by L. A. Nisula
So Milly would have been more than qualified to work in the shop if that was how Miss Hopkins organized things. “If he wasn’t working on something for the shop, then why would he rent a room just to work on a tinkering project?”
“That is a very good question. If you’d like, I wouldn’t mind having a look at it for you. Maybe I could see something useful.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Although I doubted I’d take her up on it. It had been tricky enough getting in there myself, even with Mrs. Branston’s help. I wondered if she knew anything about his other habits. “Was he a gambler?”
“Gambling? I hardly think so. Their father would have gone through the roof for starters, and he very much wanted to impress his father. Mr. Hilliard’s grandfather nearly lost the family business due to his gambling. Faro was his game, I think. Enormous debts. The company didn’t get back on firm footing until the last decade or so. At least that’s how Mr. Hilliard tells it. When there are as few walk-in customers as we have, there’s quite a bit of time to talk, and Mr. Hilliard did like to talk.”
And yet I had found evidence of gambling debts in his accounts. I wondered if Miss Shepherd knew him as well as she thought she did. None of what she was telling me seemed to make sense with the evidence I’d found. “And did he have problems with anybody? Arguments or fights that might have led to his death?”
“Not that I know of. He fought with his brother, but I suppose that’s to be expected. In fact, they had a bit of an argument here the last time he visited the shop about a week before Mr. Hilliard died. But that wasn’t unusual. Mr. Beauregard thought he knew how everything should be run.”
“I suppose I’ll have to keep looking for answers, then. Thank you for talking to me.”
“Not at all. I hope you get your cousin sorted out. I didn’t think she seemed like the sort to murder someone, certainly not over a position in a shop. And I would like to see whoever did it caught.” Miss Shepherd shook her head. “And it’s so sad, that he had to go just then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just when things were starting to go right. I told you this was the fourth attempt at a shop here. Apparently, fourth time was the charm. He’d started advertising that little section of tinkering for ladies. Make a yarn winder or a needle sharpener. It was quite popular, and they were starting to come back for other things. Self-heating teakettles and fire-starters, nice little projects that can be hidden around the house. I think a couple of them were getting ready to ask for advanced level kits, which could have brought in some real money. That’s why I suggested he start hiring shop girls instead of the usual fellows. A lady in this neighborhood won’t ask a greasy-looking man what sort of gears she should use to modify her tea service to pour for two, but she’d come in here. Or they were starting to. I was trying to get him to come around to the idea of adding the haberdashery back in. There’s plenty of room, and it would make a nice bit of cover. Fathers around here won’t pay bills from a tinkering shop, but tack a haberdashery on the name, and it gives her a bit of a distraction.”
“Do you think he could have started turning a profit?”
“It’s very possible. He almost did last month. Really, it seemed like he ought to have. He had ambitious plans. He thought if he could get ladies with money started on little projects, he’d get enough hooked on tinkering to be able to sell the bigger things. In a couple of years, he was expecting quite the market in tinkering kits here.”
I looked around the shop, trying to think how to ask about the lack of customers. Miss Shepherd saw what I was doing and laughed.
“They’re the sort who send a maid with an order for what they want and have it delivered, hiding it from their chaperones. Although I was hoping the haberdashery would get a bit of foot traffic. Again, a bit of cover for what they’re actually looking for.”
I could see how that could work, if they found the right sort of clients. “So things were looking up for him?”
“They should have been, financially at least. He had a good income from his inheritance, and the shop was nearly self-sufficient. Yes, I’d say he was in the best financial position he’d been in in a long time.”
And yet the accounts hadn’t looked that way. Perhaps he was gambling after all. “Well, this is more than I’ve learned so far. Thank you.”
“I hope you find something to help your cousin. If you want me to have a look at the tinkering project, just let me know.”
As I left the tinkering shop, I tried to figure out what I had learned. It didn’t fit with the picture of Mr. Reginald I’d gotten from the other evidence. The set-up in the room in Portland Road was quite elaborate, not the sort of thing someone who fiddled with things would bother with. And his finances had been in a mess at Andsdale and Lennox’s, yet it sounded like he was doing relatively well. I sighed. Perhaps the betting parlor would make everything make sense.
The betting parlor didn’t look like I’d imagined it would, but then I wasn’t quite sure what I had been expecting, only that it hadn’t been the neat brick house that could have been a gentlemen’s club or a hotel standing in front of me. There was no one at the door, so I didn’t need an explanation of why I was there and walked in as if I belonged. Inside, there was a small foyer that opened out into a large room. There were cages along the wall for people to cash out their bets, and a large crowd at the end of the room where it seemed some of the gaming took place. I wandered in that direction, pretending I was looking for someone I knew.
The place seemed to attract a fairly genteel crowd. The sort who wished they could go to the races with the Prince Regent on Sundays. There were several tracks set up for mechanical animals to race around, with announcers at each one calling the winners. It seemed rather ridiculous to me, but the people cheering the animals on seemed to be taking it quite seriously. So who to ask about Mr. Hilliard? I didn’t want to go up to a random patron, not that most of them would have noticed me if a race had been on. I’d have to find someone who worked there.
After a few minutes of wandering around, I spotted one of the girls who sold betting slips sneaking out the side door. That seemed my best chance, so I followed her. The door led to a short alley behind the building. I watched her glance down the alley then reach under her skirt and pull out a flask. She noticed me as she was taking a drink.
“Medicinal.”
“Naturally.”
“Want some? Way better than the swill they serve in there.”
I joined her by the wall. “No thanks.” That seemed abrupt, so I added, “I have my own when I need it.”
That got me a conspiratorial wink. “You here to play?”
I shook my head. “I have the worst luck. I’m trying to find information about an acquaintance. I was told to look him up if I ever came to town.”
“What’s his name, love. I’ll tell you if I know him.”
“Mr. Hilliard.”
“Old Regular Reggie. Sure. I see him most nights.”
That had been easy enough. Maybe this was the place for answers about Mr. Reginald’s finances. “Regular Reggie?” I asked hoping she’d give me more information on the habits that led to the nickname.
“Sure. Reg from Beauregard, but Reggie sounds nicer, so Regular Reggie.”
That was certainly not what I had been expecting. So Beauregard was the gambler, not Reginald. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, especially as the slips Jimmy had found showed what looked to me to be significant losses.
“What do you want to know?”
Why was sensible old Beauregard known as Regular Reggie, for starters. “You said he’s in here a lot? This would be a good place to meet up with him?”
“Sure would. Well, maybe not for you. You see, he never shows up before seven at the earliest, and the evening crowd can be a tad—enthusiastic.”
“You’re telling me it’s no place for a lady.”
“Exactly. But look, you come by and ask for Sally, and I’ll get a note to h
im if I’m here. All right?”
“That’s very kind of you. What’s he like? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Likes his races. Doesn’t drink much, though. Has a brother, I think. Runs something.”
“Does he win a lot?’
“More than some. Loses more too.”
“So he bets often?”
“Any race, any time. He thinks he knows how they work, you see. He doesn’t, but no one tells him. He’ll guess right, win, and think it proves his system.”
“Then he’ll bet a few more times, lose, and what? Say the game is rigged?”
“Something like that.” She tucked the flask back in its holster. “I’d better get back before they miss me. Stay and watch the next race. It’s perfectly respectable at this time of day.” She reached into her tray. “Have a bet. We don’t actually know the winners or I’d give you a lucky one, but still, you never know.”
I took the slip from her. “Thanks again.”
“If you wouldn’t mind—” Her eyes darted to the door.
“I’ll just get a little more fresh air before I come in.”
“I knew you were trustable.”
While I gave Sally a chance to get back inside, I tried to puzzle out Mr. Beauregard Hilliard. I supposed a good businessman was inherently a gambler, but he was supposed to be the sensible one, the one trusted to run the business. Mr. Reginald was the one who’d been given up on. That led me to wonder if Mr. Beauregard had come up with the nickname Regular Reggie himself, a way to hide behind his brother, or perhaps make the bets seem more likely to belong to him. I decided I’d given Sally long enough and went back inside.
My race was already in progress, so I stood on the edge of the crowd near the railing and watched the mechanical animals speed around the track. My slip was for the ostrich, which was leaking steam from its neck. The leopard was in the lead, but I could see the gears under his fur catching on the hair. The giraffe eased in front on greased wheels, but the zebra stuck out its neck and pushed through the finish tape. I stuck my ticket in my pocket and watched the crowd disperse.
Most of the spectators pushed forward, trying to get a better view for the next race. Another group moved towards the cashier cages to claim their winnings. But there was a third group meandering towards the tables in the back. Two of them, across from each other. I recognized the man at one of them. Scrawny with too much hair oil, this time making dark patches on his shirt collar. The same man Mr. Beauregard had left with at the funeral.
“No joy?” Sally found me in the crowd.
“I’m afraid not. Do you know who that stringy man at the table is?”
“Mr. Wallace? Doesn’t do to know either of those two. They’re not here, if you get my meaning. Only people who are—temporarily embarrassed, shall we say—know they’re in here. They help out.”
“At a slightly elevated fee?”
“A tad over the legal limit. You weren’t thinking—”
“Oh no. I saw him arguing with someone I know, and I was wondering why.”
“I feel bad for your friend then. Red’s looking for me. Good luck finding Reggie.”
I debated staying around in case Regular Reggie lived up to his name in spite of his brother’s funeral, but the evening crowd was starting to arrive, and I could tell that Sally had been right about their character. I wove my way through the crowd and got into the flow leading out to the street. So Beauregard wasn’t quite the paragon of virtue everyone believed he was. So maybe there were other parts of the Hilliard family that weren’t all that they seemed. The only problem was I’d asked everyone I could think of about them and hadn’t gotten anything resembling answers, only more questions. And it was getting late. I decided the best thing to do was return to Nell Lane and start again in the morning.
~ * ~ * ~
I wasn’t sure when I’d expected Inspector Peterson to contact me next, but I certainly hadn’t expected it to be as soon the next morning. And yet a boy brought a note for me just as I was finishing my toast and wondering if it was worth waiting in all the lines at Scotland Yard to try and see Milly again or if I would be more help to her trying to find some other avenue to investigate. At least the note would get me access to her quickly.
