This time we walked in through the front door and took the elevator up to the offices. Michaela greeted us brightly at the entrance.
“Hello, have you solved the murder yet?” she asked us.
“Possibly. You will know in a couple of days,” Violet told her reassuringly.
“Oh good. I’ve been feeling so bad for poor Lizzie. No one deserves to die like that.”
“I agree,” I told her. I couldn’t believe a nice girl like her could be stealing things from the office. But then, Violet seemed to have perfect explanations for everything else.
“Are you here to look at her office again?” Michaela asked, getting up.
“We were actually hoping to speak with Mr. Browning if he’s available.”
“Oh all right, let me have a look,” she said, sitting back down. “I believe his new secretary is being hired soon. That will be nice, as I’ve been having to do Lizzie’s old duties as well as my own for the last few days. It looks as though he’s in a meeting, but if you want to have a seat I can probably fit you in for a couple of minutes afterwards, in about a quarter of an hour?”
“That’s fine,” Violet told her, and we made our way to the couches to wait for our appointment with a murderer.
“What are we going to do when we get in there?” I asked.
“Just follow my lead.”
“That’s code for you have no idea, isn’t it?”
Violet simply smiled in return. I was half teasing her; Violet seemed to know exactly what she was doing at any given moment. But somehow, I couldn’t help but bet there was a bit of truth to the statement. How do you get a murderer to confess to a crime if you’re not a cop?
I supposed I was about to find out. Michaela came out and led us into Leo Browning’s office. She knocked twice on the door, quick, efficient raps, then opened it and let us in. Leo Browning was sitting at his desk, signing a piece of paper. He looked up and smiled at us.
“Ladies, welcome back. I’m afraid I only have a few minutes, but please, anything I can do to help find Elizabeth’s killer.”
“For one thing, you can tell us how much she took you for when she was blackmailing you.”
Browning’s face immediately fell. The jovial, slightly pink tinge to his hue disappeared completely as he paled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not being blackmailed at all.”
“Really? So if we go to the Virgin Money branch in the city centre and ask for their security cameras from three twelve pm last Monday, you won’t appear on them, depositing money into Elizabeth Dalton’s bank account?” Violet asked.
Browning seemed to realize then that the game was up. His shoulders drooped and he sighed loudly, opening his hands as if in defeat.
“All right. You have me. I haven’t broken any laws. I am being blackmailed, although I won’t tell you what for.”
“You’ve been cheating on your wife with a woman that you meet at the Ritz,” Violet replied, and any color that might have remained in Leo Browning’s face disappeared completely.
“Fine. But please, what I tell you, it has to stay between us. I was being blackmailed. For about six, maybe seven months now. You think it was my secretary who was blackmailing me?”
“We know it was her. You didn’t?”
Leo Browning shrugged, stiffly. “I had my suspicions. After all, she was the one who answered my phone calls. She read all my mail. She had access to most of my emails. I tried to be discreet, but if there was one person in the office who might have figured it out, it was most likely her. But you’re wrong. It wasn’t Elizabeth.”
“We have very, very solid evidence that it was.”
“And I have very, very solid evidence that it wasn’t.” He tapped away at his computer for a moment, then turned the screen toward us. Violet and I leaned forward slightly to read it.
It was an email, and looking at the date, Browning had received it the day before, just after eleven am. It came from an anonymous e-mail address, [email protected]. I knew instinctively it would be completely untraceable. My eyes dropped below to read the text of the email.
If you don’t want your wife to find out about your affair, continue your regular deposits into the following account:
Sort code 08-61-15 Account Number 0026547
“Do you have any copies of the old ransom letters?” Violet asked immediately. I was trying to remember, I was fairly certain the sort code was the same as the one for Elizabeth Dalton’s bank account, but something about the account number seemed off.
“No, I destroyed them all, sorry,” Browning replied. “You can understand, of course.”
Violet only nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. “This changes things,” she said, almost to herself.
“Changes what?” Browning asked, and a moment later his eyebrows rose and his eyes widened. “Oh!” he exclaimed, coming to the realization of why we were here. “You thought I had killed Elizabeth!”
“I’m still not sure you haven’t,” Violet said. “After all, if you had suspected she was your blackmailer, you could still have killed her to get rid of her.”
“No,” Leo Browning said. “No, I suspected her, but I had no proof. I’m not a murderer, either way.”
“Do you have proof of that?”
“In fact I do! I was called away on business at the last second the morning Elizabeth was killed. I left for Manchester ninety minutes before Elizabeth went on break.”
“I assume you have proof of this?”
“Of course!” Leo Browning pulled out his phone and tapped away for a minute, before handing it to Violet. “Here is my ticket for the train. And Michaela should have my receipt for the taxi I took from the station to the office I was going to, about two and a half hours after the train left.” Violet nodded slowly, then handed Leo Browning back his phone.
“You were an absolutely perfect suspect,” Violet told him, standing up. “But, luckily for you, you do have an alibi. I will be checking up on it. Let me ask you one more question: did anything change about the threats at any point in the past, or were they always exactly the same?”
