Chapter 5 - Butterfly

Violet shook her wet umbrella and rang at Isobel's door. Every Thursday evening the two of them met for a drink. The habit had been born many years ago during a rainy night the long London winter months and neither of them wanted to miss it. Most of the time Isobel went to Violet's house, but this time it was Violet who had taken a cab to Isobel's home near Earl's Court Station. After the exhausting meeting with Mary and Igor Violet needed an evening away from her own four walls. Igor had left in the afternoon after he had answered a mysterious phone call that had left him rather upset. As it was his modus operandi he hadn't confided in her about its contents, but the coldness in his voice had left no doubt about the seriousness of the subject of the short conversation.

"You don't look like someone who's happy with themselves," Isobel unnecessarily commented when Violet entered the apartment whose furniture was too white for Violet's taste.

"Don't you dare profiling me," Violet snapped back. "I'm here for a drink not for a consultation."

"You can't afford me anyway."

Violet registered Isobel's good mood and the radiating glow that surrounded her with amused annoyance.

"A wild guess…" Violet smirked after she had disposed of her umbrella. "Your love life is back on track due to Mrs Grey's recent hospitalisation?"

"How do you know that?" Isobel asked her eyebrows raised in suspicion.

"Talking drums. I had a call from one of her boring friends. Myrtle Crosby's upset, because Dickie's telling nothing to anyone… She fears he's locked her up and threw away the key."

Isobel rolled her eyes. "It's no one else's business. I wish people had more decency!" She turned her back on Violet and opened her fridge. She took out grapes, basil, mint leaves, vodka, and some other ingredients that aroused Violet's instant suspicion.

"But he's obviously made it your business," Violet said while her eyes followed Isobel's every move while she put everything in the shaker. "What on earth are you doing there? You look like a druid making up a new concoction!"

"It's a cocktail called 'Butterfly'," Isobel explained patiently. "Matthew's told me about it."

"And you want to make me your guinea pig, before you taste it yourself?"

Isobel shrugged with a wide grin spread all over her face. "And I thought you like vodka and all things sour."

"Touché."

"How's your Russian prince?"

"Busy."

"Did he finally tell you what happened to his wife?"

With a heavy sigh Violet moved herself on the barstool to buy some time. The question was inevitable, but that didn't mean it was easy to answer.

"Igor has a suspicion," she admitted. "But I'm not sure what to make of it."

"What suspicion?" The sound of clanking ice cubes filled the kitchen.

Violet gave Isobel a quick, hesitating glance. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Not even Matthew?"

Isobel shook her head. "I barely see him these days. He's always in the office."

"That wasn't my question."

With a roll of her eyes Isobel solemnly raised her hand. "On my mother's grave."

"Well, I didn't know your mother, but I take what I can get." She drew a deep breath. "Last night Igor told me Irina was strangled to death. They found her in her bedroom. Nothing was stolen, no prints, no dna, no nothing and the cctv was conveniently out of order that night."

"Is that even possible these days?" Isobel wondered.

Violet shrugged. "Apparently the killer was a ghost. The only clue Igor found a few days later was a business card with a name."

"What name?"

"James Crawley."

Isobel almost dropped the cocktail shaker and gasped. "James? The James Crawley?" The last time Isobel had met James Crawley was at a birthday party two years ago that she would rather forget about. James's reputation as a skirt chaser was legendary and Isobel had experienced his groping first hand.

"The one and only," Violet confirmed. "I'm not sure what to make of it, but I certainly wouldn't put it past him to kill someone."

"Did they even know each other?" Isobel wondered.

"According to Igor yes. He's also certain Irina had a secret lover somewhere here in town."

"But why would James kill her when they were in love?"

"Don't be so daft! Not everyone who's making love is in love!"

Isobel's mouth twitched. "I'm aware of that."

"Igor thinks it was meant as a warning or an argument that went too far. Apparently James is involved in some dubious business deals in Russia and had asked for Igor's help."

"Which he denied him…?"

"Of course." Violet's answer was brisk but Isobel had her doubts about Igor's innocence. In her experience every politician was corruptible. "So what's next?" she asked.

"I asked Mary to look into it," Violet answered.

"Is that wise?" Isobel asked worried. "It could be dangerous."

"I'm aware of that. But she's the one I trust."

"You mean she's the one who has the guts."

Violet smirked and decided to change the subject. "So, how's Dickie? Has he filed for divorce yet?"

This time Isobel hesitated with her answer. As if she had all the time in the world she served their drink and garnished them with leaves of mint.

"Not yet. But we are going to Oxford for the weekend."

Violet grinned. "They say Oxford is the English Venice. How romantic!"

"Very funny."

Then Violet remembered something and her grin faded. "Wait… Oxford…? Are you sure you want to go there?"

"Why not?" Isobel asked, absolutely aware of what Violet was hinting at. Laviana Swire's timely death and its consequences had been the subject of many of their Thursday evenings.

Violet turned the untouched drink in her hand. "Reggie Swire is still living there, isn't he?"

"As far as I know yes."

"What if you run into him?"

"We'll see… who says we're going to spend much time out and about?"

Violet countered the idea with a pretended shutter. "I hope your old professor's health can sustain your expectations!"

"I can assure you, he has every ability!" Isobel answered and raised her glass for a toast.

Mary took off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. She looked at her Cartier watch and realized it was already half past eight. Time to go home. She longed for a hot bath and a drink. Sure she was the last person in the office, she leaned back. For the last couple of hours she had read every file about the Kuragin family she had found in their archives. The ties between the Crawley family and the Kuragins were stronger than she had expected and went back a long way. Her grandfather and Igor Kuragin had been through a lot together and the fact that her grandmother had a close connection to Kuragin made it all the more peculiar and questionable. Would Violet really entertain a love affair with a close friend of her husband? It seemed hard to believe, but Mary knew Violet well enough not to put anything past her.

