by Emily Queen
Rosemary swatted her brother on the arm and then linked hers with his as they trekked up the high street towards the London Herald office. “I was nothing but sunshine and roses, and you know it. I believe I more than lived up to my name.”
Frederick harrumphed but didn’t argue. He was thrilled to see some of the life come back into his sister’s eyes and refused to say anything that might turn them back to the dull gray of recent months.
“Of course, Rosie, of course.” His words held enough brotherly sarcasm for Rose to know he wasn’t going to allow her complete freedom regardless of his worry over her mental state, and the thought made her feel a little better—a little more normal.
“We won’t have to lie about anything,” Rosemary said. “We’ll present ourselves as brother and sister, and I am Martin Redberry’s neighbor, after all. He just won’t realize we’re the ones pumping him for information until it’s too late.”
Mr. Grint had been quite keen to pin her down for an exclusive interview once she made the offer. In her experience, reporters were ruthless in their pursuit of a story, and she already knew he fit the description, simply based on his disregard for Martin’s reputation without any actual evidence of the dentist’s guilt.
Andrew had encouraged his wife to focus on facts, to view any puzzle shrewdly, to employ logical methods while searching for patterns. Because he was a man who also respected such things, he taught her to trust her intuition and never to discount her convictions as flights of fancy.
If, as Andrew said, she was to believe solid instincts were the mind’s way of letting one know they were on the right track, then hers simply screamed that Martin had committed no crime, at least, not purposefully. Still, Andrew also said bias was the death of an investigation, and that some people possessed the ability to deceive even the most astute observer.
Feeling pulled in both directions, the only way Rose could see to move forward was to obtain as much information as possible and look for the truth among the lies.
“We can’t rule out the possibility Nathan Grint might be a murderer,” Rosemary mused. “He was in the waiting room, which gives him opportunity. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how to work a nitrous oxide tank, so he could have the means as well. What we need to discover is whether or not he had a motive. I don’t expect him to come right out with it, of course, but we ought to be able to tell if he’s hiding something.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary,” Frederick promised.
The Herald office was smaller than she’d expected, and not terribly well-appointed. Desks were crammed together with barely enough space to walk between, every surface covered with papers and assorted office detritus, and the acrid smell of newspaper ink permeated the air. It didn’t appear that the budget allowed for a housekeeper, and if the state of Nathan Grint’s desk was any indication, he couldn’t be bothered to undertake the task himself.
“Hello, hello, have a seat.” Grint remained seated, which spoke to a lack of manners and nodded towards Rosemary. “So, you’re the unlucky neighbor of a murderer.” The fox-faced reporter cemented a poor first impression with a comment that put Rosemary’s back up.
With a considerable effort, she bit back a sharp retort, including the phrase alleged murderer. Remembering her role in today’s little game, she called on all her reserves of patience to arrange her features into a concerned expression.
“I suppose so, although one never expects such things to happen, don’t you agree? Dr. Redberry seems like such a mild-mannered man.” She allowed her eyes to widen just as she’d done when she and Vera had been trying to squeeze information out of Polly and hoped she’d mastered the art of presenting herself as an impressionable woman. This acting thing was proving not only useful but also somewhat enjoyable.
In one short moment, Nathan Grint proved he had nary a shred of respect for women. “So difficult for a bright young thing such as yourself to look past a handsome face,” he said, setting Rosemary’s blood to boil. “To see the monster under the skin.”
He might have thought she had no more brains than a potted plant, but he appeared to appreciate her womanly assets if the direction of his gaze was any indication. Rosemary’s cheeks burned pink, and Frederick looked like he might leap over the desk and leave another body to be cleaned up. Rose admired his restraint, when he sucked in a breath, clenched his fists, but remained seated.
“What can you tell me about Dr. Redberry? I see here that your flat shares a wall with his.” Mr. Grint looked down at the notes from his telephone conversation with Rosemary.
“Tell me, how many times did you see poor Mr. Segal about the premises? Prior to his murder, I mean. Was he a frequent visitor? I understand you live alone, so you must have paid great attention to the comings and goings of your neighbors.”
Swallowing a snort as she imagined herself as he saw her—mousing around with nothing better to do than twitch back the curtains and watch others live their lives—Rose said nothing to dissuade him.
“Not that I recall.”
“You must have heard some sort of commotion on the day. Raised voices, the sound of the victim’s heels drumming on the table as the killer forced the mask over his face.” Eyes alight with curiosity, Grint leaned forward as if to slurp up every salacious detail.
“What a vivid imagination you do have, Mr. Grint. It must stand you in good stead, given your profession.”
Grint missed the mild insult, preened at what he considered high praise, and still staring at the area several inches below her chin, pressed Rosemary to recount everything she might have heard through the walls.
Rosemary considered the snippets of arguments she’d heard through the walls lately but had no intention of giving Nathan Grint any information about Martin’s personal life. “Mrs. Redberry has a lovely singing voice which she employs from time to time, but I suppose that’s not the type of detail you want to hear.”
Since he wasn’t getting anywhere with Rosemary, Grint tried a different approach.