Browning thought to himself for just a moment before answering. “Yes, yes there was a change,” he said. “About one month after the threats began. Whoever it was had started off by asking for small amounts. A couple of hundred pounds every few weeks. But then, suddenly, they changed to one thousand, and it’s been one thousand a fortnight ever since.”
“Thank you, Mr. Browning,” Violet said, leaving.
“Wait, you’re not going to tell my wife anything, are you?” Leo Browning asked as we left the room, pleading in his voice. Violet didn’t reply.
“Are you going to tell his wife?” I asked her. I honestly didn’t know what to expect.
“No. I have no reason to. But that does not mean he does not deserve to sweat a little bit over it all the same.”
I smiled slightly to myself. Violet stopped at the reception desk and asked Michaela for the receipt. Her eyes widened.
“Oh, you don’t think Mr. Browning did it, do you?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“If you have the receipt, it pretty well proves he couldn’t have,” Violet replied.
“Good. I couldn’t possibly believe it would be anyone who works here.”
“Well, Michaela, I can tell you with almost complete certainty that it is someone who works here,” Violet replied, and we left and made our way back to the elevator as the receptionist’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.
“So what happens now?” I asked. “Something’s weird about this.”
“Something is weird about this. How do you feel about eating some lunch?”
I wasn’t exceptionally hungry, but I agreed to the meal, mainly because I could get away with just having a smoothie at whatever new age health food place Violet decided to take us to. To my chagrin, it was the same place as that first breakfast.
We sat down at a booth and Violet began speaking befo
re we even had menus handed to us.
“We know that the money went to Elizabeth Dalton. The bank account is in her name. There is no other way she could have got the money, and no other way to explain how she could afford the luxuries in her home.”
“And yet she’s dead, and Browning is still being blackmailed.”
“Précisement. What do you make of that, Cassie?” Violet asked me. I closed my eyes and tried to think things through.
“Well, the obvious answer that can be ruled out is ghosts,” I started.
“Yes, let us assume that the paranormal is not involved in this crime,” Violet replied, and I could practically feel her rolling her eyes at me.
“One thing that I noticed was that Browning said that he had ‘destroyed’ the previous notes. That means that this is the first one he had received by email. Which means something else has changed.”
“Oui! Yes, that is good! Excellent deducting. You are getting better.” I smiled at the praise.
“Something has changed. I think that someone else is blackmailing Browning, but what I don’t know is how they would have found out he was being blackmailed in the first place. Or what their link to Dalton was.”
“Very good,” Violet replied, nodding. A waiter came over and handed us a couple menus, but I was too engrossed in the conversation to even bother looking at it.
“You know, obviously. You seem to know everything.”
“I do not always know everything. Like you, I thought Browning was the murderer.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t tell DCI Williams that, he never would have let you hear the end of it if you’d gotten it wrong.”
“That is why I do not tell him who my suspects are until I am completely certain. That, and what I told him was true: I have no faith that he will do his job well enough for a conviction, I must ensure that I have the criminal wrapped up for him and ready to deliver. But in this case, yes, I do know what has happened.”
“Can you explain it to me?”
“There are two important points to remember in this story. The first one is that twice the blackmailing changed significantly. The first time was when the amount demanded went up significantly all at once. The second was when the letters stopped coming by hand and were instead delivered by e-mail. The second is especially significant because it occurred after Elizabeth Dalton was murdered. It means that she cannot be the sender of the e-mail.”
The man came by to take our order. I ordered a sunshine smoothie, and Violet ordered a quinoa bowl of something-or-another that sounded exceedingly healthy and I was pretty sure had kale in it. When he left, Violet continued.
“The second important point to remember is that the bank account to pay the money into has changed. Yes, the bank is the same. But the account number is different. I believe that Elizabeth Dalton was discovered. Someone figured out what she was doing after around a month. This person, rather than telling Browning, told Dalton. They either asked, or threatened to be allowed in, and increased the payment amounts. That was when it went from being a few hundred pounds every few weeks to a thousand every two.”
I nodded slowly as everything Violet was saying sunk in. It made perfect sense. “And so when Elizabeth Dalton was killed, this second, behind-the-scenes person decided to take over and continue blackmailing him.”
“Exactement. That is the other reason why I believe it is this second person who is the true murderer now. If you had just learned that your partner in crime had been brutally murdered in the most painful way, and you assumed it was the person you had been blackmailing who was the guilty party, you would likely wait more than two days before you began to blackmail him once more, would you not?”
“Yes, a brutal death by strychnine is not one I would want to experience,” I replied, shuddering slightly. There were some bad ways to go. Strychnine poisoning was definitely one of them.
“So now we’re trying to find the person who was blackmailing Leo Browning, as they are the likely murderer. How on earth are we going to do that?” I asked. Violet shook her head slowly.
