by C. J. Archer
“How do you know she sent the letters?” Harry asked.
The inspector puffed out his chest and tugged on his lapel. “I’m a good detective.”
“Were you able to trace the postmark?”
The inspector smiled. “Her husband recognized the handwriting and had already suspected she would threaten the politicians blocking the bill. He works for me. Good sergeant. It’s not his fault his wife has a militant streak.”
Harry sat back. “Let me guess. You let her off with a warning.”
“I did, but not entirely because of my colleague. We didn’t want to make a martyr of her. The women’s suffrage movement is gaining momentum, and we don’t want to add fuel to the fire. Now before you object, Miss Fox, I want to point out that I’m not against women being given equal rights as men. I’m just saying it’s best if progress is achieved without violence. Nothing has escalated that far—yet—and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I wasn’t going to object, at all.” I gathered up the empty cups and rose. “Does Sergeant Parker know you’re giving his wife’s name to us to investigate?”
“No one knows anything about your investigation at Scotland Yard, and that’s how it must remain until you have irrefutable proof. I hope for Parker’s sake it wasn’t his wife who murdered Mrs. Warrington, but she must be considered a suspect.” He rose and indicated the cups. “Give those to Harry to return to the café. This is his office, so it’s his responsibility. Besides, I’m a little slower getting down the stairs these days, if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me, Miss Fox.”
Harry accepted the cups from me and stepped outside.
The moment he was out of earshot, the inspector turned to me. “I have no objection to you working with Harry under normal circumstances, Miss Fox.”
“I’ll be all right. You don’t have to worry about me stumbling into danger like I did in the hotel when the Christmas Eve killer was on the loose. I’ll be very careful.”
He dismissed my suggestion with a wave of his hand. “I’m not worried. Harry can take care of you as well as himself. I am more concerned that he will insist on taking only half the fee when he needs it all.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a gentleman and seems to think he owes you this investigation since he’d already given you the client.”
“He doesn’t owe me anything. We have agreed to work together and split the fee. I don’t think Harry would take it all even if I insisted.”
“Precisely my point and why I suggest you step down.”
“No!”
“Miss Fox—”
“No, sir, I am not stepping down. Do you really want Harry knowing you interfered and guilted me into giving up? Because he will realize,” I added when he drew breath to object. “He’s not a fool. He’ll work it out.”
The inspector sighed. “Forgive me for being blunt, but you don’t need the money, Miss Fox.”
And Harry did, he might have said. My heart sank a little. The fact that Harry’s father was asking me to give up my half of the fee behind Harry’s back meant finances were dire. My own situation could be classified as wanting, rather than desperate. I had an allowance from my uncle that was more than enough to get by, but Harry had nothing except what he earned. I didn’t need the money urgently. My plans to move out of the hotel could wait.
I rested a hand on the inspector’s arm. “I will do my best to insure he takes the entire fee for himself. I promise.”
He patted my shoulder. “Good. Good. Now all you need to do is solve the case. I suspect that won’t be a problem with the two of you working together.”
The inspector invited me to go down the stairs before him then followed, his gait sprightly. I smiled to myself and was still smiling when we met Harry on the pavement, his gaze narrowed. Clearly he was suspicious of his father’s motives for sending him on ahead.
He did not ask what we’d talked about, however, and we did not offer an explanation. Detective Inspector Hobart bade us goodbye after informing Harry that his mother expected him home for dinner.
“You have two very caring parents,” I said as we watched the inspector walk off.
“I know,” Harry said warmly.
Tears filled my eyes as thoughts of my own loving family came flooding back to me. Not just my parents, but also my paternal grandparents. Like Harry, I’d been lucky to be accepted into their home with open arms after my mother and father died in an accident, but unlike him, my grandparents were my blood relatives and not strangers to me. It must have been so hard for the thirteen year-old boy whose mother had died only two years earlier, but at least he’d entered a caring home. Unlike when he’d entered the boys’ home and then run away to live on the street, as he’d been forced to do in between. I could imagine Mr. and Mrs. Hobart being kind from the moment they took him in.
I shook off my dreary thoughts and kept pace with Harry. I had no right to feel melancholy when I had so much and others so little. Not only that, we had a solid lead in our investigation. Mrs. Parker might have been let off with just a warning by the police, but I doubted she’d give up on her cause so easily.
I identified with the women calling for equal rights, and although I wouldn’t write threatening letters or kill a man for the cause, I also wouldn’t be diverted from my plans after receiving a warning. If she thought killing Mr. Warrington was the only way to ensure the bill was passed through parliament, she might be prepared to go to great lengths to remove him.
Chapter 8
Mrs. Parker lived in a modest terrace in an uninspiring street in Camden Town. There was very little to recommend it except that it seemed like a quiet place to raise a family. The thin terrace was one of dozens lined up like cigarettes in a tin. They were all built from exactly the same cream brick with two wrought iron balconies attached to the first floor windows that were barely wide enough for two people to stand on. The front doors were all painted either black or dark gray, with the same iron knockers.
Mrs. Parker answered the door herself. She was a tall woman, aged in her late twenties, with clear eyes and a square jaw that firmed when we stated we’d come to ask her questions about the Warringtons. She scowled and went to close the door.
Harry stopped it. “We’re investigating the murder of Mrs. Warrington and your name was given to us by Scotland Yard.”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t kill her!”
“Then answer our questions honestly so we can eliminate you as a suspect.”
“I’ve already answered the questions of a Scotland Yard detective. I don’t have to answer yours too.”
“That was in relation to the letters,” I said. “The murder changes things.”
“Not for me, it doesn’t. I didn’t do it.” She glared pointedly at Harry but he didn’t let go of the door. “Why would I kill Mrs. Warrington?”
“It appears to be a case of mistaken identity and he was the intended target, not her,” Harry said. “Where were you last night between the hours of ten and midnight?”
“Here.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“My husband, a Scotland Yard sergeant.” She crossed her arms and her glare turned smug.
“Anyone else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No. In my experience, husbands and wives lie for one another. Even ones who work for Scotland Yard.” He gave her a smug look of his own.
Her confidence melted away, slackening her features and rigid stance.
“We know you stopped writing those letters to Mr. Warrington,” Harry pressed. “Did you change tactic? Did you go to his house in order to prevent him blocking the bill?”
“No!” She clutched her throat—on the right side, no less. “I’ve only ever been to the Warringtons’ house once, last week. Not last night. Look, I feel sorry for the wife. If she was murdered instead of him, then that’s a tragedy. But it wasn’t me that did it.”
Harry thanked her, but I wasn’t finished. “On the night
you went to their house, did you notice anything?” I asked.
“Such as?”
“Anything odd, out of place? Did you overhear any conversations or see anyone come or go?”
“I saw a woman and a man sneaking off together. I say sneak because they closed the front door softly, tiptoed down the steps, and hurried off along the street. Also, the woman was dressed in men’s clothes and a cap. But it didn’t convince me. Women walk like women, if you know what I mean. Changing their clothes doesn’t change their walk.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Taller than me, neither fat nor slim. I didn’t really see his face.”
We thanked her and Harry let the door go. She didn’t shut it immediately.
“Is that why Mrs. Warrington was killed instead of her husband?” she asked. “Because she wore men’s clothes and the killer thought she was him?”
She was certainly clever. “Good day, Mrs. Parker,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
Harry and I walked side by side in silence until we were several houses away.
“The man she described sneaking off with Mrs. Warrington must have been her lover,” Harry said. “It’s not Warrington. He’s not tall.”
“I think I know who it is.”
He stopped to stare at me. “How can you possibly know from Mrs. Parker’s vague description? It could be anyone.”
“It wasn’t all that vague. Not when you consider that Mrs. Warrington left the house with the fellow. She didn’t meet him outside, as she would a stranger to the household. Based on that description, it can only be one man.”
“The butler.”
I nodded. “No other man except her husband would be leaving the house alongside her. Mr. Henderson was also distraught over her death and was protective of her from the start. He didn’t like helping me when I was tasked with finding out the identity of her lover.”
“How distraught was he? More than a loyal butler should be?”
“I’ve never had a butler, loyal or otherwise, but not even Miss Jennet the lady’s maid was that upset over the death of her mistress. Based on what Mrs. Parker just told us, I think Mr. Henderson and Mrs. Warrington were lovers.”
“And he accidentally killed her, thinking she was her husband.”
“Precisely.”
Harry walked off. “We need to speak to him.”
I fell into step alongside him, having to quicken my pace to keep up with his long strides. “I’ve tried. He won’t talk to me and I doubt he’ll talk to you, either. Besides, what will we ask? Did you kill your lover thinking she was her husband?”
He eyed me sideways and his pace slowed. “Do you have a better idea?”
“We need to find the photographs or the negatives to prove he was her lover. He can’t ignore definitive proof.”
“Particularly if we threaten to take the photographs to the police,” Harry said with a sly smile.
“The problem is, it’s very likely that Mrs. Warrington collected them from the studio yesterday morning, but if there’s a chance she only picked up the photographs, and the negatives are still there, we have to try to retrieve them.”
“You’re suggesting we break in tonight?”
“No! I’m suggesting we go to the studio and one of us distracts the photographer and his assistant. The other will then search the premises for the negatives.”
He scoffed. “And what sort of distraction will get them both out of the studio long enough for a search to be conducted? I do hope you’re not planning to set the premises on fire.”
“Very amusing. Of course not. Not with you inside, anyway. I’ll think of something by the time we get there.”
Harry pulled out his watch from his jacket pocket. “Not today. It’s getting late. Shall we meet at the studio first thing in the morning? Say nine o’clock?”
“Tomorrow morning suits me. That’ll give me time to think.”
We parted ways, he heading to the railway station to catch a train to his parents’ house for dinner. I returned to the hotel, planning to search for Harmony, but changed my mind when I saw Mr. Trickelbank emerging from the smoking room.
