by L. A. Nisula
I left the post office and stood on the corner, trying to think as I scanned the street. How was I going to find the right Mr. Williamson? I looked at each shop in turn, hoping for inspiration. A tailor with no customers. A fruit shop with two women looking at the selection of apples. A chemist with a boy sneaking a read of a penny dreadful. A wine shop with three patrons inside. A tea shop with lace curtains.
A plan started forming in my mind. I went to the chemists and snuck a look at the book the boy was reading. The Adventures of Marvelous Mike and Spike. There was a newspaper boy on the cover, deflecting bullets with a trash-can lid while his dog bit the ankles of someone in a mask.
As I entered the store, the shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and the boy quickly put the book back and wandered to the candy display. Perfect.
I went to the medicine aisle. Now what had Mr. Williamson suffered from? The banker hadn’t been very clear. I took a variety of things: headache powder, throat lozenges, stomach remedy, an ice pack, and a hot water bottle.
When I went to the till, the shopkeeper kept staring up at me as he placed each item in a brown paper sack. I took one of the advertisement cards from the holder on the counter. “I hope Aunt Alice likes these. Your shop is so much more convenient than the one she prefers.”
“We do our best.” But he stopped looking at me like I had the plague.
“May I borrow a pen? I want to remind myself of the Underground stop.”
“Of course.” He handed me the pen from his receipt book and slid the inkwell over.
I held the card so he couldn’t see it and scribbled “Avery Williamson” and the address of the bank. I handed back the pen and paid for my things.
The boy was still by the rack of books when I got to the door. He heard me approach and stuck the book back in place.
I leaned against the rack and tried talking without moving my lips. “How would you like to earn some money? It won’t take long.”
He looked me over. “How much?”
“Enough to buy three or four of those.”
“I’m listening.”
“I just need you to take this parcel over to the bank there and tell them it’s for Mr. Williamson.” I nodded in the direction of the bank. “They’ll say he’s gone home. You have them write down his address, then bring it to me at the tea shop there.” I inclined my head towards the tea shop.
“Why would you...” His eyes got very large. “You’re a lady ‘tec like Glamorous Gladys. Course you are; you’re American.” He grabbed the parcel and saluted. “I’ll be right back with the intelligence, ma’am.”
“I’ll take a table by the window.”
I watched the boy run across the street, then went into the tea shop and ordered a cup of Earl Grey and a penny bun. I counted out my money and the tip and put it on the table so I could leave as soon as the boy came back. Then I counted out the boy’s money and palmed it.
The boy was back before I’d even started on my bun. He put the parcel down on the chair next to me. “Mission accomplished.”
“Excellent.” I shook his hand and transferred the money from my palm into his. I saw his face light up when he realized what I was doing. He tried to drop his hand to his pocket casually.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I picked up the parcel and the card with the address. “I’ll be on my way,”
“Are you going to eat that sweet?”
“No time. You can have it if you like. Consider it a bonus for fast work.”
He grabbed the bun and followed me out of the shop.
Outside, the boy ran across the street to the chemists. I glanced at the address then started for the Underground.
~ * ~ * ~
Mr. Williamson lived in a neat row of apartment buildings in an area that seemed to be filled with other professionals and their families. The buildings all looked the same, and it took me a few minutes to find the right one. Once I spotted it, it was obvious, and I considered turning around.
“Miss Pengear?”
So he’d spotted me. No point in trying to hide. “Hello, Inspector Hamilton.”
“I’m tempted to ask you what you’re doing here just to see what you’ll say, but I don’t have time for that right now.”
I smiled a little. “Nice to see you too.”
“You can stay if you’re quiet. Before you thank me, I’m agreeing so you don’t interfere and damage my case. Or contaminate any of my suspects.”
I nodded since he’d told me to be quiet. Constable Fulton looked like he wanted to laugh, but he kept staring straight ahead.
Inspector Hamilton pulled the latchkey out of the tube. I realized I had come just a few minutes too late. Inspector Hamilton must have just sent up his card. If I’d been just a little faster, I could have slipped upstairs without him.
As it was, I followed Inspector Hamilton and Constable Fulton to the entryway, which was freshly papered and had a shabby carpet.
“Stairs or lift?”
I didn’t realize Inspector Hamilton was talking to me until he turned and looked directly at me. So he hadn’t been serious about me being quiet. “Stairs are fine.” I didn’t want to be stuck in a small rickety box with two irritated policemen.
“He’s on the third floor, then.”
Constable Fulton led the way. I followed. When we got to the third floor, the door to the flat was open, but no one was there. Inspector Hamilton pushed in front of me and entered the room first. “Mr. Williamson?” He knocked on the open door. “Mr. Williamson?”
I could feel Constable Fulton’s hand go to his baton as he edged towards the open door. I stayed behind them, out of the way if there was trouble, but still able to see into the flat.
The door opened into a small sitting room with a fireplace and a sitting area. There were two doors leading into what I assumed was a kitchen and a bedroom. There was no one in the room.