“I do not know yet. I need some time to think about it. But when I know what we will do, I will call you. I must stop after this at the police station, I want to give DCI Williams the bank account information of the second blackmailer. The second person is more experienced in that sort of thing. It is evidenced by the fact that they asked for more money. They used an untraceable e-mail account. Their bank account will be in the name of a business which will be untraceable as well. Of that, I am certain. But you never know, so it must be checked.”
My smoothie and Violet’s bowl arrived and we lunched in silence, each one of us caught up in our own thoughts. Who could have possibly figured out that Elizabeth Dalton was blackmailing Leo Browning? I had absolutely no idea.
Chapter 15
An hour later I was back at my apartment, after having stopped at a shop I found on the way that sold more pet stuff. I got a few extra treats, and one of those toys with the little mouse on the end of a stick for Biscuit, as well as one of those tubes with the ball inside for him to play with also.
Of course, as soon as I unpacked them for him, Biscuit happily settled himself in the box and ignored the toys completely. Typical cat.
I played with Biscuit for a little bit, gave him a couple treats, then headed back out for a little bit to try and find a few decorations to make my new place my home. Two hours later I’d bought a framed photo of San Francisco that reminded me of home—it had been on sale for five pounds!—, some nice smelling candles, adorable animal-print tea towels for the kitchen, and a huge fleece blanket with a fox print on the front to curl up with. While I was in the mood to be productive and efficient, for once, I decided to go back to the hostel I’d been staying at and check out for good. I was well and truly a Londoner now, I thought to myself as I gave Biscuit a pat and promised him I’d take him out for a little bit when I got back.
I walked slowly back toward the hostel one last time. When I got there, I snuck my bike—the last possession of mine that I’d left in the room—back out the front door, then went back inside to hand in my keys. I couldn’t help but be thankful to Violet. After all, if it wasn’t for her, I’d probably still be spending my days mostly in bed, still deep in my depression. Violet gave me a reason to get up in the morning. She gave me something interesting to do. And I would always appreciate that.
Standing out in front of the hostel, knowing that I didn’t live there anymore, my stomach began to grumble. I supposed it was getting to be around ten o’clock. The last thing I’d had to eat was that smoothie, and before that the McDonalds that was hours and hours ago.
Now that I actually had a place of my own, I was going to have to start cooking for myself more, I thought ruefully to myself, looking down at my waistline. But whatever, the diet could start tomorrow. Because after all, I no longer lived near a Chipotle restaurant; this might be my last chance to get a convenient, delicious burrito for a while.
A part of me recoiled at the thought. What if that girl was working there again? What if she recognized me? What if she knew I was lying? No, I couldn’t go there. It was off limits. Completely. But oh man, those burritos. In the end, my stomach won out. It being so late the streets were almost empty, so I rode my bicycle rather than walk it, letting the cool evening air blow onto my face as I made my way through the quaint London night.
The closer I got to Chipotle, the more I started wondering if this was a good idea. I was an anxiety-riddled mess, and all because I’d told a small lie a few days ago. Great. Be an adult, and just go in there, I thought to myself. She probably isn’t working, and if she is, she probably won’t even recognize you anyway.
Having given myself this little pep talk, I locked up my bike in front of the shop and went in. There she was, the same Australian redhead, working the counter. Great. On top of that, it was so late at night that while there were two people eating their food in a corner, I was the only person actually orderi
ng.
I ordered my burrito, and the guy who made it slid it over to the girl.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she asked in that same Australian accent.
“Good, you?” I replied.
“Yeah, I’m good, thanks. Big plans for tonight?”
I shrugged. “Not especially.”
“Hey, you were here a few days ago, weren’t you?”
My heart sunk. She knew. She knew I was lying.
“What? Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I said. I didn’t even know why I lied. I had no reason to lie. I could have just said yes. Why didn’t I just say yes?
The color rose to my face and I began to panic. I looked around the room. The two people in the corner had their faces buried in their phones, and the guy who had made my burrito had gone into the back. I could just turn and run. I’d never be able to show my face here again, but at least I wouldn’t have to explain myself. Running from my problems was a totally valid thing, right?
Of course, then I wouldn’t get to eat my burrito.
“Hm, weird, I could have sworn you were in here a few days ago.”
Finally, I broke down.
“I was! Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I was, and I don’t know why I lied just then, but I have a weird friend who was telling me that I’m an awful liar and I should practice when it doesn’t matter and you can’t get caught in the lie and everything I told you that time too was a lie but I just can’t do it anymore and I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to and oh God what is wrong with me?”
Toward the end of that run-on sentence I could tell I was practically hysterical. Great. The girl at the counter was probably going to call the cops. Or a mental hospital. I wasn’t sure which one was more appropriate. She stared at me for a minute, completely shocked, while I tried to do my best “I’m sorry, I’m not usually this insane” face. I wanted to apologize but I wasn’t sure I trusted what was going to come out of my mouth. Suddenly, the girl did the complete opposite of what I expected: she burst out laughing.
“Oh thank God,” I told her. “I thought you were about to call the cops on me. And you know, you would have totally been justified.”
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