewed figs!"
The note, it seemed, intimated that Lord
Doddesley's life was in imminent danger but it warned Lady Doddesley
that she should say nothing of this either to her husband or to anyone
else.
"Well, really!" screeched Lady Doddesley
in such a tone of penetrating aristocracy that Chelsea had been forced
to hold the telephone earpiece at arm's length, "What is one to do?
I suppose I shouldn't really be speaking to you. But after all, if one
can't confide in one's hairdresser, who can one confide in? And besides,
it would simply be too awful to sit here silently and wait for some
hired assassin to bump orf the Right Hon. Third Earl, one's own true
beloved and all that rot. But there you are, don't you see, I warned
him from the very outset that no good would come of that blasted, that,
that…. thing!"
"And what thing might that be?" Chelsea
had asked, in all innocence.
"Why, the cycad, of course. Surely you
must have read about it. It was mentioned in The Times, after all. The
cycad. The blasted Byfield Cycad."
The Byfield Cycad. As she drove up the
long avenue leading to Doddesley Manor, the words echoed in Chelsea's
mind. The Byfield Cycad. The name itself seemed strangely grotesque
and threatening. On either side of the avenue, lines of skeletal, snow-frosted
trees were etched against the swirling blackness of the sky. It was
some minutes before the louring bulk of Doddesley Manor finally hove
into view. The Manor was an ancestral pile of the old school - huge,
grim, elaborately crenelated, an edifice in that curious baroque style
which, in Britain, unmistakably characterises stately homes and institutions
for the criminally insane.
As the Bentley purred to a stop in front
of monumental stone steps leading up to the ivy-clad arch of the main
doorway, a frail elderly man dressed in black emerged from the house
and scampered down the steps like a rickety beetle. Chelsea recognised
him as Smithers, the butler.
"Miss Bunn," he croaked jovially, "So
glad you could make it. And the young lady…?"
Chelsea nudged Trish in the ribs. She
woke with a grunt and a splutter.
"My chief styliste, Trish Winterbottom"
Chelsea said, "You'll have to excuse her. She's a little fatigued after
the ordeal of the journey."
"Ah yes. Of course. London. Such a long
way… Please, let me find you something to drink. A bite to eat
perhaps?" - and, so saying, he opened the door on Trish's side. This
was unfortunate since Trish had fallen asleep again and was resting
heavily against the door. However, by a lucky coincidence, her rapid
descent to the ground was cushioned by conveniently positioned mound
of partially frozen mud. Though of the fortuity of this circumstance
Trish was not (to judge from her somewhat sensational choice of words)
entirely appreciative.
Doddesley Manor was a veritable maze of corridors. Having been shown to her room by Smithers, Chelsea had decided to take a quick bath, do her hair and change into a simple crepe de Chine evening gown with gold and ebony accessories before joining the other guests in the ballroom. In the event, finding the ballroom was to prove more easily said than done. It seemed that she had been wandering through mile upon mile of lush carpets, oak-panelling, ancestral portraits and red-velvet drapes. But still the ballroom eluded her.
Then a familiar, shrill, quavering voice echoed thunderously in the distance and Chelsea discerned a lavishly adorned figure bearing down on her in full sail. "Miss Bunn! Miss Bunn!" the figure wailed, arms extended theatrically, "Sooooo pleased you could make it!"
"Lady Doddesley," Chelsea cooed in reply.
"Oh, never mind all that nonsense with titles and wotnot, m'dear!" her Ladyship barked with gruff good humour, "We're all gels together now, don'tcha know. You can call me Bunty."
"I hope then, that you will return the compliment and call me Chelsea."
"Right-ho! First rate, idea! Now then, about that blasted whatchumacallit."
"The cycad, you mean?"
"You seen it yet?"
"No. I only arrived a few minutes ago."
"Well, take it from me, you haven't missed much. Hideous monstrosity! Don't know why he wanted it in the first place. Let alone why anyone'd kill him for it!"
"I'm afraid you're racing ahead of me slightly. I still don't understand quite how Lord Doddesley came by this cycad in the first place, let alone why…"
"Still haven't seen The Times, eh…?"
"Afraid not. Busy day at the Salon. And then driving down here…"
"There's a copy in the Morning Room. Come along, there's not a moment to lose. You know that I am quite relying upon you to solve this mystery before it turns into a tragedy!"
