The Seven Dials Mystery

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.