“And she never said if she was seeing another man?”
Roger shook his head.
“Do you know where she got that tie?”
Again Roger shook his head. “Probably the church jumble. It’s certainly not new.”
“It wasn’t one of yours?”
“No.”
“Very well. Have you told this to anyone? Inspector Birdsong?”
“No.”
“Not your solicitor?”
“No.”
“You’ve got to tell him straightaway. The longer you wait, the worse it gets. Shall I tell him?”
“He won’t . . . You don’t think he’ll refuse the case if he knows? I mean, if he thinks I did it?”
Drew clasped his shoulder. “You’ve money enough. Trust me, old Barlow will stick by you.”
It was cold comfort, they both knew it, but Roger managed a bit of a smile nonetheless. “I’d be awfully grateful, Drew, if you’d let him know for me, if you could make him understand what happened. I swear, it’s all true.”
“I believe you, Rog.” Drew jostled his shoulder and then released it. “Chin up, man. We’ll get you through this somehow.” He then rapped on the door to let the policeman outside know he was ready to leave.
“I say, Drew?”
Drew turned back and nodded. “Yes, Rog, I’ll bring you some cigarettes.”
Nine
With the clank of the lock still in his ears, Drew walked away from Roger’s jail cell and turned the corner at the end of the corridor.
“Following up a clue, Detective Farthering?”
Chief Inspector Birdsong looked at him with that smug blandness that said he felt himself ahead in the game. Drew made his own expression equally bland.
“Merely visiting those in prison, Chief Inspector, as the Scriptures direct.”
“I take it you’ve seen your mate Morris.”
“I have. He’s innocent, of course.”
“Oh, of course. I don’t suppose you’d care to have a wager on that?”
“You’ll lose that one, Inspector. I wouldn’t advise you make it.”
“Do you think so?” Birdsong clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels, coming as close to a smirk as Drew had ever seen. “Would you care to hear a bit of news I’ve just had from Dr. Saxon, the coroner?”
“What? That the girl had blood and skin under her nails?”
Birdsong’s eyes narrowed. “So Morris confessed, did he?”
“I’m afraid he did, but only to having a row with the girl. Evidently she had a bit of a temper.”
“And neither of you thought to mention this before now?”
“He’s only just told me.” Drew shrugged and gave the inspector an apologetic smile. “I was just going to tell his solicitor about it and then, unless they objected, discuss the matter with you.”
“And you think that proves he’s innocent, do you?”
“Not in itself, no, but none of it hangs together properly. Suppose he did kill her. Why all this business with the note and the hatpin?”
Birdsong dismissed the objection with the wave of one hand. “Simplest thing in the world. They quarrel, he kills her, and then he makes it look as if this hatpin murderer is to blame.”
“No, no. I tell you, it’s all wrong. Roger’s a bit of a cretin, you know. I could see where he might lose his head and strike her or shove her, killing her accidentally. This was never an accident or a crime of passion. Poison like that? Do they know what it was yet, Inspector?”
“An overdose of Veronal. Neat as you please.”
Both of them were silent for a grim moment.
“I just don’t see Roger as the poisoning type,” Drew said. “No. And suppose someone did plan a murder and make it look as if it were the hatpin murderer? He couldn’t have the same handwriting and the same ink and paper as the others. It just doesn’t fit.”
“Would if he’d done the first two, as well.” There was a stubborn set to the chief inspector’s mouth. “He hasn’t got an alibi for those, you know.”
“Yes, well, we’ve been through that. He hadn’t any motive for killing Montford or Corneau. Didn’t know either of them as best anyone can tell.”
“He could have done them so as to later put the girl’s murder off on some lunatic, you know. He did have Corneau’s cigarette case.”
“Kill a man and carry his engraved cigarette case about in his pocket?” Drew gave him a sardonic grin. “He’d be the lunatic in that event. You’ll have to come up with something a little more convincing, I’m afraid, Inspector. Roger just won’t do.”