The sound of idle chatter and tinkling glasses bubbled out of the ballroom at the other side of the hall from the Morning Room in which Chelsea now stood reading the story of The Byfield Cycad in that morning's Times. The Cycad, it seemed, was a particularly fine specimen of a large and ancient fern-like plant native to the north-eastern territories of Australia. Only two species had previously been known to science. But now it seemed that a third had been discovered during a botanical research expedition led by the Third Earl of Doddesley. A particularly fine specimen of this rare and priceless plant had been presented to Lord Doddesley by the Queensland Government and had recently been taken to his lordship's ancestral Devonshire home where, that very night, some of the most eminent men and women of science had gathered for a private viewing.
"By Jove! So you're a cycad enthusiast too, Miss Bunn!" - a voice as rich and clotted as a Devonshire cream tea boomed out. Chelsea turned to see the formidable bulk of Lord Doddesley almost filling the doorway to the Morning Room. "I suppose," he went on, "you'll be pretty damn' eager to see the thing in the flesh, 'ey?"
"Well…" said Chelsea, with an air of enthusiastic indifference.
"And so ye shall, m'dear! So ye shall! I say, old gel, " (this addressed to Lady D.), "Go and entertain the jolly old guests, 'ey? Crowd of damn' bloodsuckers, the bloody lot of 'em, if you ask me. barely a one of them would know a cycad from a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Unlike the lovely Chelsea Bunn whose botanical erudition is surpassed, dare I say it, only by my own."
"You flatter me, Lord Doddesley."
Lady D fluttered from the room as silently and inconspicuously as a clog-dancing hippopotamus.
"I wouldn't have the temerity to flatter one as beautiful as you, m'dear," Lord D oozed, taking Chelsea's hand and kissing it, "And by the way, the old gel and I don't bother with all that nonsense about titles and whatnot. Call me Binky."
Just then another figure appeared in the doorway, "Aha! So that's where you are!" - a slim, young man with a deep tan contrasting dramatically with his blond hair, pattered into the room, "Should have guessed you'd have homed in on the most beautiful woman here, Binky, old man. Like a moth to a flame, what? Or rather to a pheromone. Did you know that the male silkworm moth can smell the pheromones secreted by a female more than ten kilometres away?"
"Yes," said Chelsea, "As a matter of fact I did. And did you know that the scent of the Ylang-ylang is a powerful human aphrodisiac at a range of more than twenty yards?"
"I say! No I didn't! My word! What a killer combination in a young woman - not only beautiful but intelligent too! I say, Binky, are you going to introduce us or what?"
Lord D. harrumphed. "Angus Marley," he grunted, "And this is Chelsea Bunn."
"Absolutely charmed," said Angus, "And by the way, that's a lovely perfume you're wearing. What is it?"
"Essence of Ylang-ylang," said Chelsea, "It's the latest addition my exclusive range of toiletries."
"Smells gorgeous," Angus gushed, "But I suppose you're going to tell me it's secreted by some glands in one of the less agreeable parts of a musk rats anatomy, aren't you, ha! ha! ?"
"Imbecile!" - this single word, muttered by Lord D, silenced Angus's laughter in mid-ha! "If you spent your time studying some basic botany while you were in the Southern hemisphere instead of running after every pretty little thing in a grass skirt you'd know that Ylang-ylang is the vulgar name for Cananga odorata, a tree whose oils provide one of the staple fragrances in the perfumery industry. Is that not so, Miss Bunn?"
"Quite correct, Lord Doddesley."
"Binky, my dear! Call me Binky. I quite insist upon it!"
"So," said Angus with a haughty toss of his golden hair, "Ylang-ylang is an oily tree, is it? I must admit that when it comes to flowers and weeds and oily trees and such dull stuff there's no challenging Binky's authority. But when it comes to all those fascinating little beasts that creep and crawl and bite and sting, now…"
"All right, Angus, you've made your point. I'm sure Miss Bunn isn't interested in your tedious anecdotes of the Outback."
"I remember the time, late one evening, we were sitting around our fire close to a huge old acacia tree when a chance gust of wind happened to blow a big, fat Golden Orb spider out of the branches and it landed, plop! Right in Binky's plate of baked beans!"
Chelsea couldn't help noticing that Lord D's face was beginning to turn a deep crimson as Angus went on with his story.
