Three Bodies in London

by L. A. Nisula

  I had no idea what agency or why they were sending someone, so naturally I said, “Yes.”

  “Very well. Come in.”

  I followed her through to the kitchen. There was an older woman reading lists by the fire.

  “From the agency, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Tilly.” She didn’t look up.

  Tilly curtsied and left the room. The housekeeper waited until Tilly was gone to look up from her papers. “You are not from the agency.”

  If I wasn’t going to fool her, then I might as well be honest. “How could you tell?”

  “Not nervous enough. Every girl the agency sends us is twisting her apron strings and studying the floor. Apparently, they think of this as a prime opportunity.”

  “And is it? A prime opportunity, I mean.”

  “A bachelor who prefers to go out rather than entertain. A house of decent size in a fashionable neighborhood. Good food. Good salary. Adequate amount of staff. Excellent, well-organized housekeeper. Yes, I would say it is a very good position for someone going into service. Or it was until recently. You’re not a journalist. So what are you?”

  “My cousin is Milly Prynne.”

  She recognized the name at once. “The accused.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you don’t believe she did it.”

  “Exactly. If you don’t mind my saying, I was expecting a bit more hostility from people who knew him.”

  She shrugged. “He was my employer, not my friend. That may sound cold, but it’s true. And, since I had never met or even heard of your cousin prior to her arrest, I don’t think she had much of a reason to kill him. Unless she was a paid assassin.”

  It took me a moment to realize she was joking. “Not one anyone would hire. Who do you think would want to? Kill him, I mean.”

  “No one. He’s, he was, a very inoffensive man. Friendly, but no one very close. Paid well and on time. Ran his shop.”

  “How was a shopkeeper able to afford this place?”

  “Do sit down. You’ll give me a headache hovering like that. He inherited the money from his maternal grandfather. He took the investments and lives off the income. Mr. Beauregard Hilliard, his older brother, took the business. Mr. Beauregard is the responsible one of the pair, so it was agreed he should have the greater responsibility and greater chance of profit.”

  “Did either of them resent the arrangement?”

  “Not as far as I know. Mr. Reginald likes—liked—running his little shop. Mr. Beauregard likes running the business. It seems to work out. Their father had despaired of Mr. Reginald finding work, and he didn’t want to take him into the family business, so he was happy to have him out of the way, and I think Mr. Reginald was glad to not have to put up with being told how inadequate he was.”

  “By the father?”

  “Exactly.”

  I leaned back to digest the information. It seemed there was motive to kill Mr. Hilliard senior, but that didn’t help Milly. “So no good suspects in the family. What about the business?”

  “You’d have to ask there. I don’t know much about it.”

  I seemed to have reached a dead end. I tried changing the subject. “What was the agency sending over?”

  “Extra help for the funeral on Thursday. If it was a regular dinner party I might consider allowing you to use the position to look at suspects, but this is not a regular dinner party.”

  “I understand.” And I did, but it didn’t stop me from being disappointed. It would have been a good way to see all the players in the little drama. “If you were going to look for suspects, where would you start?”

  “I don’t know. Like I told you, he was a very inoffensive man.”

  “Could you tell me where his brother lives? Maybe I can learn something there.”

  “842 Reston Street. But really, I simply can’t imagine Mr. Beauregard doing something so—”

  “Violent?”

  “Passionate.” She stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, the agency really is sending someone and I have a wake to plan.”

  “Of course.” I was half-way to the door when I thought to ask, “Who inherits?”

  She paused. “I don’t know, but I would assume his brother. Not that Mr. Beauregard would want the shop, I wouldn’t think. He’s the sort who likes a winner, if you see what I mean.”

  I didn’t, not really, but I nodded as if I did and thanked her and left.

  It wasn’t much of a lead, but the brother seemed to be my only option. I’d already spent too much on cabs (although I was still planning on making Mr. Farmington pay my expenses) and ventured into the Underground and made my way to Reston Street. Mr. Beauregard Hilliard’s house was in a more sedate, but equally expensive part of town. No black wreath on the door, I noticed. Of course the death hadn’t been at this house, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. I went down to the servants’ entrance again.

  The girl who answered the door looked me over quickly then stepped aside. She didn’t seem interested in who I was and seemed to assume I belonged there.

  Alone in the short hallway, I glanced in the various doors: kitchen, servants’ parlor, butler’s pantry, housekeeper’s sitting room.

  “How may I be of assistance?”

  I froze, feeling as guilty as if I’d been caught by the headmistress of some elite school. The woman stood behind me, not quite hovering but definitely not to be ignored. I turned. “The maid let me in.”

  “I didn’t suppose you picked the lock. Were you poking around my parlor for a reason, or just being nosy?”

  “I was looking for the housekeeper.”

  “Because?”

  “I was hoping you could help me.”

