CHAPTER XII

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 realized 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?"

"To-morrow. 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 bloodthirsty 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.

"Tredwell, when did Alfred leave?"

"It would be about a month ago now, my lady."

"Why did he leave?"

"It was by his own wish, my lady. I believe he has gone to London. I

was not dissatisfied with him in any way. I think you will find the new

footman, John, very satisfactory. He seems to know his work and to be

most anxious to give satisfaction."

"Where did he come from?"

"He had excellent references, my lady. He had lived last with Lord

Mount Vernon."

"I see," said Bundle thoughtfully.

She was remembering that Lord Mount Vernon was at present on a shooting

trip in East Africa.

"What's his last name, Tredwell?"

"Bower, my lady."

Tredwell paused for a minute or two and then, seeing that Bundle had

finished, he quietly left the room. Bundle remained lost in thought.

John had opened the door to her on her arrival that day, and she had

taken particular notice of him without seeming to do so. Apparently, he

was the perfect servant, well trained, with an expressionless face. He

had, perhaps, a more soldierly bearing than most footmen and there was

something a little odd about the shape of the back of his head.

But these details, as Bundle realized, were hardly relevant to the

situation. She sat frowning down at the blotting paper in front of her.

She had a pencil in her hand and was idly tracing the name Bower over

and over again.

Suddenly an idea struck her and she stopped dead, staring at the word.

Then she summoned Tredwell once more.

"Tredwell, how is the name Bower spelt?"

"B-A-U-E-R, my lady."

"That's not an English name."

"I believe he is of Swiss extraction, my lady."

"Oh! That's all, Tredwell, thank you."

Swiss extraction? No. German! That martial carriage, that flat back to

the head. And he had come to Chimneys a fortnight before Gerry Wade's

death.

Bundle rose to her feet. She had done all she could here. Now to get on

with things! She went in search of her father.

"I'm off again," she said. "I've got to go and see Aunt Marcia."

"Got to see Marcia?" Lord Caterham's voice was full of astonishment.

"Poor child, how did you get let in for that?"

"Just for once," said Bundle, "I happen to be going of my own free

will."

Lord Caterham looked at her in amazement. That anyone could have

a genuine desire to face his redoubtable sister-in-law was quite

incomprehensible to him. Marcia, Marchioness of Caterham, the widow of

his late brother Henry, was a very prominent personality. Lord Caterham

admitted that she had made Henry an admirable wife and that but for her

in all probability he would never have held the office of Secretary of

State for Foreign Affairs. On the other hand, he had always looked upon

Henry's early death as a merciful release.

It seemed to him that Bundle was foolishly putting her head into the

lion's mouth.

"Oh! I say," he said. "You know, I shouldn't do that. You don't know

what it may lead to."

"I know what I hope it's going to lead to," said Bundle. "I'm all

right, Father, don't you worry about me."

Lord Caterham sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

He went back to his perusal of the _Field_. But in a minute or two

Bundle suddenly put her head in again.

"Sorry," she said. "But there's one other thing I wanted to ask you.

What is Sir Oswald Coote?"

"I told you--a steam-roller."

"I don't mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his

money--trouser buttons or brass beds or what?"

"Oh! I see. He's steel. Steel and iron. He's got the biggest steel

works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn't, of course, run

the show personally now. It's a company or companies. He got me in as

a director of something or other. Very good business for me--nothing

to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those

hotel places--Cannon Street or Liverpool Street--and sit round a table

where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever

Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately

you needn't listen to it--and I can tell you, you often get a jolly

good lunch out of it."

Uninterested in Lord Caterham's lunches, Bundle had departed again

before he had finished speaking. On the way back to London, she tried

to piece together things to her satisfaction.

As far as she could see, steel and infant welfare did not go together.

One of the two, then, was just padding--presumably the latter. Mrs.

Macatta and the Hungarian countess could be ruled out of court. They

were camouflage. No, the pivot of the whole thing seemed to be the

unattractive Herr Eberhard. He did not seem to be the type of man whom

George Lomax would normally invite. Bill had said vaguely that he

invented. Then there was the Air Minister and Sir Oswald Coote, who was

steel. Somehow that seemed to hang together.

Since it was useless speculating further, Bundle abandoned the attempt

and concentrated on her forthcoming interview with Lady Caterham.

The lady lived in a large gloomy house in one of London's higher

class squares. Inside it smelt of sealing wax, bird seed and slightly

decayed flowers. Lady Caterham was a large woman--large in every way.

Her proportions were majestic, rather than ample. She had a large

beaked nose, wore gold rimmed pince-nez and her upper lip bore just the

faintest suspicion of a moustache.

She was somewhat surprised to see her niece, but accorded her a frigid

cheek, which Bundle duly kissed.

"This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Eileen," she observed coldly.

"We've only just got back, Aunt Marcia."

"I know. How is your father? Much as usual?"

Her tone conveyed disparagement. She had a poor opinion of Alastair

Edward Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham. She would have called him, had

she known the term, a "poor fish."

"Father is very well. He's down at Chimneys."

"Indeed. You know, Eileen, I never approved of the letting of Chimneys.

The place is, in many ways, a historical monument. It should not be

cheapened."

"It must have been wonderful in Uncle Henry's day," said Bundle with a

slight sigh.