“Then who will, Detective Farthering, since you know ever so much more than the police?”
“Daniel Montford came to see me.” Drew’s voice was light, nonchalant. “Seems he doesn’t appreciate me using my particular talents as concerns his father’s death.”
“Oh, no?”
“He says you’ve already cleared him of any involvement. Is that right?”
“He was in his bedroom at home that day. His mother vouches for that much.”
Drew frowned. “I don’t suppose she’d be asking me to look into things if she was trying to protect him for any reason.”
“Wouldn’t think so. Do you have any reason to suspect him?”
“None, except that he’s obviously angry at his father over this affaire de coeur with the Allen girl, and he’s absolutely refused to give me any information that might be of help in the case.”
Birdsong pursed his lips. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”
“Let’s not consider the more fanciful possibilities until we’ve exhausted the ones that are actually likely.”
The chief inspector gazed heavenward.
“At any rate,” Drew continued, “he has an alibi only for his father’s murder. What about Dr. Corneau’s?”
“We haven’t spoken to him about that one. There doesn’t seem to be any reason for him to have killed the doctor.”
“It may be well worth looking into. I don’t suppose you’ve found out where he was yesterday afternoon, either.”
“We’ve been rather occupied since last night.” Birdsong paused, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have any reason to connect young Montford to the Deschner case?”
“Not particularly, except the three murders are obviously connected. If he killed his father, it seems almost certain that he killed Corneau and Clarice, as well.”
“Perhaps some independent verification would be in order. I’d hate to doubt Mrs. Montford’s word, but more than one mother has lied for her son before now. Have you shown young Daniel’s photograph around? At the golf course? At the hotel?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea. If you don’t mind me doing you chaps’ job for you.” Drew couldn’t resist just a hint of a grin. “Again.”
Drew found the lobby of the Empire quiet and empty except for the diminutive figure lounging beside the lift.
“Hello, Phipps. How are you this afternoon? Where’s Mr. Leonard today?”
A smile lit the young man’s freckled face. “Afternoon, sir. Mr. Leonard is seeing to a problem with one of the guests up on five, a Mrs. Richards, but he should be back down in a jiff. Would you like to wait or shall I take you up?”
“Actually, it’s you I’ve come to see, and I wanted to make sure we were in the clear.”
Phipps grinned. “More police business, eh? I’m your man. You can rely on me, no questions asked.”
“Excellent.”
“Did the rozzers have her in for questioning, the girl from the toy shop? Did she kill that bloke in one-twelve?”
“We don’t know yet, I’m afraid. You haven’t said anything to anyone about her, have you?”
“Lumme, no, sir. Mr. Leonard, he was all smooth and clever, trying to get a hint out of me. But I kept mum.” Phipps put up his hand as if to forestall any doubts Drew might have. “First to last, mum. Police business, I says, and that’s all I says.”
“Good lad. Now, can you tell me if you’ve seen this fellow around anywhere?”
Phipps studied the photograph of young Montford, his forehead puckered. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “No, can’t say as I have. Not to remember anyway. Can’t swear for certain he wasn’t never here, but can’t say as he was neither. Sorry.”
He handed the picture back to Drew, who with a disappointed sigh returned it to his coat pocket. “I suppose you see just about everyone who comes in and out of the hotel.”
“When I’m on duty, of course. If I don’t take ’em up in the lift, I generally see ’em go up the stairs.”
“I’m certain the police have already asked you this, but was there anything unusual about that day? Apart from the actual murder, was there anything you remember as being odd or out of place? Perhaps a stranger you may have noticed?”
“Mr. Farthering, this is a hotel. We deal in strangers.”
“That’s what makes it so difficult. Well, if you happen to think of anything, here’s my card. You ring me up anytime.”
Phipps nodded as he took the card. “You can count on me, sir. Service and discretion are our stock in trade.”
Drew handed him a pound note. “Buy your Doris some flowers.”
