Yours,
Holmes
The letter on the desk remained blank. Livia’s favorite pen, which wrote with a velvety smoothness, stood in the inkwell. Livia herself sat before the desk, feet on the chair, arms around her knees, rocking back and forth, wishing she were dead.
She really ought to have written Charlotte as soon as she got home from the park on Sunday. But she couldn’t. Thinking about any part of that day and all she wanted to do was to whimper in a corner.
Dear God, what a disaster.
And she was so stupid. So stupid. When would she learn? When would she at last get it into her thick, moronic head that nothing good would ever happen to her?
What a disaster.
What an unmitigated catastrophe.
Twelve
TUESDAY
A startled doorkeeper admitted Inspector Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald, led them upstairs to a common room, then rushed off to knock on a door deeper in the dwelling. After several minutes, a man of about thirty-five, well-dressed and well-coiffed, came into the common room.
“Mr. Ainsley?” asked Treadles.
“The name’s Temple. I do for Mr. Ainsley.”
The valet, then. Treadles introduced himself and MacDonald. “Is Mr. Ainsley at home?”
“He is. But he’s never up at this hour, unless he’s just come back from a night on the town. Won’t you have a cup of tea?”
Tea sounded tempting. Treadles had abandoned his own breakfast when MacDonald had banged on his door, all excited to have come across a missing-person report, filed the evening before, that matched the description of their murder victim exactly. “Yes, thank you. Much obliged.”
They followed the valet to a small sitting room dominated by a painting of an African elephant. Temple brought not only tea but buttered toast, muffins, marmalade, and a bowl of strawberries and grapes before running off to wrangle his master again.
“I wouldn’t mind having someone to ‘do’ for me,” said MacDonald, helping himself to a muffin.
Treadles couldn’t complain. He might not have a valet, but since his wedding, he had never had to worry about how his meals got on the table or whether his clothes were overdue for laundering.
From farther inside the apartment came Temple’s muffled entreaties. “Mr. Ainsley, you said you’d be up when I came back. Come now. You’ve got to get up now. You can’t keep a police inspector waiting. What are they here for? I told you. About Mr. Hayward.”
“Hayward?” came a sleepy voice. “Wait! You didn’t tell me it was about Hayward.”
The voice had become much less sleepy.
“I did, sir.”
“No, you didn’t. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t open the curtains—the light hurts my eyes. Let me put on some clothes. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?”
“It’s already in the percolator. Shall I shave you now?”
“I thought we mustn’t keep the coppers waiting.”
“But you can’t receive anyone looking like this!”
“Trust me, plenty of people have seen me like this and the sun still never sets on the British Empire.”
A minute later, a young man with bloodshot eyes, sandy stubble, and the beginning of a paunch came padding out, clad in a heavily embroidered black dressing gown. He shook hands weakly with the policemen and sat down opposite.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen? Oh, thank you, Temple, you’re an angel.”
“You reported a missing person last night, a Mr. Richard Hayward,” Treadles stated, “whose address, according to the report, is the same as yours.”
His first swallow of coffee had a marked effect on Ainsley. Already he was more alert, his speech sharper. “Yes, Hayward has the rooms at the end of the hall. Didn’t know the police were this efficient. Will you be able to find him soon? He needs to at least come back and take his poor guinea pig.”
“Guinea pig?”
“Yes, he has one, which he has almost killed with neglect.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, sweet little fellow—Samson’s his name, though between you and me, he could be a Delilah, for all we know. But anyway, Hayward and I had plans to dine at this new place last Thursday. He was supposed to come by and have a drink here before we headed out. I waited and waited and he never came. Knocked on his door and no one answered. I figured he must have forgotten and was probably out having fun with other people, so I went to dinner on my own.
“When I came back, I knocked and still nobody answered. Left him a note under the door and told him what an ass he was. Expected him to come by and apologize—or at least explain. He didn’t. But what can you do? Some fellows are like that.
“But then Saturday the landlady came and asked if I’d seen Hayward. Said he didn’t come by to settle his bills for the week. That’s when I remembered I still hadn’t seen him since before Thursday. We got a little worried. She opened his door. And wouldn’t you know it, the place had been turned inside out. Temple had to go fetch some smelling salts for Mrs. Hammer. And it was only when we were leaving that I saw Samson’s cage on the floor, the little fellow starving to death inside. Took Temple the rest of the day to coax him back to life. Excellent nursemaid, Temple. Absolutely first rate.”
“Mrs. Hammer didn’t report the incident to the police.”
Ainsley began to shake his head, thought the better of it, and shrugged instead. “I told her she ought to. But she said she had no evidence that it wasn’t Hayward himself who tossed the place. You know how it is—she doesn’t want anybody to think anything untoward has happened here. I couldn’t force her to. But when there was still no hair or hide of Hayward forty-eight hours later, I thought something had to be done. Happened to walk by the police station and decided to do my duty.”
“Is it possible to see the place?”
“Sure, but I had Temple tidy it up. Paid for the week’s rent for Hayward, too—in case he fell into an opium den. Wouldn’t be nice to come home and find all his belongings already carted off and someone else living there, would it?”