"Well, an Orb is a perfectly harmless spider, as you probably know. But poor old Binky didn't know. And, well you really should have seen him! He leapt up as though he'd been stung by a scorpion. But, you know, the funniest thing of all was that no sooner had he leapt up than the spider decided to scurry for safety. Right down inside Binky's…"
"Angus!" exclaimed Lord D. in a explosion of rage and spittle, "I think it's about time you rejoined our guests in the ballroom!"
Angus said nothing. But he was smiling. "Yes," he said, "You are quite right, of course. Though I have to say I was rather hoping you were going to show me this famous cycad of yours. Which one was it now? Encephalartos woodii, wasn't it? The female of the species, no doubt!"
"Ha!-bloody-ha!" said Lord D. dryly, "Your wit is so sharp this evening, my dear boy, you'll need to be careful you don't cut yourself."
The two men swapped jibes in the apparent belief that their joke was purely private. And so it would have been to most people. But Chelsea was decidedly not 'most people'. She knew more, much more, about cycads than she felt it politic to admit.
Lady D swooped down upon Chelsea with a flutter of silk and a clatter of pearls as the latter entered the ballroom. The room itself was positively glittering with light reflected from the enormous crystal chandeliers and the marginally less bulky diamonds adorning many of the female guests. In a palm-shaded corner of the room, just beyond a colossal tinsel-festooned Norway spruce that might easily have been a close cousin to the Christmas Tree in Trafalgar Square, a small orchestra was playing a Latin American arrangement of Chattanooga Choo Choo. A placard at the front of the dais identified the ensemble as ‘Edmundo Mundola and his Mambo Playboys’.
Lord D and Angus Marley, who were now engaged in heated conversation about some obscure details of antipodean flora and fauna, gravitated inexorably towards a large punch bowl set amid a wealth of silver and caviar on a white linen-draped table at the far end of the room.
"I do so hope those two haven't been too boring," Lady D twittered, "Angus always brings out the worst in my husband, I'm afraid. God alone knows how they ever managed to spend so much time cramped up inside a tent together."
"A tent?" said Chelsea.
"Oh yes. In the Outback. Angus was my husband's assistant, you see, in Australia. Don't ask me what they were doing there. Something to do with the British Museum, or the Royal Society or whatnot. I don't really take much of an interest in my husband's professional life, I fear. Always seems rather vulgar, really. Doing paid work, I mean." - she said the word 'paid' as though it tasted of rancid anchovies - "The trouble is that Angus is a trained zoologist - Cambridge, London Zoo, all that sort of thing. Whereas my husband is a gentleman botanist of the 'old school' shall we say…"
"An amateur?" Chelsea suggested.
"In the true sense of the word, of course."
"But of course," said Chelsea.
"To tell you the truth, I think Angus rather resents him. I mean, he has the formal qualifications and all that, and yet my husband was in charge of the expedition."
"And the cycad?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I was merely remarking upon the fact that it was to your husband, not to Angus, that the cycad was presented."
"Oh, I hardly think that is significant, Miss Bunn. Angus Marley has no interest whatsoever in plants. Whereas my husband has discovered several species previously unknown to science. Some of them have even been named after him, I understand. He may be an amateur but he is an amateur of the very highest standing. And what is more, unlike Angus, he has breeding."
"Ah yes," said Chelsea, "There is that."
Suddenly a loud whooping sound at the far end of the ballroom attracted Chelsea's attention. All heads turned to look. A small clearing had formed in the throng of people in front of the drinks table. At the centre of the clearing was a raven-haired young woman, in a slinky, ankle-length black evening gown that clung to her like a second skin. She had a blood-red rose clenched between her teeth and a pair of silver caviar spoons held in her right hand. She was slowly gyrating her hips and clicking the spoons together over her head, like maracas. Barely missing a beat, the orchestra segued from Girl From Ipanema to Down Argentine Way. A young man emerged from the throng and started swaying along with her, apparently offering himself as her tango partner. She smiled then spat the rose from her teeth into the young man's face. People laughed. All except the young man, who turned bright red with embarrassment.
"Who's the woman?" Chelsea asked.
"Arab Death," Lady D said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, no, that's just our little joke. Her real name is Dolores Salgado. A friend of Angus's. From Brazil or the Argentine or some such place. Terribly wealthy, apparently, though nobody seems quite clear as to the source of that wealth. I think the official explanation is that the family has something to do with the wine trade. I have heard rumours of a less savoury nature, however. The Salgado family were one of the benefactors of my husband's research."