Inspector Hamilton moved forward slowly, looking for any hiding places or blind spots. Constable Fulton followed close behind. He glanced back at me, but I was still in the hall, with the wall between me and anyone who might be lurking in the flat. I might be nosy, but I wasn’t a fool.
Then there was the sound of metal hitting metal and a crash from the direction of the closed door on the left. Inspector Hamilton moved towards it, followed by Constable Fulton, who had pulled out his baton and was holding it up, ready for whatever was there.
There was another clatter from the room.
“Mr. Williamson?”
There was a dragging sound, then the door opened, giving us a glimpse of a tiny kitchenette. The man who came out was a bit portly, with thinning brown hair. He was wearing a ratty bathrobe and carrying a mug of something steaming. He shuffled into the room and the door slammed shut behind him.
“You’re the police inspector?” He sneezed and almost spilled his mug.
“Inspector Hamilton. You’re Mr. Williamson?”
“S’right.” He shuffled to an armchair by the fire and sat down.
Inspector Hamilton glanced back at me and made a small motion into the room before sitting across from Mr. Williamson. I came in and sat down behind Inspector Hamilton. Constable Fulton stayed by the door.
Mr. Williamson held up his mug. “I’d offer you some, but it tastes vile. Family recipe. Supposed to cure what ails you. Tastes so bad it’d better.” He took another swallow. “Something wrong at the bank?”
“Should there be?”
Mr. Williamson looked up. “Why else would you be here?”
There was another crash from the kitchen. Mr. Williamson opened his mouth then saw me sitting there and closed it.
“Do you need to check something?” Inspector Hamilton asked.
“No, it’s just such a small kitchen. Doesn’t usually matter since I don’t eat in, but had to today.”
“Constable, go check.”
Constable Fulton went into the kitchen. He was back before Inspector Hamilton could start quest
ioning. “Stack of pots fell over, sir. I picked them up.”
Inspector Hamilton nodded then turned back to Mr. Williamson. “I’m here to talk to you about Mr. Ainsworth.”
“Poor fellow’s worse off than me, I suppose.”
“You visited him the week he died.”
“Was it that close? I know I was there around then.”
“What was the nature of the visit?”
“I wanted to discuss some accounts with him. It was a delicate matter, so I called at his house.” Mr. Williamson paused, then sneezed almost like he’d realized he hadn’t in a while.
“And what was it about these accounts that you wanted to discuss?”
“Upgrading them. He was regular depositor, so I was hoping he’d upgrade and get me a nice commission. He said he had something going on right then, but he would meet with me after Wednesday and we could discuss it more fully.”
“I thought Mr. Carrollton had his accounts at the bank.”
Mr. Williamson took another sip from his mug. “That’s right. I was getting Mr. Ainsworth’s help to get Mr. Carrollton to change. Good client. Deserves the best.”
Inspector Hamilton changed tactics. “Was there anything interesting in the accounts?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“So they were all in good standing? No overdrafts or missed payments?”
“No, nothing like that. That’s why I wanted him to change. The accounts, I mean.”
“Where did you meet with him?”
“In the study. Where else would we meet?”
“And Mrs. Delford? Where was she?”
“That’s the secretary? No idea.” He started coughing again.
“I will need to have a look at the accounts.”
“When you have the paperwork, just show it to the bank president, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you.”
Inspector Hamilton nodded. I wondered if he’d be able to get the paperwork since Mr. Carrollton wasn’t the victim. Maybe that was why he’d asked, to see if he could get the records without the proper paperwork.
Inspector Hamilton stood up. “All right. Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, I’ll leave my card.” Inspector Hamilton put a card down on the table, then motioned for me to precede him out of the flat.
Inspector Hamilton waited until we were on the street to say, “I wonder what the real reason for the visit was.”
I answered without thinking that he could have been asking Constable Fulton. “You mean because he gave the wrong name?”
Inspector Hamilton smiled a little. “He did seem confused who his client actually was.”
“I might have the answer,” Constable Fulton said. When he had our attention, he went on. “I saw what he put in that mug when I was in the kitchen. We’re lucky no one was smoking in there. Whole place would have gone up.”
“So you think he was confused after he had a bit too much medicine?”
“More like a distillery’s worth, and not confused, but having a hard time keeping his lies straight.”
Inspector Hamilton nodded. “The question is, which were the lies and why was he hiding something? Of course the problem is there’s no real connection between him and Mr. Ainsworth, at least not on the surface. I want you to look into that, Fulton. See if there might be something there that we’re not seeing.”
“Right, sir.”
“And I suppose I’ll go talk to Carrollton and see if there was any trouble with the bank that Williamson isn’t telling us about. Maybe he did want Ainsworth to intervene on his behalf.”
“Pity about the butler.”
“Mmm,” Inspector Hamilton agreed.
“The butler?” I asked. “You mean Ross?”
Inspector Hamilton looked up from his notes. “No, we mean Belmont. If there was a problem, it’s completely possible Carrollton won’t want to talk about it, but a butler might be more willing. Or a footman. They would both be in a better position to know what was going on than a cook.”