Treadles frowned. “Does he have an opium habit?”
“Not that I know of, but who hasn’t lost a week here and there to a lark?” said Ainsley with the sympathetic understanding of one who most certainly had lost a week here and there to such larks.
Treadles gave Ainsley a minute to consume a slice of toast. Then he said, “Sergeant MacDonald and I are here not because we routinely investigate missing persons, but because the description you gave of Mr. Hayward matches closely to that of an unidentified murder victim.”
Ainsley choked on his coffee. “What?”
“We would like you to come with us and see whether you can identify the body.”
Ainsley stared at Treadles, then MacDonald, then Treadles again. “Jesus. I mean, pardon my language, but—but surely you aren’t serious?”
They convinced him that they were dead serious. A disoriented Ainsley went off to shave and dress—“Mustn’t go see him, if that is him, looking like this, you see.” Treadles and MacDonald used the key Ainsley had of Hayward’s apartment—“Got Mrs. Hammer to give me a key. Samson should be in his own place. It’s where he’s most comfortable.”
Temple had done the best he could, making the place presentable again. But he was no furniture restorer and had piled the damaged chairs in a small room equipped with only a set of shelves and a cot—the valet’s room, if Hayward had one.
Clearly someone had been looking for something of value, something small enough to be stowed in a hollowed chair leg—except the ones that he sawed off all happened to be perfectly solid.
MacDonald was by the window, reaching through the bars of the guinea pig’s cage to scratch the creature between the ears. “If only you could talk, Samson.”
They spent another ten minutes looking through the rooms. And then, with
a clean-shaven, soberly dressed Ainsley in tow, they departed for the morgue.
Mrs. Watson had formed the habit of checking for the post at 18 Upper Baker Street in the morning. The first two letters to ever come through the slot had been stepped on as Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes arrived for their appointments. They were still more likely to get circulars and pamphlets, but thank-you notes and packages from clients had become increasingly common.
Two days ago, they had received a pair of opera tickets, which they had gifted to the de Blois ladies. And three days before that, an excellent bottle of whisky. No one had thought to gift Miss Holmes a plum cake yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.
This morning’s post at Upper Baker Street, however, did not please Mrs. Watson as much. It took some self-restraint not to slam it down on the breakfast table when she reached home.
Miss Holmes, already dressed for going out, took a look at the typed address on the envelope and sighed. She finished the poached egg on her plate, wiped her fingers with her napkin, and reached for the letter.
Mrs. Watson knew what it said:
Dear Miss Holmes,
I cede you the moral high ground. I accept your admonishment that seeking the whereabouts of a man who has demonstrated his lack of interest in me is both an insult to my intelligence and a black mark upon my conduct as a married woman.
Nevertheless, I do not care anymore about either my own opinion of myself or anyone else’s. I need to speak to Mr. Finch and that is that.
Please, I beg you, give me his address.
Yours,
Mrs. Finch
Miss Holmes rose. “I would have liked to have another muffin before leaving this table, but then again, I always feel the same no matter how many muffins I eat.”
They removed to the drawing room, where Mrs. Watson wrote down the contents of a brief note, as dictated by Miss Holmes.
Dear Mrs. Finch,
Mr. Finch is away from London for a fortnight. When he returns, I will make inquiries on your behalf.
Yours,
Holmes
Mrs. Watson sealed the letter. “Do we know for certain that he will be gone that long?”
“Mrs. Woods told me yesterday that he has paid two weeks’ rent in advance, so I am perfectly comfortable claiming he will be out for the duration.” Miss Holmes checked her watch. “Shall we start our day?”
At least now the corpse had a name. Richard Hayward of London.
Unfortunately, the dead man’s friend was a font of non-knowledge. Mr. Ainsley couldn’t remember exactly when Mr. Hayward became his neighbor. “Four months ago. Six? It was some time this year.” He was at sea as to where Hayward had lived before. “Norfolk, maybe. Or was it Suffolk?” And to Treadles’s question on what the deceased had done for a living, his reply was a semihorrified, “I would never ask such a thing. Why, that would presume he needed to toil for his own support in the first place.”
Given Treadles’s dedication to work, it was easy enough to forget that for a certain segment of the population, having to earn one’s keep was considered a badge of dishonor. One could have serious interests, even callings. But to exchange honest labor for remuneration, well, that was for the lower classes.
“Don’t think he mentioned work—never heard him complain about having to get up early. But if I were to be perfectly honest, I can’t be entirely sure that he was a gentleman. A gentleman by birth, that is, not that he wasn’t perfectly trustworthy and all that.”
Treadles understood. Mr. Ainsley meant to say that Hayward had not been a man from the same class as himself.
He went back to the dead man’s former lodging, to check on the references Hayward had furnished to his landlady. Only to discover that Mrs. Hammer didn’t require references for those tenants who could pay three months’ rent up front.
He asked to speak with Temple, the valet, instead. Temple was in the small room where he performed most of his work. Between polishing Mr. Ainsley’s boots and ironing the man’s shirts, he answered Treadles’s inquiries.
According to him—and this agreed with Mrs. Hammer’s records—Mr. Hayward moved in the first week of April. Temple remembered because he had learned about it from Mrs. Hammer when he returned from picking up Mr. Ainsley’s new summer coats from his tailor, which he always did the first week of April.
Three weeks later, Mr. Ainsley had invited Mr. Hayward to his place for dinner—Temple was sure of the date because he had written down the purchases in his diary, which he gladly showed Treadles. Bottle of claret, bottle of champagne, three bottles of mineral water, veal cutlets, a saddle of mutton, and a strawberry tart and a Swiss roll from Harrod’s.
“I do all right with plain baking,” Temple said apologetically. “But fancy cakes we buy.”
“I’m saving up for one of those meringue cakes for my sister’s birthday,” said MacDonald. “She’s wanted one for ages.”
“Oh, those are almost too pretty to eat, they are.”
Treadles cleared his throat. “Mr. Temple, do you know where Mr. Hayward lived before he became Mrs. Hammer’s tenant?”
“I didn’t ask him—he was Mr. Ainsley’s friend, not mine.”
“Mr. Ainsley didn’t think he was born a gentleman. Do you agree with that assessment?”
“I do. I think he went to a proper school—he didn’t have a regional accent, if you know what I mean, sir. But I don’t think there are enough quarterings in the family. Or any, for that matter.”
“How do you know?”
Temple half winced. “Hard to say. I just do. For example, the day of the dinner, he came, brought Mr. Ainsley a marvelous bottle of cognac, and it all went off very well. But when he was on his way out, he tipped me.”
The way Temple shook his head, one would have thought Mr. Hayward had performed a handstand in the vestibule.
“Mind you, I appreciated the generosity, but it was only dinner. If he’d stayed with us for a few days and I’d done for him, then, yes, it would have been the right thing. But it was only dinner. And he gave me far too much. So that told me that his money was awfully recent. Not even nouveau riche; that would have implied his father had it. And if his father had it, he should have known what to do with a valet. If you ask me, I think he probably came into some unexpected inheritance within the past few years.”
It never failed to surprise Treadles—and dismay him in some way—that a person’s origin was so easy to pin down. Here was someone who had exchanged scarcely three sentences with the dead man, yet could offer such trenchant insight on when he had obtained his fortune.
On the other hand, had Temple been able to tell Treadles a great deal of Hayward’s inner life, but nothing of his pedigree or lack thereof, it would have been of far less use to the case. He thanked Temple and asked to have the key to look through Hayward’s rooms again.
On his way out, he asked, rather casually, “You wouldn’t happen to know, would you, Mr. Temple, who might have wanted to harm Mr. Hayward?”
Temple thought for a moment. “I can’t say I do. But come to think of it, Mr. Hayward himself might have known.”
“What do you mean?”
“My schedule is regular—Mr. Ainsley’s, too, if you think about it, even if it does start three hours after everyone else’s. So I go in and out of here at about the same time every day, to get what I need to look after him. But occasionally he wants something out of the blue. Or I remember that I’ve forgotten the bacon when I went to buy everything else. Then I need to make an extra trip. And the odd thing was, whenever I’ve come back after going out unexpectedly, as I let myself back in, I’d hear Mr. Hayward’s door open a crack. By the time I turned and looked, he’d already closed the door again. Every time.
“I didn’t think much of it at the time—some people are jumpy. But knowing what happened to him, I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t
expect something awful to come his way. Maybe whenever he heard someone in the hall at an unexpected time, he got nervous. And had to make sure it was only me, coming back with a rasher of bacon or Mr. Ainsley’s shaving powder, and not someone here to harm him.”
Temple thought for another moment, then nodded. “Yes, I reckon he must have been scared.”
“Well, that was quick,” said Mrs. Watson, as they walked out of Norton & Pixley, Chartered Accountants.
Apparently, Mr. Finch had resigned from his post after only six weeks. Which meant that for the past two months, he hadn’t been working—at least not at Norton & Pixley.
Mrs. Watson didn’t want to say it aloud, since he was a close blood relation to Miss Holmes, but she was beginning to be convinced that Lady Ingram was entirely mistaken in Mr. Finch’s character. Maybe he was well liked at his place of lodging, but at this point, one certainly couldn’t call him dependable.
“Harrod’s, please,” said Miss Holmes to Lawson, as they climbed up into Mrs. Watson’s carriage.
Harrod’s? “Do we need anything from there?”
“We are being followed,” said Miss Holmes, settling herself into the seat. “Harrod’s would be a good place to get rid of this unauthorized addition to our party. Also, it has been a while since I browsed their cheese selection.”
Mrs. Watson’s heart pounded. Of course she had steeled herself for the possibility that those who had watched her house earlier would resume their surveillance at some point, but she had hoped much more fervently that all such potentially Moriarty-related troubles had gone away for good.
The carriage didn’t have a window in the rear, but she still turned and stared at the burgundy-brocade-upholstered surface, anxiety churning in her stomach.
“Don’t worry,” said Miss Holmes quietly. “We’ll shake them loose before long.”
“But they’ll simply go back to the house and wait for the next opportunity to follow us.”
Miss Holmes said nothing.
A Conspiracy in Belgravia Page 17