"And Arab Death?"
"My dear, Theda Bara. The silent film star. Rather before your time, I fear. She was the original vamp, don't you know. A woman of precocious sexual appetites and few morals. Legend had it that she was born in the shadow of the sphinx, which accounts for her name. Theda Bara, you see, is an anagram of Arab Death. I've always thought that Dolores Salgado bore more than a passing resemblance to Miss Bara. Sex and death cling to that type of woman as tightly as the lewd dress she purports to be wearing."
"How very intriguing," said Chelsea.
The orchestra played on. A jaunty Lullaby of Broadway merged seamlessly into a rumba-rhythm Begin The Beguine. I Only Have Eyes For You blended with Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, blurred into Cherry Pink And Apple Blossom White and then burbled off into a rambling rendition of Hernando's Hideaway.
Chelsea made small talk. People approached, smiled, talked about the weather, the wine, the cell biology of lichens. Chelsea looked at her watch.
The orchestra launched into a medley of festive favourites. Jingle Bells, We Three Kings, White Christmas, Siegfried's Funeral March. Chelsea became vaguely aware that somebody was holding a conversation with her (…Siegfried's Funeral March?, she thought, vaguely). But the orchestra had already moved on and was now in the middle of a ragtime rendition of When The Red Red Robin Comes Bob-Bob-Bobbin' Along. For want of anything better to do, Chelsea decided to listen to the person who had been talking at her for the last five or ten minutes.
Her dismay on discovering that she was being treated to an authoritative and tedious description of the grasses and sedges of the Upper Limpopo was somewhat dispelled by the sight of Trish, pushing her way through the heavy velvet drapes that shrouded the gold rococo archway leading into the ballroom.
"…and then there are the rushes to consider, of course," a voice on the edge of Chelsea's consciousness burbled on, "There's the greater Limpopo rush and the lesser Limpopo rush, the bull rush and the spiked rush, the striped rush and the banded rush, the…"
"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr…er?"
"…the marshy tussock rush and the tussocky marsh rush. Spondlewith-Merryvole. The rough tussocked rush and the smooth tussocked rush, the…"
"I'm afraid I really must be off, Mr Spondlewith-Tussockvole"
"Merryvole. And it's Professor."
"What?"
"Professor Spondlewith-Merryvole. That's me. Now then, where was I? The greater tussocky marsh rush or the lesser marshy tussock rush…?"
"Which is precisely what I must do!"
"I beg your…"
"Rush, that is…. "
"But I haven't even started on the bog fescues and the bladderworts…"
But Chelsea was already half way to the other side of the room.
"Trish! Where have you been? It seems that every fern, algae, moss, cycad, palm and rush expert in the world is assembled here in this room - and every one of them determined to tell me about every blasted plant in their damn' well…"
It was at this point that Chelsea became aware of the tall, distinguished-looking man with a monocle who was leaning over her and smiling in an alarmingly Continental manner.
"Um," said Trish, vaguely addressing the tall gentleman, "This is Chelsea Bunn. And, um," now equally vaguely addressing Chelsea, "This is Mon-sewer Pimento."
"Monsieur Jean-Charles Henri Napoleon Parmentier at your service, Mademoiselle," the tall gentleman corrected, with a quick bow of the head, "You are no doubt familiar with my work on the lichens of Patagonia."
"Oh, shitbags!" said Chelsea, with a ladylike simper.
"…..so where were you?" Chelsea asked Trish ten minutes later, after her interest in the more than fifteen thousand lichens with which Monsieur Parmentier was intimately familiar had been definitively exhausted.
"I was lost," Trish said.
"Lost?" said Chelsea, "What do you mean, lost?"
"Well, I sort of turned left past my room and then took a right and then… well, do you know how many corridors there are in this place?"
"Nonsense!"
"And then that French Mon-sewer suddenly popped up from behind some velvet curtains and he brought me here. Only he didn't half take his time about it on account of the fact that he didn't stop talking. They can't half talk, can't they, these foreigners…"
"Well…" said Chelsea.
"I tell you, I couldn't get a word in edgeways what with his lichen-thingummies and his cycad-thingummies and his funny accent and his sessy and sellah and his oohs and his la-las and…"
"But…" said Chelsea.