“Very kind, sir. Very kind. I could buy her a field of ’em with this. She wouldn’t even see me, there’d be that many.” He frowned, considering. “Hang on a tick. It’s not so much of a thing, but it was on that day the gentleman was murdered.”
“What was?”
“I took a delivery boy up to the first floor. He had a great boo-kay of lilies to leave for one of the guests. I said it was a grand lot of flowers for some lucky lady, and all he said was ‘First floor’ and wouldn’t say nothin’ else. I minded my own job after that.”
“What did this delivery boy look like?”
“Couldn’t say, really. He was behind the flowers the whole time. He was tall, I suppose. Not much meat on him. I remember thinking it odd that he wore his gloves, as warm as it was, but I suppose the flower shop makes their boys wear ’em, winter or summer.”
“Do you recall who the flowers were for?”
“Come to think of it, that was a bit strange, as well. They was left outside the door of a Mrs. Maplethorpe, but she had checked out earlier that day. There wasn’t a card, and nobody ever called for them. We used them for some posh do we had on the day after.”
“You didn’t see the delivery boy when he came back down?”
“I never thought of it again, but no, I didn’t. Might have slipped by on the stairs when I had the lift up on one of the top floors.”
Drew removed the picture from his coat pocket once again. “Any chance it could have been him?”
“A chance, I suppose. Couldn’t swear it was or wasn’t. You reckon he done it?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid. Well, you keep my card. If you think of anything else, you ring me up. You won’t forget?”
“Sooner forget my own name, sir, and that’s a fact.”
Back home at Farthering Place, Drew managed to get Madeline away from her aunt without undue resistance, and the two of them met with Nick over tea in the library. Drew was eager to let them know what he had most recently found out.
“According to Mr. Phipps, the lift boy at the Empire Hotel, around the time of Mr. Montford’s murder there was a delivery of a large bouquet of lilies to a tenant on Montford’s floor. The lilies were never claimed by anyone, and the hotel finally used them as a centerpiece for a banquet they were catering the next day. The purveyor of said floral extravaganza was a tallish, slender young man who kept his face carefully out of view and spoke very little.”
“Do we know he was young?” Nick asked, lounging against the mantel of the great fireplace.
Madeline, seated next to Drew on the sofa, arched one eyebrow. “Do we know he was a man?”
“Hmmm.” Drew frowned, thinking. “I expect we have quite a few possibilities at this point. Daniel Montford, of course. Old Russ from our solicitors. Even Miss Allen, if one wasn’t to look too closely. But which one?”
Nick shrugged. “Why not all three?”
“What, together?” Madeline said. “All of them?”
“None of them has an alibi or a motive for all the murders,” Drew said, “but they each have an alibi and a motive for at least one of them.”
“A sort of murder cooperative.” Nick moved from where he’d been leaning against the mantel to pace near the window that faced the garden. “I’ll kill your embarrassing father for you on Monday if you’ll dispatch my faithless lover on the Friday next? Why not indeed?”
Drew scowled. “That’s a possibility, I suppose, but it still won’t do, old man. Murder, even by proxy, demands a motive. And certainly we have supposed a number of those, but we haven’t exactly nailed any one of them down.”
Madeline sighed. “So we’re back to square one. Who would want to kill Montford?”
“There are a number of people who’d do away with him just based on his profession.” Nick grinned. “The first thing, kill all the lawyers, eh?”
Drew started to laugh, then caught his breath. “That’s it. By George, that’s it. Dick the Butcher’s advice to the rebel Jack Cade in Shakespeare’s Henry the Sixth. ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers’!”
Nick halted stock-still. “Good heavens. Advice to Jack.”
“But what about the others?” Madeline asked. “You don’t suppose they’re something to do with Shakespeare, too?”
“Could be, but I still don’t know how.” Drew tapped his fingers on his knee. “‘Kentish wisdom would have him paid so’? ‘But for the scandal, she might have been queen of them all’? Whose greatness was to be humbled, and why the waiting?”
“One at a time, if you please. Start with ‘Kentish wisdom.’” Nick perched on the arm of the sofa. “Cade was from Kent, wasn’t he?”
