“Good morning. I am inspector Slave of the Detective force. You are Miss Barbara Moore?”
“Oh! So you are ‘Old Slave’?”
Slave regarded her as though she were something he’d tramped in on his shoe. He didn’t like Americans at the best of times, and his recent interview with Tree had not improved the standing of that nation in his estimation. Barb wondered if perhaps she’d got the interview off on the wrong foot, so hastily she said, “Sorry, Inspector. Yes, I’m Barb Moore.”
Slave sighed deeply. ‘Barb’. ‘Old Slave’. These Americans really lacked taste and manners. He’d heard tales of a lawless country, men with Stetson hats shooting each other at high noon. Bank robberies a daily occurrence. Always drunk. Morals in the gutter. Why the hell did they have to come over here disturbing the Queen’s peace?
If she thought he was going to call her ‘Barb’ she’d got another think coming. “Well, Miss Moore, perhaps you could start by explaining why my men found you stark naked on a cross this morning?”
“I am to be married to the Earl of Cruxton on Saturday. Mr Rossetti had kindly agreed to paint me in a piece of classical art to be entitled ‘The Martyred Queen.’ As a wedding present for the Earl, you understand.”
Slave rolled his eyes. He wondered if all Americans had such vivid imaginations. Perhaps it was something to do with the water they drank over there. First he’d had to listen to wild tales of time travel and aerial vehicles called ‘Boeings.’ Now this trollop, wearing nothing but a blanket, was claiming to be engaged to a member of the British aristocracy. He didn’t believe it for one minute.
He communicated his disbelief, as he had to Tree, by just looking at her for a long time. As he did so, however, it occurred to him that she was actually a pretty good looking woman, for an American. He began to wonder what she looked like without the blanket.
With an effort he pulled himself together, but Barb read his mind, and she chose that moment to switch on her most dazzling seraphic smile, and to let the blanket slip just that little tiny bit.
Old Slave was beset by a coughing fit, which didn’t help, because that meant he inhaled a lungful of her perfume, perfume which she had carefully selected to hit a man’s endocrine system like a bomb.
“Are you all right, Mr Slave?” she asked, with feigned concern.
Slave had a mental picture of his grandfather, a Methodist preacher, standing in his pulpit, pounding his Bible with his fist, calling hell and damnation down on all ‘loose’ women. By God, he thought, this is the loosest of loose women. Whatever would Granddad say, if he could see him now?
“Miss M….” he began, but his throat had gone dry, and his voice failed him.
“Please, do call me ‘Barb’, ‘Miss Moore’ sounds so dreadfully…..English.”
“There is nothing wrong with being English, Miss Moore!” His voice had recovered, but his composure had not. “What are you doing in England, Miss Moore?”
“I told you, I’m engaged to the Earl of Crux……”
“I’ll tell you what I think, Miss Moore, I think that you and Mr Tree are old friends from America, and that, together, you planned to plunder the stately homes of England of their priceless works of art!”
“No! I only met the Senator last night, we were fellow guests at the Prince of Saxe-Coburg Hotel!”
“Paid for from the ill-gotten gains of your crime spree, no doubt. Let me tell you that we were watching you, Miss Moore. You were seen to dine with him last night, and to retire with him to his bedroom!”
Barb had turned bright red. “But…but…”
“Is that the conduct of a woman who says she is to be married within a week?” Slave pictured his old granddad cheering him on.
“Now, just you listen here, Buster…..”
“I’m not ‘Buster’, I’m ‘Inspector’ to you! What if I was to tell you that there is no such person as ‘Senator’ Tree? What if I was to tell you that the U.S. Embassy disown him completely?”
“No! It isn’t true!”
“It is true, Miss Moore! What if I was to tell you that I have irrefutable proof that he is none other than the ‘Racing Rodent’, a notorious criminal at the top of our ‘wanted’ list?”
“No, no! He is a good man!”
“He is not a good man, Miss Moore. What if I was to tell you that he has yet to supply me with a satisfactory alibi for a number of other crimes, including murder?”
“I don’t believe you! I can’t believe you!”
“You can believe me, Miss Moore, because it is true. We have caught him red handed with a stolen painting! And I believe you and he were just checking out the artwork in Mr Rossetti’s studio to work out what you could steal. Even as I speak, Mr Rossetti and Miss Wilding will be making statements to that effect. Admit it, Miss Moore, you and Mr Tree are partners-in-crime!”
She began to cry. Slave watched her with satisfaction, pleased with his demolition job. Any moment now, and he’d have her confession. Two major criminals, arrested before lunchtime. A good day.
“All right, Miss Moore, let’s do it the hard way. The night before last, Lord Jollyrei had a valuable painting stolen. The Venus Verticordia, to be precise. Where were you, the night before last, Miss Moore?”
The door burst open. “I will tell you exactly where she was, Inspector. She was with me!”
The PC looked apologetic, “sorry, sir, I couldn’t stop him!”
“WRAGGIE!” Barb threw herself across the room into his arms, oblivious of the fact that she’d left the blanket on the chair.
“It’s OK, Barb, I’ve got you,” he soothed, as she sobbed into his shoulder.
Slave was speechless. This was none other than Sir Eustace Wragg, the 16th Earl of Cruxton, one of the wealthiest and most influential aristocrats in England. And he was calling her ‘Barb’! And she called him ‘Wraggie’! He staggered to his feet.
Wragg got in first. “I gather you’ve arrested the Racing Rodent. Well done, sir! However, let me assure you, in the strongest possible terms, that my fiancé knows nothing of his nefarious activities!”
“But, your Lordship, I’m sorry to have to inform you that she was with him last night….”
“Poppycock, Slave. Drivel. You weren’t, were you, Barb darling?”
“Of course I wasn’t, darling.”
“But, Your Lordship!”
“YOU HEARD THE LADY!” thundered the Earl. “She has nothing to do with any criminal activity whatsoever. I trust I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Very good, your Lordship.”
“Excellent. Glad we’ve cleared up that little misunderstanding. Now, go and throw the book at the Racing Rodent, all means. Just fetch that blanket before you go, there's a good fellow.”
Obediently, Slave passed Wragg the blanket, and went on his way.
A storybook ending to this chapter, if I do say so myself. Now pass me my blanket please, I say with a seraphic smile. My tumescent nipples are getting hard, and my tight little is drawing a few too many furtive stares from that pimply-faced young PC standing over there in the doorway.