“Since they would greet the guests and serve the drinks while she was stuck in the kitchen. I see.” Something about that seemed significant, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“Is something troubling you, Miss Pengear?”
I looked at Inspector Hamilton. He seemed genuinely interested in what I was thinking. “Did it strike you as strange that both the footman and the butler fell ill at the same time, and just before a murder?”
Inspector Hamilton smiled. “So that occurred to you too, hmm? We’re checking everything in the house for poison.”
“That explains the mess in Mrs. Pomeroy’s kitchen then. I thought it was excessive.”
“It was completely in keeping with what we needed.”
“I suppose it should narrow down your list of suspects.”
“Meaning it will have to be someone who had access to both poisoned items. Yes, I thought of that. Of course, that points right back at Mrs. Pomeroy. Anything else you’ve thought of?”
“Nothing I want to share.” I hoped he wouldn’t realize I didn’t have any ideas at all.
“Well, if you think of anything, even anything you don’t want to tell me, tell me. Murder is not a lark.”
“I know. So does Mrs. Pomeroy. Good luck with the poison. So what will you do now?”
Inspector Hamilton smiled. “Trying to see where I’ll be so you can investigate behind my back?”
That was a little too close to the truth. “I was just worried that Mrs. Pomeroy would become a suspect again and I was wondering if I should pay a call on her.”
“This could be good for her. If she has a strong alibi for Warland’s death, then that makes it less likely she committed the first murder.”
“You don’t think she did it either, do you?”
He smiled. “I would not be unhappy to find strong evidence pointing to someone else. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to checking alibis. Would you like me to find you a cab?”
“That’s all right. Unless you’re going to Mr. Carrollton’s?”
“Planning to see Mrs. Pomeroy then? I’m afraid not. I’ll wait until I have a bit more information on the accounts before I tackle Mr. Carrollton. Would you find a cab, Constable?”
I could feel Inspector Hamilton watching me until I made it to the Underground station on the corner. Once I was inside, I debated where to go next. The poison seemed to be the most promising lead, and there was nothing I could do about that. And I knew there was no point to going to Mr. Lynvale’s shop. Inspector Hamilton was no doubt already on his way there, and I hadn’t even found the address yet. But I did have one other address. Miss Kurtfield.
Chapter 19
I TOOK THE UNDERGROUND to the stop nearest Miss Kurtfield’s address and went looking for a telephone box. I found one in the post office, which hadn’t closed yet, although I could feel the clerk glaring at my back as I checked the directory. I was in luck. Miss Kurtfield’s address was listed as Greenly Boarding House with the street address I had found, and when I looked up the Greenly Boarding House, there was a telephone number listed. That meant it would ring either in the hall or the landlady’s flat. Hopefully, it would be answered by someone who liked a good gossip.
The receiver was picked up on the fourth ring and an out-of-breath voice said, “Greenly Boarding House. Mrs. Greenly speaking. The ground-floor room has been let, but the second-floor one is still available.”
“Could I speak to Miss Kurtfield, please?”
“She isn’t in.”
Mrs. Pomeroy had said she hadn’t come to the dinner because she was ill. “When do you expect her back?”
“Not for a few days.”
My mind immediately went to all the places she could go with her embezzled funds. If I could get a look in her rooms...but Inspector Hamilton would be furious with me. “I have a ledger book she left when she was here last week. I don’t like to keep something that I’m sure is confidential just lying about. Could I b
ring it over and leave it in her flat?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in that. It would be safely locked up in there. Ring my flat when you come. Who should I be expecting?”
I considered giving an alias in case Inspector Hamilton went there, but I didn’t have any cards for one, and if Mrs. Greenly gave a description, he’d know at once it was me. I tried to avoid the question entirely. “I’ll be there in a few minutes then. Thank you.”
The postal clerk was standing at the door with his hand on the closed sign as I left, and I could hear the lock turn as soon as I was on the pavement outside.
I had to try three stationer’s shops before I found one that sold blank ledger books; then I spent another fifteen minutes sitting on a park bench scribbling nonsense into it in case Mrs. Greenly looked inside. So it was almost half an hour later that I was standing on the front steps of the Greenly Boarding House, pressing the bell with Mrs. Greenly’s name beside it. The door opened before the sound of the bell had faded, and I realized Mrs. Greenly had been waiting for me. I wanted to get on her good side as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. The Underground was crowded and—” I tried to come up with something else.
“I’m afraid the tea is cold, but please come in. Do you work with Miss Kurtfield?” She led me through to a sitting room used by all the tenants where she had laid out tea.
I hedged again, trying to tell the truth and give myself the best chance of finding information. “I’m not in book-keeping. I’m a typist.”
“I see. Well as I’m sure you noticed, we are very conveniently located near the main offices of Carrollton Steam and Co as well as the Underground stop and several shops. If you would like to see the other room on the second floor, I’d be happy to show it to you.”
So that was why she was being so helpful. “I’m happy where I am, but I might know someone who’s looking to change addresses. I’ll be sure to tell her about it.” I wracked my brain for a name I could give if she asked, but Mrs. Greenly handed me my tea and said:
