Chapter 4
We turned the corner, and I felt we were far enough from the lodging house and the Mayfair Hotel that it was safe for me to link my arm with Harry’s.
He wasn’t himself, and I wished a simple stroke of my thumb on his sleeve would banish his troubling thoughts, but of course it couldn’t.
His glum mood seemed to be associated with Bradbury’s friend, Archibald Mathers.
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He used to be a guest at the hotel when I worked there. He’d stay at the Mayfair whenever he came to London.
We got on well, despite him being older and our different stations in life.
We’d go out after I finished work sometimes.
” Harry huffed a humorless laugh. “Mathers liked to drink in the average man’s pubs, as he called them.
He’d let everyone think he was like me, someone who had to work, rather than the heir to a viscountcy.
For some men, that would be a twisted game, but not Mathers.
I think he genuinely wanted to live an ordinary life.
He often told me he felt the weight of expectation on his shoulders, and worried he’d be the one to lose the family estate once he inherited. ”
“I’ve not heard of him, so he mustn’t stay at the Mayfair anymore. You haven’t remained in touch?”
Harry shook his head. “I wrote to him after I left the hotel, but he never responded.” He heaved a sigh. “That’s the nature of some acquaintances, I suppose. They’re based on convenience rather than genuine friendship.”
I squeezed his arm, wishing I could do more to expunge his glum mood, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
He was right, and some friendships simply came to a natural end over time, for no particular reason.
Although, having his letter go unanswered was a little more dramatic than simply fading away.
It didn’t feel natural. It felt deliberate.
Harry covered my hand with his own. “Uncle Alfred might know where Mathers is staying nowadays. He likes to find out where previously regular guests stay when in London if they suddenly stop coming to the Mayfair. He’s nosy like that.”
“Not nosy, just good at his job. If something happened during one of Mr. Mathers’s stays to put him off staying again, then as manager, Mr. Hobart ought to know so he can remedy it.”
“Fair point. So, what are your thoughts so far, Detective Fox?”
“I think D.I. Latimer is partly right. The killer didn’t plan to murder Bradbury.
They probably argued, then he or she grabbed the first sharp implement to hand—the letter opener—and stabbed Bradbury.
They then escaped via the balcony, closing the French doors behind them, leaving a shoe print in the flowerpot.
The print could belong to either a small man or a woman.
Not Goliath, which your photographs will prove, thank goodness. ”
“Except the footprint was facing toward the French doors, not the street. The print was made as someone arrived, not left.”
“Perhaps they arrived via the balcony and left that way.” That threw up a problem with my theory, however. “If they did, it means they may have intended all along to murder Bradbury, otherwise why sneak in? If so, then they would have brought their own weapon, but they didn’t.”
“Or they may have just meant to confront him without anyone knowing,” Harry pointed out. “Or they wanted to search his office and thought he was out but found he wasn’t.”
“It’s foolish to risk such a visible entry point in the middle of the day, though.”
“True, but entering via the balcony explains why Mrs. Jeffry didn’t see anyone arrive before Goliath.”
“Unless Mrs. Jeffry is the killer and has lied about everything,” I said.
“We already know she lied about how long she was in Bradbury’s study after discovering the body.
Did she wait until she saw Mr. Symond returning home then start screaming again only when he was within earshot?
Did she deliberately place the boot print in the flowerpot to throw everyone off?
” The theory explained a number of discrepancies in her story, but there was one other possibility.
“Presumably the only other person with a key to the house who could have entered via the front door would be Mr. Symond. Could he have quietly entered and left through the front door while Mrs. Jeffry was occupied in the kitchen, and staged the boot print in the flowerpot to make the police think the killer used the balcony?” Without waiting for his answer, I followed the thread of my theory.
“The problem is, he has an alibi. He was at work all morning.”
“That can be verified. We’ll pay a visit to the Wiley Brothers office and get the names of clients he visited on his rounds this morning.
If there is a gap between them, we’ll know he was lying.
” Harry removed the watch from his pocket and checked the time.
“We could visit the office after I drop the camera film at a studio I’ve used before. It’s not far.”
* * *
The photographic studio promised to have the film developed by the morning. Harry warned them of the gruesome nature of some of the shots, assuring the studio assistant they were taken on behalf of Scotland Yard.