“You attended a play with the Redberrys the night before the murder, did you not?” Grint turned his attention to Frederick. “I’d be interested to hear your impressions of the man. How did he act? Did you get an inkling of the madness under the surface?”
A wry smile twisted Freddie’s lips. “I barely noticed the man if you must know. When one consumes copious amounts of gin and spends a night on the town with the likes of Vera Blackburn, all else fades into the background. He could have killed a man right in front of me, and I hardly think I’d have noticed.”
“Most unhelpful. Now, if that’s all, I must ask you to see yourselves out. I’m a busy man, you know. Utter waste of my time.”
They had not offered the type of in-depth character analysis Grint was after, and he made no bones about his displeasure.
Remaining seated, Rosemary decided there would never be a better opening, and it was time to drop the act. She let the smile slide off her face, snapped her fingers to focus his attention on her face, and pinned the reporter with a narrow-eyed glare.
“What I’d like to know is why your story didn’t mention any plausible motive Dr. Redberry might have for committing murder. Was that a mere oversight, or have you no regard for the truth?”
He blinked twice and shifted his gaze to Frederick, who offered no reprieve. “How should I know?” Mr. Grint stuttered. “My job is to report the facts, not conjecture.”
“That’s a laugh, considering you’ve printed nothing but conjecture. You appear to know little about the victim, and even less about why my neighbor would want to see him dead. Unless you’re trying to direct suspicion away from yourself. You were,” Rosemary reminded, “on the spot, were you not?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been cleared of all suspicion.”
“As was Martin, yet you continue to smear his good name. As you pointed out, the police are satisfied the death was accidental. It begs the question of why you remain so
focused on painting Martin a murderer.”
Rose stood to look down on him in a challenge. “It seems to me, either you are the guilty party, or you have a personal vendetta against Martin. Would you care to elaborate?”
Nathan Grint shot out of his seat and took his full height along with the wind from Rosemary’s sails. With the top of his head level with her bodice, there was no way the diminutive reporter could have reached the tool for turning on the nitrous tank.
Grint read the dismay on her face and grinned. “She’s a saucy one, isn’t she?” This he directed at Frederick, who bared his teeth.
“Why yes, she is.”
“I like a woman with grit.” Mr. Grint appraised Rose as if seeing her for the first time, or in a different light than he had before. “Of course, it might get her into trouble someday.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Rosemary realized with a start that she wasn’t going to get any useful information out of Nathan Grint because all he had to offer was speculation and innuendo. She wasn’t about to give him anything he could use, either. Crooked cops and a cover-up would sell more papers than a murderous dentist. If only he’d taken the time to do a little actual investigating, he might have uncovered more scandal than he bargained for.
“I think we’re done here,” she said and stood. “As far as my official statement, this is all you’re getting: Martin Redberry is a kind man, greatly loved by his wife, and heartbroken by the accidental death of a patient under his care.”
Mr. Grint managed to maintain a neutral expression, but it took a visible effort to do so. “Heartbroken men don’t make for scintillating news.”
At that, Rosemary turned on her heel and marched back the way she’d come. Frederick followed, but not before glaring at the reporter with a warning in his eyes.
“If I thought you meant that crack about her getting into trouble as a threat, you would be looking up at me from the flat of your back by now. I trust that you’ll take pains to stay out of my way in the future. And hers as well.”
Grint paled and gave enough of a nod to satisfy Freddie, who took his time catching up to his sister near the exit.
“That was unnecessary, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Rising on her toes, Rose kissed Freddie on the cheek. “Now, I need you to wait right here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
As she turned to retrace her steps, Freddie opened his mouth to protest, but let the words die on his lips. Rose could take care of herself, and well he knew it.
Under the pretense of having forgotten her purse, Rosemary made her way back through the maze of desks to retrieve it. She made sure to bend in a direction that, though it made her stomach roil, allowed Mr. Grint to ogle her backside.
He couldn’t seem to help himself, licked his lips, and made the offer she was hoping he would. “A married woman gets used to having a man in her bed. If yours seems too cold with you in it alone, you have my number. I’ll be sure to show you a good time.”
Since he’d played right into her hands, Rose looked him straight in the eye and spun on her heel so he couldn’t see the smile that spread across her face. The time would come when he would pay for what he’d done to Dr. Redberry, whether it turned out his accusations were correct or not.
On the other side of the partition, she grabbed Frederick’s arm before he could follow through on the fury that seethed in him. “Come along, Freddie,” she whispered. “Please.”
Reluctantly, and only because the look on her face was amused instead of dismayed, Freddie acquiesced, though Rose kept a tight hold on his arm, and could feel the muscles vibrating with the need to act.
Outside, where the reporter couldn’t hear, Rose let go and rounded on her brother. “Well, that part of the plan worked perfectly, though I did make it up on the spur of the moment.”
All fired up with no outlet, Freddie frowned at his sister. “Enlighten me.”
“I knew you would follow me, and I knew a wind sucker like that wouldn’t be able to resist making an advance. Are you still chummy with Finley Hollingsworth?”
Too annoyed to think straight, Freddie took a moment to catch up. “I am, but what’s Fin got to do with anything?”