"…I tell you the honest truth, I've never heard anyone jabbering on the way he was jabbering, anyone'd think he never stopped to breath, and even if he did…"
"For God's sake, shut up!" said Chelsea, losing for a moment, her well-known icy calmness, "Just tell me, what did he say about the cycad."
"The what?"
"The cycad. You know, the thing everybody's come here to see. The Byfield Cycad. The one that was presented to Lord Doddesley. The one that, in some way that we don't yet understand, may be posing a threat to his very life?"
"Oh yeah," said Trish, "That."
"Well…"
"Well, he didn't say much, really. He just said Lord Doddesley was a bumbling idiot who didn't know the first thing about them whatchummacallits."
"Cycads?"
"Yeah, them things. And it turns out that Mon-sewer Pimento is the biggest and best cycad expert in all of France and he's got medals and stuff to prove it. And he wrote some special paper once about some special cycad. And then Lord Doddesley wrote some other paper about the same cycad. And Lord D's paper said that Monsewer Pimento's paper was wrong. And Monsewer Pimento wrote this stroppy letter to some toffee-nosed magazine that scientists read and there was this big fuss about it on account of the fact that Lord D was dragging Monsewer Pimento's reputation down into, 'ow-you-say, zee gutter. And Monsewer Parmentier thinks zat is just what 'appens when zee bumbling British amateurs meddle in zee 'ow-you-say, serious science. And one day, zis Lord D will, ow-you-say, get 'is come-uppance, and Monsewer Parmentier for one will be laughing on zee uzzer side of eez face. Ha!"
"Ha?"
"Yup, that's exactly what he said, 'Ha!' So, you see, like I was saying he didn't say much really. Nothing of any interest anyway."
"Hmmm…" said Chelsea, "I'm not so sure about that. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if…"
But Chelsea was unable to complete the sentence for in the next instant a cacophonous screeching pierced the air, "Aaahhh, it's happened! It's happened! What am I to do? Oh heavens! What am I to do?"
From the corner of her eye, Chelsea caught a glimpse of Lady Doddesley cutting a swathe through the guests and heading at full throttle in Chelsea's direction. "Miss Bunn! Miss Bunn! He's gone! He's gone! Oh, what am I to do?"
"Who has gone?" said Chelsea.
"Why, Binky," of course, "My husband, the Third Earl of Doddesley. My dear young woman, of whom else might I possibly have been speaking?"
"So when you say he's gone…?"
"…I mean precisely that. Vanished. Gone. Skedaddled. Vamoosed. Not to be found anywhere."
"It's a large house, of course. Are you sure he might not have just…"
"Taken a brisk walk to go and polish up the armour in the West Wing? Of course not! My husband is not in the habit of strolling aimlessly around the house, Miss Bunn. And certainly not tonight. I mean, for heaven's sake, what time is it?"
Chelsea looked at her watch, "Twenty-two minutes past ten."
"Well there you are then. He planned to show everyone that blasted cycad at half past ten. Why on earth would he wander off now?"
"Perhaps," said Chelsea, "He's gone to check on the cycad. Make sure it's looking its best for the occasion? By the way, where exactly is it?"
"It's in his study. But Binky isn't there."
"You've looked?"
"No need to," said Lady D, "I tried the door a few moments ago. It's locked."
"Locked?" said Chelsea, "From the outside or from the inside?"
"What a ridiculous question!" said Lady D huffily, "From the outside, of course. If it were locked from the inside that would mean that someone was in there. And Binky is the only person who has a key."
"How very intriguing," said Chelsea.
Lord Doddesley's study was situated at the far end of a dark, oak-panelled corridor in the East Wing of the house. Even walking at a brisk pace, it took more five minutes for the three women to get to the study from the ballroom.
"You see," said Lady D, twisting the cut crystal doorknob and hefting her considerable mass against the door to no effect, "Locked. Firmly locked."
"Are you sure your husband isn't inside?" asked Chelsea, "I mean, have you tried knocking?"
"Certainly I've tried knocking," huffed Lady D, and she began pounding wildly upon the door and shrieking like a demented banshee - "Binky! I say, Binky! If you're in there, I demand that you open this door at once, do you hear!"
No sound came from within the study.