We caught an omnibus to the Wiley Brothers Insurance Company’s office on Threadneedle Street where we had to wait to speak to Mr. Symond’s manager, and then wait again while he telephoned D.I.
Latimer at Scotland Yard. It wasn’t until Harry got on the telephone to speak to the detective himself that Latimer vouched for us.
After we left the office with a list of names, addresses and appointment times of Mr. Symond’s visits that morning, Harry told me Latimer had only given in because he thought we were barking up the wrong tree.
It didn’t bode well for Goliath if the police weren’t willing to look for other suspects.
Harry studied the list in the murky light of dusk as we walked to the omnibus stop. “We’ll call at each of these tomorrow and confirm how long Symond stayed. It’ll be time-consuming.”
“I have a better idea. May I keep the list?”
He handed it to me and I tucked it into my bag.
The long wait in the insurance office had given me time to think and I now voiced a new theory to Harry.
“If Mrs. Jeffry is telling the truth, there are two possible scenarios. The killer entered the house via the balcony or via the front door. If they entered via the front door, then the killer either used a key—in which case Mr. Symond must be high on our suspect list—or picked the lock. But there’s another possibility.
What if Mr. Bradbury let the killer into the house himself? ”
Harry nodded along as I spoke. “It makes the most sense, given it was daytime and someone would have been seen climbing up to the balcony.”
Unfortunately the theory kept the field of suspects wide open, but at least we had some names to begin with, including Harry’s former friend, Archibald Mathers, who’d desperately wanted to speak to Bradbury mere days before his death, and whom Bradbury had been annoyed to learn visited him.
We stopped in Bloomsbury and spoke to Mrs. Jeffry’s neighbors, but no one had seen any visitors at her house until the police arrived.
We caught an omnibus from there, and Harry suggested we part ways at Piccadilly Circus. “I’ll return to my office and smuggle Goliath into my flat.”
“I don’t like you harboring him, Harry. If we can’t prove his innocence, and he’s found in your flat, you’ll be arrested. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
He took my hand in his. “It’ll be dark by the time we get to Piccadilly. No one will see him. Besides, we’ll find the real culprit soon.” He squeezed my hand. “I promise.”
His confidence was reassuring, but I still worried.
We alighted at Piccadilly Circus, but Harry didn’t walk off immediately. He asked me to wait, then trotted off to a flower seller hawking her wares on Regent Street. He made a selection from her cart and trotted back.
“You didn’t have to buy me flowers,” I said, accepting the posy of pink chrysanthemums. “But thank you.”
“You seem like you need cheering up.”
“It has been a difficult afternoon. I’m terribly worried about Goliath. And now you.”
His little finger brushed against mine. “I wish I could take you in my arms and kiss you here in front of everyone.”
I smiled. “Knowing that you want to is enough.”
“For now.”
I buried my face in the posy, even though chrysanthemums don’t have much of a smell. “Thank you again, but I don’t know how I’m going to explain these if I’m seen entering the hotel.”
“You can say a handsome stranger gave them to you in the street then disappeared into the crowd, never to be seen again.”
“Flossy will like that idea so much she’ll believe it without question, but I doubt anyone else will. No matter. I don’t care. Let them speculate.”
Harry’s lips curved with his smile. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
* * *
Frank gave the bunch of flowers in my hand a pointed look, but didn’t get the opportunity to ask who they were from as a carriage arrived and he had to open the door for the occupants.
I made directly for Mr. Hobart’s office, and found him at his desk, his satchel beside him. He was preparing to leave for the day.
“I’m glad I caught you,” I said, closing the door behind me.
He indicated the flowers. “Do you want me to put those in a vase and have them sent to your suite?”
“That’s probably a good idea. It will avoid awkward questions if I bump into members of my family on the way up.” I handed them over. “Thank you.”
Mr. Hobart opened a cupboard door and removed a smaller copy of the enormous vases in the foyer.
Those elegant black vases trimmed with gold currently held bunches of roses many times larger than my posy of chrysanthemums. The showy displays of out-of-season flowers were Mr. Hobart’s pride and joy, but he seemed just as pleased as he arranged my chrysanthemums in the smaller vase.