At Scotland Yard, the note did its job, getting me past most of the lines. I was surprised when the constable who met me at the elevator took me, not to the interrogation rooms, but to the detectives’ offices. Inspector Peterson was waiting for me there. “All right, Miss Pengear, you’ve done it. I’m releasing her.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s temporary. She’s still my best suspect. But you’ve managed to convince me that there is a possibility of other suspects, and since I do not want to rush the investigation, and I’d like to get rid of certain distractions, I am arranging her release. But she has to stay in town.”
All I wanted to hear was “release.” The terms didn’t seem to matter. Besides, how would I continue investigating if we left town? “When can I collect her?”
“She’s doing paperwork right now. Then you can take her home. She’ll have to leave an address where we can find her.”
“Thank you, Inspector. What was it that convinced you to release her?” I hoped asking questions wouldn’t make him change his mind, although perhaps it would make him want to be rid of her, and by extension me, faster too.
“You asked the right question. Why was the dagger under him, not in him? I had the coroner take another look at the wound. Not to be too detailed, but the blade was a good two inches too short to have made the wound, even if it had been pushed all the way in. It wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“And he didn’t notice it before?”
Inspector Peterson smiled. “It was close enough that they didn’t look as hard as they should have. Once they did, there were factors that made them realize they hadn’t been careful enough. As I said, you asked the right question.” He must have seen I was getting ready to ask another question as he added, “Miss Pengear, your cousin is free to go. She’s no longer the only suspect. I’m going to start looking for some other ones. Why don’t you go collect her and have a nice holiday in London? The Tower is always interesting. You could see a play. My wife is quite fond of Oxford Street. There’s plenty to do that does not involve investigating.”
“There are a few things...”
“There always are. Your cousin will be coming out of those doors over there. I suggest you find a seat and wait for her. She won’t be long.” He walked away before I could tell him any of what I’d learned about his various suspects.
There were seats near the door Inspector Peterson had indicated, all uncomfortable, so I sat in the one that had an uneven leg, thinking most people would avoid it so it would be marginally cleaner, and pulled out my notebook. I would simply write a report for Inspector Peterson and leave it under his door. It would give me something to do while I waited for Milly, and then he couldn’t accuse me of hiding anything from him.
It took a good half-hour for Milly to finally emerge from the doors Inspector Peterson had indicated, although that was enough time for me to make a decent summary of my notes and really much less time than my other waits at Scotland Yard had led me to expect. I hurried over. “Milly, I’m so glad they let you go.”
Milly did not seem nearly as excited about matters as I was. “Oh Cassie, of course they let me go. I didn’t do it.”
“I wish I had that much confidence in their investigative skills.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s Scotland Yard. Now, where should we go to eat? I’m starving.”
At least she sounded like herself. “Fish and chips by the flat?”
“All right.” She was scanning the room. “Can we ask someone along?”
I looked up, imagining some other prisoner, some woman she felt sorry for, but there was no one around but constables preparing to change shifts. “If you’d like to. But I kind of wanted to talk about the case.”
“That’
s what we’d do. I’ll get him.”
“Him?”
“Constable Jenkins.”
“Who’s that?”
“He arrested me. I wanted to see if he knew anything else.”
I was going to tell her I didn’t think they shared any useful information with lowly constables, but she was already half-way across the room. I supposed it was her release celebration, so she could invite who she wanted. I turned to the rest of the room. I spotted Inspector Peterson leaving his office. I looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice me, or that he would just think I was still waiting for Milly. I didn’t think I fooled him, but he went to the door that seemed to lead to a break room. It was too good of a chance to pass up. Milly was still talking to Constable Jenkins. I tried to catch her eye, but I wasn’t able to. Hopefully, she’d figure it out, or wait for me outside or go back to the flat. I slipped across the room to Inspector Peterson’s office. I waited until the lobby seemed particularly busy and slipped through the door.
No one seemed to have noticed, so I went straight to Inspector Peterson’s desk. I scanned his files. There were four folders out; none looked like Milly’s.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
I looked up. Inspector Peterson was standing across from me. He held up the folder in his hand.
“Is that Milly’s folder?”
“No, it’s Hilliard’s folder.”
“Then yes, that’s what I was looking for.” Honesty was probably a novelty for Inspector Peterson. I was hoping it would disarm him, or maybe even get me an answer.
“You have your cousin, isn’t that enough?” But he held out the folder.
I opened the file. “It’s empty.”
Inspector Peterson smiled.
“Very funny.” I dropped the empty folder on the desk.
“I find a murder suspect’s cousin trying to steal from my desk amusing.”
I didn’t want to admit that he had a point. I tried deflecting his attention. “Did you also find it amusing to walk around with an empty folder?” When that didn’t work, I realized I did have a reason for stopping by his office. “What I was going to do was leave this.” I held up the notes I’d made while waiting for Milly. “Since the coroner found my little observations on the weapon helpful, I thought you might like to see what else people have told me. I wrote it down while I was waiting for Milly.”
