The Seven Dials mystery
without anyone having done it."
"He wasn't run over," said Bundle.
"I thought you said he was."
"I said I thought I had."
"A tyre burst, I suppose," said Lord Caterham. "That does sound like a
shot. It says so in detective stories."
"You really are perfectly impossible, Father. You don't seem to have
the brains of a rabbit."
"Not at all," said Lord Caterham. "You come in with a wildly impossible
tale about men being run over and shot and I don't know what, and then
you expect me to know all about it by magic."
Bundle sighed wearily.
"Just attend," she said. "I'll tell you all about it in words of one
syllable."
"There," she said when she had concluded. "Now have you got it?"
"Of course. I understand perfectly now. I can make allowances for your
being a little upset, my dear. I was not far wrong when I remarked to
you before starting out that people looking for trouble usually found
it. I am thankful," finished Lord Caterham with a slight shiver, "that
I stayed quietly here."
He picked up the catalogue again.
"Father, where is Seven Dials?"
"In the East End somewhere, I fancy. I have frequently observed buses
going there--or do I mean Seven Sisters? I have never been there
myself, I am thankful to say. Just as well, because I don't fancy it is
the sort of spot I should like. And yet, curiously enough, I seem to
have heard of it in some connection just lately."
"You don't know a Jimmy Thesiger, do you?"
Lord Caterham was now engrossed in his catalogue once more. He had made
an effort to be intelligent on the subject of Seven Dials. This time he
made hardly any effort at all.
"Thesiger," he murmured vaguely. "Thesiger. One of the Yorkshire
Thesigers?"
"That's what I'm asking you. Do attend, Father. This is important."
Lord Caterham made a desperate effort to look intelligent without
really having to give his mind to the matter.
"There _are_ some Yorkshire Thesigers," he said earnestly. "And unless
I am mistaken some Devonshire Thesigers also. Your Great Aunt Selina
married a Thesiger."
"What good is that to me?" cried Bundle.
Lord Caterham chuckled.
"It was very little good to her, if I remember rightly."
"You're impossible," said Bundle, rising. "I shall have to get hold of
Bill."
"Do, dear," said her father absently as he turned a page. "Certainly.
By all means. Quite so."
Bundle rose to her feet with an impatient sigh.
"I wish I could remember what that letter said," she murmured more to
herself than aloud. "I didn't read it very carefully. Something about a
joke--that the Seven Dials business wasn't a joke."
Lord Caterham emerged suddenly from his catalogue.
"Seven Dials?" he said. "Of course. I've got it now."
"Got what?"
"I know why it sounded so familiar. George Lomax has been over.
Tredwell failed for once and let him in. He was on his way up to town.
It seems he's having some political party at the Abbey next week and he
got a warning letter."
"What do you mean by a warning letter?"
"Well, I don't really know. He didn't go into details. I gather it
said 'Beware' and 'Trouble is at hand,' and all those sort of things.
But anyway it was written from Seven Dials, I distinctly remember his
saying so. He was going up to town to consult Scotland Yard about it.
You know George?"
Bundle nodded. She was well acquainted with that public-spirited
Cabinet Minister, George Lomax, His Majesty's permanent Under Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs, who was shunned by many because of his
inveterate habit of quoting from his public speeches in private. In
allusion to his bulging eyeballs, he was known to many--Bill Eversleigh
among others--as Codders.
"Tell me," she said, "was Codders interested at all in Gerald Wade's
death?"
"Not that I ever heard of. He may have been, of course."
Bundle said nothing for some minutes. She was busily engaged in trying
to remember the exact wording of the letter she had sent on to Loraine
Wade, and at the same time she was trying to picture the girl to whom
it had been written. What sort of a girl was this to whom, apparently,
Gerald Wade was so devoted? The more she thought over it, the more it
seemed to her that it was an unusual letter for a brother to write.
"Did you say the Wade girl was Gerry's half-sister?" she asked suddenly.
"Well, of course, strictly speaking, I suppose she isn't--wasn't, I
mean--his sister at all."
"But her name's Wade?"
"Not really. She wasn't old Wade's child. As I was saying, he ran
away with his second wife, who was married to a perfect blackguard. I
suppose the Courts gave the rascally husband the custody of the child,
but he certainly didn't avail himself of the privilege. Old Wade got
very fond of the child and insisted that she should be called by his
name."
"I see," said Bundle. "That explains it."
"Explains what?"
"Something that puzzled me about that letter."
"She's rather a pretty girl, I believe," said Lord Caterham. "Or so
I've heard."
Bundle went upstairs thoughtfully. She had several objects in view.
First she must find this Jimmy Thesiger. Bill, perhaps, would be
helpful there. Ronny Devereux had been a friend of Bill's. If Jimmy
Thesiger was a friend of Ronny's, the chances were that Bill would know
him too. Then there was the girl, Loraine Wade. It was possible that
she could throw some light on the problem of Seven Dials. Evidently
Gerry Wade had said something to her about it. His anxiety that she
should forget the fact had a sinister suggestion.
CHAPTER VII
BUNDLE PAYS A CALL
Getting hold of Bill presented few difficulties. Bundle motored up
to town on the following morning--this time without adventures by
the way--and rang him up. Bill responded with alacrity, and made
various suggestions as to lunch, tea, dinner and dancing. All of which
suggestions Bundle turned down as made.