“His father owns the paper, doesn’t he?”
Nathan Grint was perfectly capable of spreading lies and deceit. However, if he had the brains to commit this murder, which Rose didn’t believe, he didn’t have the stature for it. She said as much to Frederick on their way back to the car.
“He’s not our guy.”
Frederick agreed with the statement, but the stormy expression didn’t leave his face. “He may not be a murderer, but he might not survive if I ever have to watch him ogle you the way I just did. I have half a mind to round up Des and skulk around the back alley come quitting time.” He spouted a few more obscenities aimed at the reporter’s character, to which Rosemary couldn’t help but heartily agree.
Halfway home Freddie said, “It’s looking more and more like Martin? If it wasn’t an accident, that is?”
Rosemary considered the question. “It’s possible, certainly, but we won’t know unless we clear him without a shadow of a doubt. I have a feeling Nathan Grint is going to keep pushing, and Martin still needs our help.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rosemary waited for Wadsworth to answer the chiming of the doorbell and watched as he led Abigail and Martin through the parlor door. She stood and greeted her guests, inviting them both to take a seat. “I have good news,” she said when everyone was settled around the coffee table.
“I spoke to Max, and the case is officially closed. Martin is off the hook, and there won’t be any further investigation.”
“That’s wonderful!” Abigail cried, her face breaking into a mile-wide smile. “Things can go back to normal, and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.” She seemed quite satisfied until she noticed the furrowed brow of her husband.
“What does that mean,” Martin asked slowly, “that there won’t be any further investigation?”
“It means there is insufficient evidence for them to bring a charge of murder,” Rosemary explained, “and it will go down as death by misadventure.” She had expected for Martin to be relieved, but he didn’t appear to be.
“What you’re trying so hard not to say is that the police still believe I’m a killer.”
Unable to deny the truth, Rose said, “I don’t believe you’re a killer if that helps at all. None of us do.”
The admission fell on deaf ears as Martin railed against his fate.
“What about my reputation? My business? My livelihood? Regardless of whether the police file charges, I’ve had a significant loss of business, and without a clear statement of innocence, the papers will continue branding me a killer. It will take months, if not years, for the stench of this accusation to dissipate. We’ll be bankrupt in a few weeks.” Martin put his head in his hands. “Is there no way to prove, beyond all doubt, I am not a killer?”
Rosemary had wanted to gauge his reaction to the news before informing him that she wasn’t prepared to let the case go. It seemed prudent to keep some of her cards close to her chest for the time being, until she was undoubtedly sure he was innocent. One could never be too careful.
Abigail gave her husband an odd look. “I thought we had money in savings, Martin.” There was an edge to her voice that suggested the money might have been hers. An inheritance or an allowance, perhaps. It wasn’t any of Rosemary’s business, so she kept her mouth firmly closed but observed the pair with even more scrutiny than before.
“It’s all gone. I’m sorry. I’ve made some mistakes. We should speak in private.” He eyed the group as if he’d forgotten they were there and flushed.
“We can talk about it right now. What have you done?” Abigail crossed her arms and planted herself as if she’d grown roots.
“I’d really rather discuss this without an audience if you don’t mind,” Martin said, but there was little fight in his tone.
&n
bsp; Abigail held up her hands and shrugged. “I’d really rather you didn’t have anything to tell, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?” she demanded. “We need to lay all our cards on the table, Martin. Otherwise, you’ll be losing more than just the business and the house. You’ll lose me as well. I trust that’s not the outcome you desire, so it’s most decidedly time to talk.”
Martin sighed and hung his head. “I was in debt to Claude Segal in the amount of several thousand pounds. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. However, when I realized he was dead, I admit I was relieved, hoping it meant I was off the hook. It turns out the man has pull even from beyond the grave. Or, at least, he has people who intend to carry on his business—which means they also inherited his accounts receivable. I had no choice but to take out a loan against my practice, which includes the building. So, you see, without patients, we’ll lose not only our livelihood but our home as well. I’m sorry, Abigail.”
For Rosemary, the revelation answered several questions; but she imagined that, for Abigail, it meant something entirely different. Something having to do with betrayal, anger, and fear.
“Did you think for one second that I didn’t know about this already? I’m not quite as oblivious as you believe me to be, and Polly isn’t as discreet.” It wasn’t just Martin who gaped at Abigail’s reaction; the entire room stared at her as if she’d grown a second and third head. If Frederick’s eyes got any bigger, they’d pop right out of his face.
“You might as well come clean,” Abigail continued railing at her husband, “and let Rosemary decide if she still wants to help us set this to rights after learning the truth. I tried to protect you, but now we have no choice. If she won’t, perhaps she can refer us to someone who can put pressure on the paper to print a retraction.”
Rosemary could hardly believe her ears. She’d never have guessed Abigail had any idea about Martin’s gambling, nor that she’d stand up to her husband as forcefully as she was doing now. What she didn’t want was to allow her admiration for the woman to cloud her judgment. If Abigail, possessed with the level of fortitude she was currently displaying, had kept Martin’s secrets under wraps this long, what else might she be capable of doing to protect him?