Without another word, his visitor slipped out of the room and into the night. In two strides Henry crossed to the window and closed the heavy drapes. He stood for a moment, staring blankly into space before pouring himself a stiff drink, which he downed in one gulp. Lighting another cigarette, he sank into the armchair by the fire and gazed at the licking orange flames with an expression of utter defeat and horror, as if he were staring into the fires of hell itself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next morning, Ian called upon Catherine Harley, niece of Eugene Harley, Esq., the late Stephen Wycherly’s employer. After calling in on her uncle first, Ian learned that Tuesday was her day off. The old man had delicately hinted that she might be sufficiently recovered from her shock at young Stephen’s death to answer questions. Ian showed up at her doorstep at precisely half past nine.
He was bustled into an elegant foyer full of hunting prints by a personage of considerable girth who appeared to function as lady’s maid, nanny, cook, and heaven knew what else. She wiped her hands on the tea towel at her waist before shoving a stray hairpin into her unruly red hair, all the while muttering to herself. The whole performance seemed geared toward giving the impression that he was an unwelcome complication to an already busy day.
“Wait here, Mr.—”
“Detective Inspector Hamilton.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Detective Inspector, is it, then?” Her accent sang of the rolling hills of County Cork.
“I am here on the matter of Stephen Wycherly’s death.”
She rolled her prominent eyes and shook her head tragically, causing the recently fastened hairpin to free itself from her forest of ginger curls and clatter to the floor. “That was a sad affair, so it was,” she said, bending to pick it up. “Miss Catherine was quite prostrate with grief. Such a lovely young man, so well-spoken and polite he was.”
Her monologue was interrupted by the appearance of a waifish young woman upon the central staircase just off the foyer.
“Bernadette? Who’s there?” she called in a thin voice.
“It’s a detective, miss,” she replied, unable to hide the thrill in her voice.
“Show him into the parlor. I will be down presently,” she said, withdrawing into a second-floor bedroom.
The redoubtable Bernadette did as requested, pressing tea and cream cakes upon Ian, watching his reaction as he bit into one.
“It’s me grandma’s secret recipe,” she declared. “Made with real vanilla.”
“It’s very good,” Ian said, and so it was. It wasn’t hard to see how Bernadette had attained her impressive size, if the tea cakes were any indication of her kitchen skills. They were creamy and light, with just a touch of lemon. Ian was contemplating eating a second one as a handsome pair of Siamese cats sauntered into the room. Eyeing him with their cool blue gaze, they leapt gracefully onto the settee, one at each end. Closing their eyes, they appeared to be napping, as cats do, without entirely relaxing into sleep. He supposed they were Eugene Harley’s partners in law, Wickham and Clyde, though they were so much alike, he wondered how anyone could tell which was Wickham and which was Clyde.
The mistress of the house joined him after about ten minutes, floating down the stairs in a flowing white dress. She resembled an apparition in an old-fashioned wedding gown. Catherine Harley was a tremulous young woman, thin and pale, with a vague, distracted manner. Her voice was hollow, as though someone had scooped out its center, her light blue eyes rimmed with lashes pale as wheat. She wore her white-blond hair in an upswept chignon; the only touch of color on her person was a pair of ruby earrings. A simple gold locket dangled from her neck, and a silver signet ring adorned her right hand. Ian couldn’t help thinking that she would have been an attractive girl if she had more vitality. But her hesitant manner and slow, dreamy movements made her seem older than she was.
She refused Bernadette’s offer of cakes, though she did consent to sip languidly at a cup of tea. She gave the impression of one who needed neither food nor drink, as a spirit who walks the earth would have use for neither.
“So,” she said, resting a teacup upon her thin knee, “you’re the detective they’ve sent to investigate Stephen’s death. It says in the papers he was murdered. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders as if trying to dislodge the idea. “But who would want to kill Stephen?”
“I was rather hoping you might help me answer that question.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she said, casting her eyes upon a handsomely framed photograph upon the mantel. “That’s Stephen and me in happier times.” She sighed.
Ian rose and went to the fireplace to inspect the picture. Dressed in plaid knickers, Stephen Wycherly stood leaning on a golf club, a smiling Catherine Harley by his side. Even in the badly focused photograph, her face held a vitality it lacked in the flesh.
“That was on holiday in Perth two years ago. My uncle went to play the course at St. Andrews, and took Stephen and me along.”
Ian tried to imagine the crooked Mr. Harley swinging a golf club, but the thought made his own spine ache. “Your uncle said you were quite fond of Mr. Wycherly.”
“And I like to think he was fond of me.”
Ian cleared his throat. “Were you—”
“Lovers?” she said, surprising him with her frankness.
“Well, I—”
“That is what you were going to ask, isn’t it?” she said, a sad smile playing at her lips. “Whether we were lovers, sweethearts, courting—whatever you wish to call it.”
“Yes.”
She folded the napkin on her lap into a tiny square. “We spent enough time together that had he wished to make an overture—one that a young lady of breeding might accept—well, he must have known I would have been receptive to such a proposal.”
“But he never did?”
She shook her head, dislodging a few wisps of blond hair from her chignon. “He was always a perfect gentleman, polite and affectionate—but not in that way.”
“And yet you say he was fond of you.”
“He gave every indication of it. He often sought my company and, upon occasion, my advice.”
“May I inquire as to what matters in particular he sought your advice upon?”
“If it will help you bring to justice the person or persons responsible for his death.”
“I cannot guarantee it, Miss Harley; I can only say that the most insignificant-seeming detail is often the key to solving a crime.”
She lifted the lid of the teapot and peered inside it. “More tea, Detective?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied, not because he wanted more but because, in his experience, the more time witnesses had to mull over a response, the more salient details they were likely to include.
Catherine Harley picked up a small silver bell from the tea table and rang it, summoning forth the stalwart Bernadette, who appeared so quickly, Ian wondered if she had been listening at the parlor door.
“More tea, please, Bernadette,” said Miss Harley.
“Right away, mum,” the lady replied, seizing the tea tray in her plump hands. “More tea cakes, sir?” she asked Ian.
“Yes, please,” he said. “They are quite excellent.”
Catherine gave another of her wan smiles when Bernadette had gone. “She’s a treasure—she has been in service with my uncle ever since I was a girl. Of course, she’s a terrible gossip, and adores eavesdropping, but she would do anything for us.”
Ian made a mental note to have a chat with Bernadette—servants were often better informed than masters about what went on in their households.
“You said Mr. Wycherly often asked your advice. Was there any conversation in particular—”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. The most recent one was a strange affair indeed. It involved a letter Stephen received.”
Her account was interrupted by the arrival of a beaming Bernadette, who laid t
he fresh plate of tea cakes upon the table with the flourish of an artist unveiling his latest masterpiece. She stood hovering over them until Ian picked up a cake, took a bite, and nodded his approval. Grinning broadly, Bernadette turned and trundled out of the room.
“You were saying?” Ian prompted.
“It was a letter he received,” Catherine replied, pouring a cup of tea from the steaming pot.
“Did you chance to read it?”
“No, but I was there on Wednesday when Stephen opened it,” she said, handing the cup to him. “He went quite pale. I saw the letter in his hand and surmised it was the cause of his disquiet.”
“Did you happen to notice whom it was from?”
“I never saw the envelope. He folded it along with the letter and tucked it into his vest pocket. A little later he asked me what I would do if someone were attempting to blackmail me. Naturally I thought of the letter, but he refused to give me specifics, even when I pressed him for more information.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I said that I would hope not to stoop to gratify a blackmailer, but that I supposed there were circumstances where I might have no choice.”
“And that seemed to satisfy him?”
“For the time being, I suppose, though he still appeared greatly troubled. And then he was dead.”
“Did your uncle know of this letter?”
“He was there when it arrived, but he had no idea of its contents, which Stephen expressly forbade me to mention to him. Oh, Detective Hamilton,” she said, twisting the silver ring upon her right hand, “do you think there’s a connection?”
“I believe it’s quite possible, Miss Harley.”
Several cups of tea and three tea cakes later, Ian had gleaned all the information he could from Eugene Harley’s niece. He resolved to return to the Harley residence to interview the ever-attentive Bernadette, but first he had someone else to see. After thanking Catherine Harley profusely, he stepped forth into a dull gray morning to pay another visit to Wycherly’s former landlady.
He could add another chapter to the story of the law clerk’s death, but there were pieces missing. Stephen Wycherly was being blackmailed by someone—but by whom, and why? At some point, the plot lines of his death and Bobby Tierney’s intersected, but Ian still couldn’t see the thread connecting them. He had glimpsed the beginning of Wycherly’s story, and he knew the sad end, but the middle remained a mystery.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When he rang the doorbell at 22 Leith Walk, Stephen Wycherly’s landlady recognized Ian immediately, giving him a broad smile. Mrs. Sutherland was the kind of woman who gave the impression of never having been truly young, and who would never be truly old. She seemed to exist in an eternal state of vigorous middle age. Her mouse-colored hair was streaked with tinted blond strands, her sturdy figure thick around the middle, solid as the trunk of an oak. The backs of her hands were spotted with freckles and old scars, but her lively hazel eyes and rosy cheeks gave her an air of vitality reinforced by her quick, youthful manner.
“Why, hello to you, Detective Hamilton,” she said, opening the door to admit him inside. Before closing it, she gave the dust mop she carried a quick shake into the street, releasing a billow of cat hair into the wintry air. She closed the door and ushered him down the hall and into the sitting room next to the kitchen. “Now then,” she said, tucking the mop into a closet, “what can I do for you?”
“I have a few more questions in the matter of Stephen Wycherly’s death, if you don’t mind,” Ian replied as an enormous black-and-white cat sauntered into the room and settled its bulk upon a low-lying hassock. He doubted the cat was capable of defying gravity enough to jump up onto the sofa.
“Scat, Bacchus—go away!” Mrs. Sutherland said, waving at the cat, which ignored her. Curling comfortably into a ball, Bacchus closed his eyes and purred loudly. The landlady sighed. “Whatever you want him to do, he does the opposite,” she said, settling herself on the sofa.
“I know some people like that.”
She laughed, revealing strong, even teeth. “Please, sit down,” she said, indicating an overstuffed armchair across from her.
He did, and almost immediately the softness of the cushions and the warmth of the room made him drowsy.
“Cup of tea?” she offered, perhaps seeing his drooping eyelids.
“Thank you, no,” he replied, yawning. “I’ve drunk quarts of it already.”
“Bad night?” she asked.
“I did sleep rather poorly.” The previous night had brought disquieting dreams; the investigation was taking its toll on him.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here; then you can go home and have a lovely nap,” she suggested in a soothing voice, absently petting the disobedient Bacchus, who responded by purring louder. Something about Mrs. Sutherland reminded Ian of his aunt Lillian, though his aunt was keener, her edges less rounded.
Ian stretched and rubbed his eyes. “I was wondering if Mr. Wycherly ever mentioned a letter he received shortly before his death.”
Mrs. Sutherland cocked her head to one side. “What sort of letter?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what was in it.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Does it relate to his death somehow?”
“It may have contained some reference to blackmail.”
“Goodness!” she said, straightening up in her chair.
“Did you notice any particular agitation in the days leading up to his death?”
“Not especially—though I saw little of him the last couple of days. He took most of his meals out and came home late.”
“Was that unusual?”
“If there was much work at the law office, he was likely to come home at all hours. I naturally assumed he was busy at work, until—” She broke off as two fat tears slid down her cheeks. “Forgive me,” she said, wiping them with her apron. “He was so young, so like my own Michael.”
“Your son?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes. He’s at university in London, studying to be a lawyer, bless him.”
“You must be very proud.”
“If only his father could be here to see it, God rest his soul.” She wiped away another tear and returned to petting Bacchus, who rolled over onto his broad back, nearly tipping off the hassock.
“So Mr. Wycherly never referred to a letter of any kind?”
“No. Did he receive it here?”
“It was sent to him at Mr. Harley’s chambers.”
“I see.” She studied her hands, which were broad and strong, the nails cracked and jagged. “The papers said he was strangled. Is that true?”
“You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers. Did any of his acquaintances strike you as odd?”
“Several of them were—different, you might say, but none looked violent.”
“Different in what way?”
She bit her lip. “Others may disagree, but I believe a young man has a right to his privacy.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Sutherland—anything you tell me will be kept quite confidential.”
“Mr. Wycherly’s friends were . . . Well, let’s just say that he never entertained young ladies.” She gave Ian a meaningful look. “If you take my meaning.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“There’s some who believe it’s wicked, but God made us all, and if there’s some he made a little different, I daresay he had a reason for it.”
“That’s very broad-minded of you, Mrs. Sutherland.”
“Perhaps,” she said, scratching Bacchus behind the ears. The cat closed its eyes and purred more loudly, a rumbling engine of contentment. “I was a schoolteacher in my youth, and I saw plenty of children who were—different. Never could bring myself to hate them, so I don’t see as how I should be hating them now.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how I could contact any of Mr. Wycherly’s acquaintances?”
“Not really. I wish I could
be of more help.”
“You’ve been considerably helpful already, Mrs. Sutherland,” he said, to which she blushed and looked away. “One more thing—do you still have any of Mr. Wycherly’s clothing?”
“Only what you saw when you went through his rooms last time you were here.”
“Have you disturbed anything in there?”
“I’ve been so busy with my other tenants, I’ve not run so much as a dust rag through that room.”
“May I have another look?”
“Certainly, Detective—anything you like,” she said, lowering her eyes and blushing. Her hands fluttered to her head as she tidied her hair. Was it possible Mrs. Sutherland was a tiny bit sweet on him? Ian wondered.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. As before, what struck Ian about Stephen Wycherly’s room was that it was so tidy. The bed was impeccably made, the spread smoothed out with barely a wrinkle on it, and the small writing desk beneath the window clear of clutter. Ian couldn’t help wondering how Wycherly had been able to endure the messy collection of papers in Eugene Harley’s law office. Ian himself liked order; chaotic surroundings gave him a headache.
The closet was no less a model of organization. A brace of brown oxfords nestled next to a sturdy pair of hiking boots. How odd that Wycherly had ascended the summit of Arthur’s Seat in oxfords, leaving the hiking shoes in his closet—he must have been in a terrible hurry. He examined the shoes and each piece of clothing hanging neatly above them before turning to the simple pine dresser along the opposite wall. The neatly folded vests in the second drawer yielded no stray bits of paper—the pockets of all his clothing were empty. Disappointing, perhaps, Ian thought as he closed the dresser drawer, though hardly surprising, considering the young man’s passion for order. Ian himself was given to emptying his pockets upon returning home in the evening; it made him sad to reflect that Stephen Wycherly was a kindred soul.
Further examination of the room was no more rewarding, and as he opened the door to leave, an object hanging on the wall caught his eye. It was a leather dog leash, presumably purchased for the recently acquired puppy.
Edinburgh Twilight (Ian Hamilton Mysteries Book 1) Page 13