"You see," said Lady D, "The room is locked, as it often is, especially since the blasted cycad has been in residence. Clearly then, my husband must be somewhere else. Why on earth would he lock himself in his study? The whole idea is quite preposterous."
"Fortunately," said Chelsea, "I took the trouble to obtain this torch from the redoubtable Smithers earlier this evening. This should reveal the truth."
Stooping, Chelsea shone the beam of the torch into the keyhole. "The room is most certainly locked from the inside," she said, "The key is still in the lock!"
"Well, I'll be ratted!" said Lady D.
"You said that there is only key to this room?" Chelsea queried.
"Absolutely. My husband alone has the key."
"Hmmm…. And when the room is cleaned?"
"Oh well!" said Lady D, "Of course, Mrs Bellows, the housekeeper, has a key. But I hardly think that counts."
"Maybe not. But it would help us get into the room," said Chelsea, "I wonder if you could perhaps contact Mrs Bellows?"
"If you insist," sighed Lady D wearily, "But I really think we should be trying to find my husband instead of wasting time here. Still, if you are quite determined…"
With a tut of aristocratic disapproval, Lady D strode across to an old two-piece telephone on the other side of the corridor and rang for Smithers. "Instruct Mrs Bellows to come to Lord Doddesley's study at once," she commanded imperiously, "And tell her to bring the keys."
Within moments, the frail form of the elderly butler could be seen proceeding along the corridor at a surprisingly expeditious pace towards them. Lumbering at a distance some way behind him came the considerably less fleet form of the housekeeper, Mrs Bellows.
"Is there something amiss, your ladyship?" asked Smithers.
"His Lordship is nowhere to be found, Smithers, and Miss Bunn is of the curious belief that he may have locked himself inside his study."
"I see, Madam. Perhaps Mrs Bellows can be of assistance."
"I seen his lordship not this half hour ago," huffed Mrs Bellows, gasping for breath after the exertions of her unaccustomed exercise, "Told me to light the fire in his study."
"Did he indeed?" said Chelsea, "Did he give any reason?"
"What, for wanting the fire lit, Miss? I thought as how it must be something to do with that plant-thing he keeps in there. You know, the thing in the pot?"
"The cycad?"
"A sea-cod? Is that what they calls it? Ugly old thing is what I call it. But his lordship's mighty proud of it, that's for sure. I believes it was his intention to take folks into the study to look at it later on. At any rate, he was in a fearful temper that I hadn't already lit the fire. By rights I should have done it an hour since, but to tell you the truth, I forgot all about it, there's been so many things to do, what with drinks for all the guests, and sandwiches for the orchestra and cleaning and dusting, and on top of everything there's that new parlour maid, Mary, who's as good-for-nothing as an oily floor-cloth, if you'll forgives me being so blunt, miss…"
"You were telling us about Lord Doddesley's instructions to you, Mrs Bellows," Chelsea reminded the housekeeper gently.
"Oh yes, miss. Well, 'Light that fire, Mrs Bellows," says he, 'And don't you be going near my sea-cod with your duster. For if you breaks one of its leaves, I shall take the cost from your pay-packet'. Though why he thinks I'd want to be dusting an ugly old thing like that, I don't know."
As she chattered on, the portly housekeeper was making a search through the jangling ring of keys in her hand, apparently trying to find the key that would unlock the study door.
"All I can say is how that Mr Marley seems to see a lot more in that thingummyjig than what I do."
"Marley?" said Chelsea.
"Oh yes, him and Lord Doddesley was having a fine old chinwag about the thing in the Morning Room at the time his lordship called me to see to the fire. His lordship was going on about what a mighty fine and rare whatchamuccallit…"
"Cycad," said Chelsea.
"…what a mighty fine and rare thing it was, and Mr Marley was a-saying as how he'd seen many a one of them in his time and this was no different from any other. And his lordship said, oh yes it was indeed different and fine and rare and Mr Marley says if it is such a mighty fine one, he'd eat his hat…"
By now Mrs Bellows had managed to find the key to the study. It took some effort to get it into the keyhole, thanks to the key that had already been inserted from the other side. But finally, with a mighty heave, Mrs Bellows forced the key in, causing the other key to clatter to the floor. Then she turned it in the lock.
"…and Lord Doddesley says he may well eat his hat for he would soon see with his own eyes what a…"
The sight that greeted Mrs Bellows as she pushed open the door to the study made her stop in her tracks. She stood, silently gazing into the room.