“And so was Alexander Iden who killed him. But what wisdom would pay in murder?” The words of the three messages whirred through Drew’s mind. Advice and wisdom ending in death. Queens and humility and scandals. What did it all mean? “If Montford was killed because he was a lawyer, perhaps Corneau was chosen because he was a doctor. But what has that to do with being from Kent? I believe, besides Cade and Iden, Kent is mentioned several times in Shakespeare’s histories, but I don’t recall any of it to do with doctors.”
“Perhaps we ought to read through some of the plays again,” Nick suggested. “Might jar the old memory, eh?”
“Maybe so.” Drew considered for a moment. “What about Clarice? She hadn’t any profession at all.”
“Unless it was a terribly old one.” Nick raised his eyebrows, and Drew laughed grimly.
“Perhaps she wasn’t the most circumspect of ladies, Nick, old man, but I should hardly put her in that category. Though our murderer’s standards may have been rather more strict.” Drew sighed and squeezed Madeline’s hand. “It’s rather like your auntie’s lacework after Mr. Chambers has gotten hold of it. Lots of tangled threads and no pattern.”
Drew was just tucking into a nice plate of eggs, bacon, and mushrooms the next morning when Nick strode onto the terrace.
“Morning, old man.” Drew pulled out a chair next to himself. “You’re about rather early, aren’t you? I mean, for you, you know.”
“Have you seen this?”
Nick slapped the early edition of the newspaper down on the table, and Drew picked it up. He didn’t have to ask which article Nick meant him to see. Margaret Allen looked out at him from under a headline that blared SOLICITOR’S MISTRESS DENIES INVOLVEMENT IN HATPIN MURDERS.
“Blast that Phipps. He told me he hadn’t mentioned her to anyone.” Drew slung the paper into the empty chair. “I ought to go up to the Empire this minute and give him the thrashing of his life.”
“Phipps the lift boy?”
“Well, who else could it have been? The police? I couldn’t see Birdsong standing
for such a breach of protocol. The girl wouldn’t have said anything herself, would she?”
“Maybe she wanted the notoriety.” Nick put the paper on the table and sat down. “Some do, you know.”
Drew considered for a moment. “That’s what Mrs. Montford said when I asked why the girl would claim an affair when there was none. She said maybe she wanted to be in the newspapers.”
“You don’t suppose Mrs. Montford was the one who talked, do you?”
“No. Couldn’t be. There hadn’t been anything more than the usual suspicion of this sort of thing in the news until now. It’s got to be a terrible embarrassment to her. No doubt young Daniel is in a fine state about it, too.”
Nick sighed. “Then we’re back to Margaret Allen.”
“No, look at her.” Drew pushed the newspaper back across the table toward Nick. The girl was looking back over her shoulder, her dark eyes wide and frightened, as she tried to escape having her photograph taken. “She’s terrified. It had to have been Phipps. He was paid off or some oily reporter weaseled it out of him. Either way, I’ll find out.”
Denny appeared at the door.
“Pardon the interruption, sir, but there is a young lady to see you—Miss Allen. I told her I would inquire whether or not you were at home.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Send her in. See if she’ll have some breakfast.” Drew turned to Nick. “The poor kid, we’ll have to try to do something for her, though I don’t know what at this point.”
“She has had it rough, I daresay. Shall I stand by or would you like me to go speak rather sharply to Phipps at the Empire?”
“No, stay here. It may take the both of us to cheer her up.”
“Miss Allen, sir.”
Denny showed the girl in. Her face was blotched and tear-streaked.
Drew stood up. “Miss Allen, how lovely of you to come. May I introduce my friend, Nick Dennison?”
Nick nodded, standing. “Good morning. Will you have something? Eggs? Sausage? We have some lovely marmalade.”
She shook her head, looking like a fawn backed into the brambles by a pack of hounds. “I couldn’t. Not right now.”
“At least some tea,” Drew insisted.
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