"Henry realized his responsibilities," said Henry's widow.

"Think of the people who stayed there," went on Bundle ecstatically.

"All the principal statesmen of Europe."

Lady Caterham sighed.

"I can truly say that history has been made there more than once," she

observed. "If only your father--"

She shook her head sadly.

"Politics bore Father," said Bundle, "and yet they are about the most

fascinating study there is, I should say. Especially if one knew about

them from the inside."

She made this extravagantly untruthful statement of her feelings

without even a blush. Her aunt looked at her with some surprise.

"I am pleased to hear you say so," she said. "I always imagined,

Eileen, that you cared for nothing but this modern pursuit of pleasure."

"I used to," said Bundle.

"It is true that you are still very young," said Lady Caterham

thoughtfully. "But with your advantages, and if you were to marry

suitably, you might be one of the leading political hostesses of the

day."

Bundle felt slightly alarmed. For a moment she feared that her aunt

might produce a suitable husband straight away.

"But I feel such a fool," said Bundle. "I mean I know so little."

"That can easily be remedied," said Lady Caterham briskly. "I have any

amount of literature I can lend you."

"Thank you, Aunt Marcia," said Bundle, and proceeded hastily to her

second line of attack.

"I wondered if you knew Mrs. Macatta, Aunt Marcia?"

"Certainly I know her. A most estimable woman with a brilliant brain.

I may say that as a general rule I do not hold with women standing

for Parliament. They can make their influence felt in a more womanly

fashion." She paused, doubtless to recall the womanly way in which

she had forced a reluctant husband into the political arena and the

marvellous success which had crowned his and her efforts. "But still,

times change. And the work Mrs. Macatta is doing is of truly national

importance, and of the utmost value to all women. It is, I think I may

say, true womanly work. You must certainly meet Mrs. Macatta."

Bundle gave a rather dismal sigh.

"She's going to be at a house-party at George Lomax's next week. He

asked Father, who, of course, won't go, but he never thought of asking

me. Thinks I'm too much of an idiot, I suppose."

It occurred to Lady Caterham that her niece was really wonderfully

improved. Had she, perhaps, had an unfortunate love affair? An

unfortunate love affair, in Lady Caterham's opinion, was often highly

beneficial to young girls. It made them take life seriously.

"I don't suppose George Lomax realizes for a moment that you

have--shall we say, grown up? Eileen, dear," she said, "I must have a

few words with him."

"He doesn't like me," said Bundle. "I know he won't ask me."

"Nonsense," said Lady Caterham. "I shall make a point of it. I knew

George Lomax when he was so high." She indicated a quite impossible

height. "He will be only too pleased to do me a favour. And he will be

sure to see for himself that it is vitally important that the present

day young girls of our own class should take an intelligent interest in

the welfare of their country."

Bundle nearly said: "Hear, hear," but checked herself.

"I will find you some literature now," said Lady Caterham, rising.

She called in a piercing voice, "Miss Connor."

A very neat secretary with a frightened expression came running. Lady

Caterham gave her various directions. Presently Bundle was driving

back to Brook Street with an armful of the driest looking literature

imaginable.

Her next proceeding was to ring up Jimmy Thesiger. His first words were

full of triumph.

"I've managed it," he said. "Had a lot of trouble with Bill, though.

He'd got it into his thick head that I should be a lamb among

the wolves. But I made him see sense at last. I've got a lot of

thingummybobs now and I'm studying them. You know, blue books and white

papers. Deadly dull--but one must do the thing properly. Have you ever

heard of the Santa Fé boundary dispute?"

"Never," said Bundle.

"Well, I'm taking special pains with that. It went on for years and

was very complicated. I'm making it my subject. Nowadays one has to

specialize."

"I've got a lot of the same sort of things," said Bundle. "Aunt Marcia

gave them to me."

"Aunt who?"

"Aunt Marcia--Father's sister-in-law. She's very political. In fact,

she's going to get me invited to George's party."

"No? Oh, I say, that will be splendid." There was a pause and then

Jimmy said:

"I say, I don't think we'd better tell Loraine that--eh?"

"Perhaps not."

"You see, she mayn't like being out of it. And she really must be kept

out of it."

"Yes."

"I mean you can't let a girl like that run into danger!"

Bundle reflected that Mr. Thesiger was slightly deficient in tact. The

prospect of _her_ running into danger did not seem to give him any

qualms whatever.

"Have you gone away?" asked Jimmy.

"No, I was only thinking."

"I see. I say, are you going to the inquest to-morrow?"

"Yes; are you?"

"Yes. By the way, it's in the evening papers. But tucked away in a

corner. Funny--I should have thought they'd have made rather a splash

about it."

"Yes--so should I."

"Well," said Jimmy, "I must be getting on with my task. I've just got

to where Bolivia sent us a Note."

"I suppose I must get on with my little lot," said Bundle. "Are you

going to swot at it all the evening?"

"I think so. Are you?"

"Oh, probably. Good-night."

They were both liars of the most unblushing order. Jimmy Thesiger knew

perfectly well that he was taking Loraine Wade out to dinner.

As for Bundle, no sooner had she rung off than she attired herself in

various nondescript garments belonging, as a matter of fact, to her

maid. And having donned them, she sallied out on foot deliberating

whether bus or tube would be the best route by which to reach the Seven

Dials Club.