  “With what?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it? Did I want her to know who I was and what I was asking? But she was glaring down her nose at me in a way that told me she was good at sensing lies. “My name is Cassandra Pengear. My cousin is Milly Prynne. I’m trying to find someone with a motive to kill Mr. Hilliard.”

  I was stunned to see the woman perk up, and even more surprised when she said, “Like in the books? How marvelous. Come, sit down and we’ll have a natter.”

  I followed her into the sitting room and was settled in with tea and biscuits.

  “So tell me about the case you’re building.”

  “It’s early stages yet.” I fumbled for words. If I said I was floundering around, she might lose interest in talking to me. “I’m looking for more information on the victim. Mr. Reginald, I mean. Habits. People who may have had motive. Things like that.”

  “I see, of course. Well, Mr. Beauregard had no motive.”

  “Not even inheritance?”

  “That little shop? It hasn’t turned a profit in years. And have you seen his house? He had to have massive debts somewhere to support that lifestyle. It wouldn’t surprise me if the annuity he inherited went to pay them off.”

  “So nothing left for Mr. Beauregard. Who would know best about his financial state?” Debts sounded worth checking out. “If he did have debts, who would hold the notes?”

  “I suppose his accountants would know. He employs a firm. The same one all the family uses. Andsdale and Lennox on Stafford. I think I have a card.” She poked around the desk until she found the little square of paper. “Take it with you. Mr. Beauregard is always trying to get me to invest my money in some new invention or an up-and-coming business. I never do, of course. A nice, steady savings account does just fine for me. Not like that Hesport Ironworks that went sky-high then belly-up just after he sold his shares.”

  So Miss Hopkins should consider herself lucky she’d gotten out when she did. The maid poked her head in the door just then and asked which place setting she should put out for dinner. I took that as a sign it was time for me to leave. I held up the card she’d given me. “I’ll try the accountants then, thank you for your help.”

  ~ * ~ * ~

  While I wasn’t quite sure what sort of infor
mation I’d been hoping to get from the accountants—I was sure they were all terrible at giving out any details about clients at all—but I knew I would strike out with the secretary the moment I saw her. Neat, practical, almost severe. She was not one to be tricked by gossip or swayed by the poor, innocent American cousin. If I’d had anything resembling a legitimate reason for asking, she would have been an excellent ally. Unfortunately, Inspector Peterson was right, I was meddling.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Well, I was here now, I may as well try. “I hope so. My cousin has gone missing.” That was close to the truth. “She was supposed to meet me at the dock when I arrived. She wasn’t there or at the station. When her landlady let me into her flat, I found the address of this place. Perhaps her name would be familiar to you? Mildred Prynne.”

  “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Perhaps she was a client or applied for a position here? Could I take a look at your records?”

  “They are very confidential, but I suppose I could confirm if she hasn’t been here. If you will wait a moment, I’ll check the records for you. Perhaps Mr. Lennox had an appointment with her. I will check his datebook as well.” She gestured to the chair across from her desk and went into the inner office.

  As I sat down, I spotted the office boy. He was studying an account book, but I caught a glimpse of the yellow cover particular to a series of penny dreadfuls about an investigator named Sam the Shadow poking out around the edge of the cover.

  “I am sorry, Miss Pengear, but we have no record of your cousin as a client. And we have not interviewed for new staff in several years.”

  “Well, it was worth a chance.” I saw the office boy look up. “I’m naturally concerned. She was supposed to meet me when I arrived in the country, and when she wasn’t there, I’m afraid I thought the worst.”

  “Quite understandable. Scotland Yard would be your best option.”

  “I already tried them. Unfortunately, they don’t think I have enough proof of foul play.” A small lie, but one I thought would play well with my audience. “Thank you for your time.” I stood and glanced at the office boy again. He met my eyes, then turned back to his book.

  I paused as if I’d just thought of something. “Do you know a good place for lunch?”

  The secretary was much friendlier now that she was getting rid of me. “There’s a tea shop on the corner. I frequently take my lunch there.”

  “I’ll try that, then. Thank you.” I could feel the office boy’s gaze follow me out the door.

  The tea shop on the corner was a neat little place, not particularly fashionable but fairly crowded even this late in the day. I took a table near the door, purposely picking one of the less desirable tables so no one would mind if I sat there for a while. I ordered a pot of tea and a scone. When it arrived, I pulled out Milly’s letter and pretended to be reading it.

  I was in the middle of my fourth reading when I spotted him, the office boy. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He hadn’t seen me yet. I decided acknowledging him would scare him off. I spread the letter out in front of me and did my best to look troubled and perplexed. He seemed the sort to respond well to a damsel in distress. I watched him give an order at the counter and collect a sandwich of his own then wander into the sitting area.

  “Excuse me, is someone sitting here?”

  Got him. I looked up. “No, no. I’m all alone.” I squinted at him. “I think I know you. Do you work at Andsdale and Lennox?”

  “Yes, miss. I—I manage the office.”

  Almost, but not quite true. “That must require a lot of intelligence.”