"Heavens!" cried Lady D.
"Oh deary, deary me," muttered Smithers.
"Shitbags!" said Chelsea.
Trish said nothing at all. For she had fainted clean away.
What began as a shock quickly turned into mayhem. No sooner had Smithers led away Lady D in order to administer a reviving dram of a fine Speyside malt than the sound of running feet came echoing along the corridor. News of the awful discovery had, it seemed, already made its way as far as the ballroom and at least one of the guests had resolved to venture forth and investigate.
"Mon Dieu! Qu'est-ce qui se passe ici?" – in the frenzy of the moment, Monsieur Parmentier had forsaken the elegant beauties of the Queen’s English in favour of his native patois. Thus gibbering, he rushed into the study and was momentarily dumbstruck by what he saw. There, stretched out on the chaise longue, in the fronded shade of the stately cycad which stood upon an occasional table alongside, was the body of Lord Doddesley. His unmoving eyes were frozen in a terrible, fixed gaze. His right arm was hanging over the edge of the chaise-longue with the hand resting upon the floor. A golden locket hanging from a delicate golden chain rested in his palm.
"Il est mort?" asked the Frenchman.
"Oui, Monsieur," Chelsea replied with an impeccable lack of French accent, "Mort comme un dodo."
"And zee young woman?" he added, prodding the prostrate Trish with the glossy patent-leather toe of his right shoe, "She too is dead?"
Trish moaned softly.
"No," said Chelsea, "Not quite."
"But 'ow did his Lordship get, 'ow you say, bumped off?"
"At the moment, Monsieur, you know as much as I do."
"My God! He has not been so foolish as to eat zee cycad leaf, do you suppose?"
"Eat it?" said Chelsea, "Why do you say that?"
"Because zee cycads ‘ave zee most ‘orrible virulent toxins, Madamoiselle. Ah yes, many are zee foolish people who ‘ave fallen ill and died after eating zee cycad morsels. And 'eaven knows, Lord Doddesley might well 'ave been so foolish. Zis is what 'appens when zee rank amateurs dabble in zee serious business of science!"
And with that, the good monsieur turned sharply about and, with a click of his well-polished heels, glided imperiously away from the morbid scene.
"Where am I?" - this from Trish who, though still looking a little yellow about the gills, appeared to be once again in moderately full possession of her somewhat limited faculties.
"Just sit down in that arm chair over there," Chelsea said, "And don't worry about it. And you, Mrs Bellows, I wonder if you could make sure that nobody else barges into the study for the moment.
"Yes, ma'am."
As Mrs Bellows went to guard the door, Chelsea bent over to take a closer look at the golden locket in Lord Doddesley's hand. Flicking back a tiny catch, she opened the locket and saw that it contained a single glossy curl of black hair. Engraved on the outer surface of the locket was the following inscription: "Yours, always. D. S."
"Hmmm….." hmmm-ed Chelsea, "D.S. Now, I wonder who that might…?"
Suddenly there was a commotion at the door. Mrs Bellows was trying to keep it shut, but somebody on the outer side was pushing with considerable force. Meanwhile a quick-fire exchange of words was taking place - "You can't come in here, it's…", "What's going on?", "I tells you, you can't..", "And who are you to tell me what I can and can't…", "I ‘as got me orders and you ‘as got to stay out…", "Nobody tells me what I can and can't do!"
With one final push, the door flew open, causing Mrs Bellows to fall heavily into the arm-chair, which was unfortunate for Trish since she happened to be sitting in it at the time. In the next moment, a dark, exotic-looking figure swept into the room in a flurry of arms, legs, teeth and eyes. If eyes could be said to blaze, this particular pair might easily have stripped paint.
First those eyes flashed upon Chelsea, then upon Trish and Mrs Bellows. Finally, they came to rest upon the body slumped in the chaise-longue. "So," said the voice belonging to the owner of the aforementioned flashing eyes, "It has come to this! I warned him, you know. I warned him. But he was always so pig-headed."
"What do you mean, you warned…?" - but before Chelsea could complete the question, the woman had turned and left the room.
"Who was that?" said Trish, from somewhere beneath the bulk of Mrs Bellows.
"That, my dear Trish, was Dolores Salgado. I think we have found the mysterious D.S."