"And I thought I was the last person around here."

Matthew stood in the doorframe and smiled at her. She returned the smile and said, "I dare say you didn't." She pointed at the bottle of whiskey and the two glasses in his hands.

He grinned and shrugged. "Excellent observation!"

"It's what people pay me for," Mary replied and offered him the seat in front of her desk.

"I heard as much."

He let his eyes travel across her desk. Photos and notes were spread all over it. One copy was from the Daily Mail and showed the face of the young and very dead Kemal Pamuk. Curiously he picked it up and looked at it.

"Isn't that the guy I saw you with in the bar? His face was plastered all over the news today."

Mary blushed. There was no use of lying. "He was. Kemal Pamuk. Turns out he was the friend of a… family friend."

Matthew crooked his eyebrow. Mary could tell he was not satisfied with her scarce explanation. "I see."

"He's the son of a friend of Violet's."

"What did he die of?"

"That's what they want to know. I promised to use my contacts to the police to find out more… Granny's friend is the Russian ambassador, you see. He doesn't want to ask too many questions, so he asked me to do it."

With relief Mary noticed how Matthew's shoulders relaxed. "Friends in high places."

"Something like that."

"I have to get used to all of it."

"You will. We've been known as problem solvers until one of us became the problem."

Matthew chuckled. "How well do you know Patrick?"

Mary shrugged. "He's the cousin you don't want to meet for Christmas, because he pulls your tails and puts salt over your pudding."

"Do you think he's guilty?"

"I'm sure he's guilty as hell of all sorts of things."

Matthew opened the bottle and poured out two large drinks. "To friends in high places."

Mary smiled and gulped down the whiskey. At first it burned down her throat before it entered her stomach like a soothing balm. She didn't have dinner yet and only realized now how hungry she was.

"What's your first case?" Mary asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Matthew said. "Robert's a bit opaque about a new client he wants me to meet."

"Dad and opaque?" Mary wondered. "Are you sure we're talking about the same Robert Crawley?"

"He's not as dull as you think he is," Matthew countered amused.

"My mother claims the same, but we don't see eye to eye very often."

Matthew laughed when he thought about his discussions with his own mother. "I know the feeling."

"So, shall we stay here or do we go out and have dinner?" Mary asked. "One more of these and I'm not going to find the way back to my apartment."

"Dinner sounds fine to me…." He rose. This was going better than he had hoped for when he had found bottle of whiskey in Patrick's hidden compartment behind his desk! There was still a tuned out voice in his head that told him to take it slowly with Mary, but he decided not to listen to it. If this evening was a success he would send Patrick Crawley a thank you note before he went to prison for the next twenty five years.

Elsie Hughes waited patiently for Mary and Matthew to leave the office, before she left her hiding place in the office kitchen and sneaked into Charles Carson's office. If she wanted to find out what was going on with him she had to do some serious snooping! The mysterious envelope had not only worried him, it also worried her. Charles was always cold as a cucumber but this evening he had left the office like a killer who fled a murder scene. His obvious distress was reason enough for her to get to the bottom of his sorrow as quickly as possible.

Everything important was always locked up in a small safe that was hidden in his desk. He had never told her the combination but she had looked over his shoulder too many times not to know it. She had never broken his trust, nor had she disregarded his privacy, but desperate times demanded desperate measures.

The combination was 1 - 0 - 2 - 5. She had often wondered if it was a birthday or some other kind of important date for him, but important was that he hadn't changed it.

The door opened as if by magic and revealed files, a bit of money and deeply hidden underneath it all, the infamous envelope. The mysterious corpus delicti. Her hands shook when she opened it and emptied the contents. Under the light of his old fashioned lamp she looked at the incriminating photographs and the note of blackmail. The photos showed a woman Elsie had never met, but her face was too well known not to recognize her. She used to smile at her from the cover of every magazine and newspaper. She wasn't one of those it-girl, she was so much more. The woman was what people called an icon. An institution. She was not only a member of the Royal Family, she was the embodiment of grace. A social butterfly and charity goddess.

But how did Charles Carson know her and why did anyone send nudes of her to him? Did Charles Carson have a life she knew nothing about? She used to think of him as a workaholic who spent his evenings with his remote control and a glass of whiskey.

Elsie shook her head, flabbergasted and at loss what to do next.

Edith Crawley stood across the restaurant called "Italian Butterfly" and smoked a cigarette. She watched Mary and Matthew through the bid window eating and chatting like they used to when they were all students in Oxford. So much time had passed since then and yet nothing had changed. No matter what Mary did she always ended up on top. This time was different though. Her phone vibrated in her coat and she took it out.

"Identity of Pamuk confirmed." Edith raised her eyebrows. Her contact had just confirmed that Mary and the late Kemal Pamuk had left a bar together only hours before he had been found dead. Even if Pamuk died of natural causes this was huge. Pamuk had worked for the Russian ambassador whose wife had been killed weeks ago and now he was dead as well and Mary was involved in this somehow. Of course the right thing would be to talk to her sister to gain more information, but Edith also had a deadline and Mary was busy preying on her next victim. She wouldn't talk to her anyway. Just like the rest of her family Mary looked down on Edith for choosing another career path. The Crawleys as a whole didn't like the press, but Edith didn't care. She had found her path. The news was the turf where she felt valuable and it was what she was good at.

Poor Matthew. He would never learn not to fall for the next best social butterfly.

***tbc***