I intercepted him without a clue as to how I was going to get him to confide in me. Our gazes connected and I smiled at him. To my surprise, he did not change course. He smiled back. Perhaps his sister’s death had changed his attitude. After all, he’d admitted to Mr. Hobart that he had a sister where before he’d denied it. Perhaps he would admit even more to me.
I would be as honest as possible and use Mr. Hobart’s tactic of honey rather than a blunt instrument. “Mr. Trickelbank, what a pleasure it is to see you again. I hoped I would bump into you. I do so wish to pass on my condolences on the death of your sister.”
“Thank you, Miss Fox.” He swallowed hard. “I, uh, should apologize. Last night at dinner you asked if I had family here and I claimed I did not. As you seem to have discovered, I have—had—a sister. Half-sister, to be precise. I can only explain my little lie by admitting that I felt some shame in my own circumstance. Since you know Isobel was my sister, you probably know how we are connected and that my father was not married to my mother.”
I put up my hands. “Speak no more about it. I completely understand.” This was going rather well. My hopes rose. “Mr. Trickelbank, may I ask you a few questions about her? You see, I am something of a private detective.” Harmony’s voice popped into my head, telling me to be more confident. “I mean, I am a private detective, and have been tasked with finding out who killed Mrs. Warrington.”
He rocked back as if he’d been pushed. “The police have arrested someone, I believe. Do you mean to say he didn’t do it?”
“The police think he did, but others believe not.”
“Who?”
“That information is confidential.”
He frowned. “I see. And you think I can help with your investigation?”
“You might be in possession of important information without knowing it.” I glanced back towards the foyer where a small group of guests mingled, chatting and laughing. We were at the far end, almost near the entrance to the senior staff corridor. The smoking room and billiard room were positioned side by side, out of the way so that gentlemen could enjoy their cigars and billiards in peace. “We need to find somewhere more private to talk.”
“The smoking room is empty. I just came from there.” He led the way and I did not hesitate to follow.
I was no stranger to the smoking room, having followed a suspect into it once. Although the presence of women in the gentlemen’s domain was frowned upon, we weren’t forbidden from entering. Well, I was forbidden, by my uncle. He was worried my presence there would signal that I was of loose moral character and, according to him, the reputation of the Bainbridge women was paramount. Since I had no wish to take up smoking, nor to rock the boat that he captained, I hadn’t argued the point. I didn’t plan on arguing the point now, but that was because I didn’t plan to be discovered. I checked the vicinity carefully before entering.
The small room reeked of smoke. It was so strong, I expected it would never come out, no matter how often the walls, floor and furniture were scrubbed. Mr. Trickelbank sat in one of the deep leather armchairs by the fireplace and I sat in the other. He removed a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket and offered me one. I refused, and he put the case away.
“What is it you want to know?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you a question that may make you feel uncomfortable. You see, I suspect that Mrs. Warrington had a lover.”
He arched his brows and a somewhat sly smile stretched his lips. “I see.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“I’m afraid not. I hardly knew Isobel. We didn’t grow up as brother and sister. I knew of her existence, of course, and she of mine, but we never met until our father’s funeral. Things were tense from the beginning between us. We exchanged letters, sometimes, but that was all. It was some ti
me ago.”
“Perhaps she hinted at her life here in London in her letters. Can you think of anything? Did she mention the members of her household in passing, perhaps?” Surely he would notice if she talked about the butler in glowing terms.
He shook his head. “Nothing like that, but I do know theirs was not a happy union so that supports your theory of a lover. It wouldn’t surprise me if they both had one.”
“How do you know the state of their marriage if you were barely on speaking terms?”
“In the months after our father died, she tried to befriend me and so her letters were more honest, more open. I suppose she thought I’d be more likely to treat her as a sibling if we shared private matters, as normal siblings do.” He scoffed. “In one of those letters, she alluded to the marriage being loveless and it would never bear any fruit, by which I assume she meant heirs. She wrote that I shouldn’t feel sorry for her because she didn’t want any, and nor did he.”
“Heirs.” What an odd word to use. Most people would say children.
It suddenly clicked into place. The reason that brother and sister were estranged, the tension at the funeral, and the mention of heirs. Aunt Lilian’s friends had informed me that Mrs. Warrington was wealthy, having inherited her father’s fortune. Being the illegitimate child, Mr. Trickelbank had either inherited only part of it or none at all. It was entirely dependent on what his father left him in his will. If he’d left him nothing, or died intestate, Mr. Trickelbank might be aggrieved indeed to have been overlooked.
And with their father gone, he might take that anger out on the sister who inherited more than her fair share.
“Why are you here in London, Mr. Trickelbank?”
He looked taken aback by the question. “I have business to attend to.”
“Not to see your sister?”
“No. I haven’t seen her in years.”
I blinked innocently back at him. “Oh? But I heard you saw her on the afternoon of her death.”
“That’s a lie!”
Considering Miss Jennet had no reason to lie, I doubted it. I didn’t question him further about their meeting, however, and decided to press on. “Mr. Trickelbank, forgive me for being so crass, but did you inherit anything from your father?”