A Corpse in Shining Armour Read Online Free PDF Page A

wife fell out.’
    ‘But that would make no sense at all, if he’s supposed not to be the father’s son,’ I said. ‘And if he looks like his father,
     surely that settles the matter?’
    ‘Not conclusively. There’s a fairly general family resemblance within the English aristocracy, wouldn’t you say?’
    He smiled at me and flicked one of his very un-English raven ringlets back from his face with a hand that glinted with gold
     rings.
    ‘So it’s quite possible that the mother is making all this up to try to ensure that the younger one inherits,’ I said.
    ‘Yes, that’s the other possibility.’ Disraeli sighed. ‘It almost makes one wish that there were some way of testing the blood
     for paternity, the way that scientists test for acid or alkali.’
    ‘If such a test existed, the whole of
Debrett’s
would probably have to be re-written,’ I said.
    I was doing some hard thinking. There was no doubt that he’d succeeded in piquing my curiosity. At that point, I’d met none
     of the people involved and it presented itself as an interesting puzzle.
    ‘If I were to investigate, who would be my client? The elder son?’
    ‘Not directly. I’ve been approached by a lawyer of excellent reputation who was the elder son’s trustee, up to his twenty-first
     birthday, and is still trustee for the younger son for another few months. He’s a family friend as well as their legal adviser.
     He’s very concerned that the thing should be halted in its tracks before it becomes public knowledge.’
    ‘But if it’s gossip already…’
    ‘Gossip is one thing. Lawsuits are another.’
    ‘So the lawyer would be paying my fee?’
    ‘Yes, and I don’t think there’d be argument about anything you considered reasonable.’
    ‘What exactly would he expect me to do?’
    ‘He hoped you might make the acquaintance of the lady in question and encourage her to talk to you.’
    ‘To a complete stranger, about the most intimate things in her life?’
    ‘People usually seem willing to talk to you. You have a gift.’
    ‘And having gained her confidence–goodness knows how–I’m supposed to report to you and the lawyer on whether she’s mad
     or scheming?’
    ‘That’s a reasonable summary. I’ll admit, we haven’t given much thought to the details. I simply promised my friend to see
     if I could persuade you to take an interest.’
    I stood up.
    ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, not knowing that I’d be saying the same thing to another unorthodox invitation two days later.
    That was when he told me, in confidence, the family name. I left him sitting under the picture, alone for once, looking like
     a man who thought he’d done a good evening’s work.
    I walked home that evening to Abel Yard, my dear but rackety home in Mayfair at the back of Park Lane. The front of Park Lane
     is one of the most desirable addresses in London, facing directly on to the eastern side of Hyde Park, with dukes by the dozen,
     peers ten-a-penny and the whole of society coming and going in carriages with liveried footmen on the back. But spin those
     mansions round, like a child with a doll’s house, and the scene at the back is altogether more domestic, with narrow slices
     of workshops, sheds and dwellings crammed with carriage-makers, carpenters, glaziers, bonnet trimmers, pastry cooks, cows,
     chickens–all the things that the great houses need for their comfort but don’t want to know about. A stone’s throw from
     Park Lane, in between grand Grosvenor Square and the parish workhouse, is Adam’s Mews. Carriage horses are stabled all along
     the cobbled street. Grooms and drivers live overhead, some in rooms so low-ceilinged that even jockey-sized people can’t stand
     upright in them, with hay stores in between and pulleys for drawing up hay bales from the carts that are so often blocking
     the narrow mews. There was one standing there that afternoon. I managed to squeeze past it without snagging my dress and went