  He sat down across from me. “Oh, they trust me with all sorts of things.”

  I gave him a chance to elaborate. When he didn’t, I went on, “Well, if they trust you—”

  “Of course they do.”

  “Then I suppose I can too. You see, I didn’t tell the secretary the real reason I went there.”

  “You lied?”

  “I wasn’t sure I could trust her. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “A secret mission. Sure. I understand.”

  “I knew you would.” Now the only question was how much to tell him. I tried to remember the plot of the last Sam the Shadow I’d seen. “My cousin is involved, but she’s been falsely accused.”

  “You mean of killing Mr. Hilliard?”

  I supposed that must be the only murder connected to the office, and I was quite certain he would follow every single one with interest. “I’m afraid so.”

  “It’s just like in The Shadow Falls.”

  So I had guessed right. “You like those too?”

  “That’s why I’m at Andsdale and Lennox. I’m going to go to America and work for one of the detectives there. They’ll all need trustworthy accountants.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  He arranged himself in what I assumed was a detective’s pose. “So how can I be of assistance?” I tried very hard not to smile as he steepled his fingers and tried to look like he was contemplating something mysterious and complex, then went on without giving me a chance to explain my dilemma. “I can tell from your accent you’re American. Atlanta, I would guess.”

  My accent was nothing like a Southern accent, but I said, “Close. Cleveland. That was very clever. I knew you were the right person to ask.”

  “Do you know any of the tinkering families there?” he asked, temporarily forgetting that I was consulting him.

  I told him everything I could remember reading in the papers about the Edisons, the Tellings, the Seiberlings, and any other tinkering family I could think of. If it sounded like I knew the information firsthand, well I never actually said it.

  When I’d run out of stories, he went back to his detective posture. “Fascinating. Now tell me how I can help you.”

  “I’ve been trying to find suspects. Someone with—” I watched him half-close his eyes and decided against saying motive. “Someone with a reason to hate Mr. Hilliard enough to kill him.”

  “What you mean is someone with motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly. I was hoping I could find out about him from his secretary.”

  “No, she wouldn’t know. Not as much as I do anyway. I can get a look at his files. Tell you what, I’m working late tomorrow night anyway. If you come by, I’ll let you have a look at his files. The non-confidential parts at least.”

  I would have thought the entire file was confidential, but I quickly said, “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”

  He seemed to puff up a bit with pride. “Always glad to help in any way I can.”

  “Then you must allow me to treat you for lunch.”

  He looked ready to protest, but then I saw his hand slide into his pocket and count through the coins inside.

  “Unless you’d rather charge for your services, I completely understand. This kind of help doesn’t come for nothing.”

  “Oh no. I’m not sup— I couldn’t accept money for helping a lady. But if you insist, I will accept lunch.”

  “Then it’s settled. What time should I be here tomorrow night?”

  He hesitated just long enough to make me feel bad about asking him to do this, then said, “We close at six. Everyone should be gone by half-six, so if you could come at seven, I can stay busy that long.”

  “I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.” I waited until he’d left to pay for the meal so I wouldn’t offend his sense of chivalry. It seemed a good day’s work on my part, so I went back to Milly’s apartment and did some unpacking, which gave me time to think, although I didn’t come up with any great insights. When it started to get dark, I went out to get some fish and chips so I wouldn’t have to worry about figuring out any more of Milly’s kitchen.

  Back in the flat, I arranged my fish and chips on a plate so it would look like I had prepared something for myself, and brought my plate to the sitting area, where I could spread my notebook open
on the table and stare at my notes. I had spent all day investigating, traipsed all over London, but I felt like I’d gotten nowhere, at least nowhere that would help Milly. I had to be missing something. There had to be some other avenue to explore.

  I almost dropped my plate when I realized what it was. The scene of the crime. I hadn’t been there yet. After my last discussion with Inspector Peterson, I was certain he wouldn’t give me the address. Milly would know. I thought he’d let me get in to see her. Or the newspapers. Just because this wasn’t big enough to have reached the papers back home didn’t mean the London ones wouldn’t have something on it. And Mrs. Fitzpatrick was just the sort of woman to keep a few of those clippings. I put my fish back in the kitchen near the steam pipes keep it warm and went downstairs.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick did not disappoint. She didn’t have a few clippings; she had a whole box of them. “I am sorry they’re such a mess. I haven’t had time to paste them in my book yet. I like to keep a record of my more celebrated tenants.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Have you had many?”

  “See those three books over there? First two are completely full of clippings. Milly will get to start the third.”

  Somehow the two full books of clippings on famous tenants did not comfort me. “I’m looking for the address of the place where it happened.”

  “I don’t think it was mentioned. I thought of going down there and having a look myself, but the closest I found was, let me see... Yes, here it is.” She handed me a clipping. It was barely a paragraph—the agony columns had longer stories—but it listed the street.

  Businessman Murdered, Suspects Sought