Chelsea said nothing. In her long experience, this was often the best thing to say to Trish.
"I'm afraid Madam, the news is not encouraging."
Chelsea turned to see that the redoubtable Smithers had entered the room with a silence that is peculiar to cats and butlers. "I have telephoned the local constabulary to report the unfortunate circumstance. But it would appear that the police will be unable to favour us with a visit tonight. The snow, I fear, has cut us off. The roads, I am told are quite impassable."
"I see," said Chelsea, "Well, perhaps the news is not all bad?"
"No, madam?"
"If the roads are impassable that means that nobody can leave the house. Which means that the murderer is still here!"
Trish gave a little gasp. "That’s good news?"
"Oh yes," said Chelsea, "I shouldn’t at all like it if the murderer slipped away now. That would add all kinds of difficulties."
"But who is…?"
"The murderer?" Chelsea smiled, "Now, if we knew that we should all feel very much safer. Unfortunately, the place is full of potential suspects. There must be thirty or forty guests here, most of whom are professional or amateur botanists and explorers. Any one of them could have some grievance against the late Earl.
"Then again, we cannot discount the possibility that a member of the household staff might have nurtured some deep-seated grievance."
"Not to mention Edmundo Mundola and his Mambo Playboys," suggested Trish.
"Then there is the curious business of the locket around Lord Doddesley's neck," Chelsea continued, "If we are to suppose that the initials 'D.S.' refer to the mysterious Dolores Salgado and that the lock of dark hair is also hers, then that presents us with a mystery that runs deeper than mere professional rivalry.
"And what of Monsieur Parmentier? He makes no secret of his contempt for the quality of Lord Doddesley's botanical work."
"Yeah, and he was really annoyed about that stuff Lord D wrote about them cycad things," said Trish, "Like I was telling you, he kept on about it when we was coming down to the ballroom earlier on. Said Lord D was trying to drag Monsewer Pimento's reputation down into the gutter an' that. And on top of all that," she added huffily, "He's foreign!"
"And yet…." Chelsea mused, "And yet…. are we really to believe that someone who planned to murder a rival would go to such lengths to remind people of the violence of their disagreements just minutes before he kills his rival?"
"Maybe he only went on about it to make you think he wouldn't have gone on about it unless he was innocent?"
"Possibly," said Chelsea tersely, "Or possibly not. I was, I admit, rather struck by the rather odd turn of phrase he employed when he first saw Lord Doddesley's body. You may recall it, Trish? 'How', he asked, 'Did his Lordship get bumped off?' Now does it not strike you as rather curious that Monsieur Parmentier was so ready to jump to the conclusion that Lord D had been murdered rather than merely collapsed?"
"You mean you think Monsieur Parmentier bumped him off?"
"Or then again, maybe we can put down his unfortunate turn of phrase merely to his imperfect grasp of English?"
"Hey! What’s to say that Lord D didn’t just collapse, anyway?" Trish suggested, "I mean, we don't know for sure that he was bumped off, do we?"
"I think," said Chelsea, "That we must consider natural causes to be a most unlikely explanation of the earl's untimely demise. In my long experience as hairdresser and detective, I have never yet encountered a sudden death in a locked room that did not have some dastardly deed behind it.
"But before going any further in our enquiries, we must first seek out the person who last saw Lord Doddesley alive? Now then, who was that?"
"Mrs Bellows, the housekeeper!" Trish exclaimed, "She said she saw him arguing with Angus Marley."
"Right," said Chelsea, "And then she went to light the fire. Leaving the two of them, presumably, still arguing. Which means that Angus Marley must have seen Lord Doddesley alive after Mrs Bellows left them. We must have words with him at once…"
"I'm afraid, Miss, that Mr Marley seems to have departed," - purred the cat-like Smithers who had once again padded silently into the room.
"Departed?" said Chelsea, "But I was given to understand that the roads were impassable."
"I can only suppose he must have left earlier, Miss, before quite so much snow had fallen? At any rate, he is no longer in the ballroom. I have already taken the liberty to enquire after his whereabouts but none of the other guests has seen him for more than an hour. He appears to have vanished into thin air!"
"Really?" said Chelsea, "How very intriguing."
The Adventures of Chelsea Bunn
Copyright © Huw Collingbourne 1999
You may not reproduce this story without prior permission.