"In a day or two, I'll come and frivol with you, Bill. But for the
moment I'm up on business."
"Oh," said Bill. "What a beastly bore."
"It's not that kind," said Bundle. "It's anything but boring. Bill, do
you know anyone called Jimmy Thesiger."
"Of course. So do you."
"No, I don't," said Bundle.
"Yes, you do. You must. Everyone knows old Jimmy."
"Sorry," said Bundle. "Just for once I don't seem to be everyone."
"Oh! but you must know Jimmy--pink-faced chap. Looks a bit of an ass.
But really he's got as many brains as I have."
"You don't say so," said Bundle. "He must feel a bit top heavy when he
walks about."
"Was that meant for sarcasm?"
"It was a feeble effort at it. What does Jimmy Thesiger do?"
"How do you mean, what does he do?"
"Does being at the Foreign Office prevent you from understanding your
native language?"
"Oh! I see, you mean, has he got a job? No, he just tools around. Why
should he do anything?"
"In fact, more money than brains?"
"Oh! I wouldn't say that. I told you just now that he had more brains
than you'd think."
Bundle was silent. She was feeling more and more doubtful. This gilded
youth did not sound a very promising ally. And yet it was his name that
had come first to the dying man's lips. Bill's voice chimed in suddenly
with singular appropriateness.
"Ronny always thought a lot of his brains. You know, Ronny Devereux.
Thesiger was his greatest pal."
"Ronny--"
Bundle stopped, undecided. Clearly Bill knew nothing of the other's
death. It occurred to Bundle for the first time that it was odd the
morning papers had contained nothing of the tragedy. Surely it was the
kind of spicy item of news that would never be passed over. There could
be one explanation, and one explanation only. The police, for reasons
of their own, were keeping the matter quiet.
Bill's voice was continuing.
"I haven't seen Ronny for an age--not since that week-end down at your
place. You know, when poor old Gerry Wade passed out."
He paused and then went on.
"Rather a foul business that altogether. I expect you've heard about
it. I say, Bundle--are you there still?"
"Of course I'm here."
"Well, you haven't said anything for an age. I began to think that you
had gone away."
"No, I was just thinking over something."
Should she tell Bill of Ronny's death? She decided against it--it was
not the sort of thing to be said over the telephone. But soon, very
soon, she must have a meeting with Bill. In the meantime--
"Bill?"
"Hullo."
"I might dine with you to-morrow night."
"Good, and we'll dance afterwards. I've got a lot to talk to you
about. As a matter of fact I've been rather hard hit--the foulest
luck--"
"Well, tell me about it to-morrow," said Bundle, cutting him short
rather unkindly. "In the meantime, what is Jimmy Thesiger's address?"
"Jimmy Thesiger?"
"That's what I said."
"He's got rooms in Jermyn Street--do I mean Jermyn Street or the other
one?"
"Bring that class A brain to bear upon it."
"Yes, Jermyn Street. Wait a bit and I'll give you the number."
There was a pause.
"Are you there still?"
"I'm always there."
"Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103.
Got it?"
"103. Thank you, Bill."
"Yes, but I say--what do you want it for? You said you didn't know him."
"I don't, but I shall in half an hour."
"You're going round to his rooms?"
"Quite right, Sherlock."
"Yes, but I say--well, for one thing he won't be up."
"Won't be up?"
"I shouldn't think so. I mean, who would if they hadn't got to? Look at
it that way. You've no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at
eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I'm behind time is
simply appalling. You haven't the least idea, Bundle, what a dog's life
this is--"
"You shall tell me all about it to-morrow night," said Bundle hastily.
She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First
she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve.
Despite Bill's knowledge of his friend's habits, she inclined to the
belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive
visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street.
The door was opened by a perfect example of the retired gentleman's
gentleman. His face, expressionless and polite, was such a face as may
be found by the score in that particular district of London.
"Will you come this way, madam?"
He ushered her upstairs into an extremely comfortable sitting-room
containing leather covered arm-chairs of immense dimensions. Sunk
in one of those monstrosities was another girl, rather younger than
Bundle. A small, fair girl, dressed in black.
"What name shall I say, madam?"
"I won't give any name," said Bundle. "I just want to see Mr. Thesiger
on important business."
The grave gentleman bowed and withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly
behind him.
There was a pause.
"It's a nice morning," said the fair girl timidly.
"It's an awfully nice morning," agreed Bundle.
There was another pause.
"I motored up from the country this morning," said Bundle, plunging
once more into speech. "And I thought it was going to be one of those
foul fogs. But it wasn't."
"No," said the other girl. "It wasn't." And she added: "I've come up
from the country too."
Bundle eyed her more attentively. She had been slightly annoyed at
finding the other there. Bundle belonged to the energetic order of
people who like "to get on with it," and she foresaw that the second
visitor would have to be disposed of and got rid of before she could
broach her own business. It was not a topic she could introduce before
a stranger.
Now, as she looked more closely, an extraordinary idea rose in her
brain. Could it be? Yes, the girl was in deep mourning; her black,