Chapter 14
Mr. Mathers tried to intercept Harry, but Harry merely pushed him out of the way. He picked up the gardener’s shovel and scooped the shoes out of the incinerator. He snatched up the blanket Mr. Mathers had dropped when he fell to the ground and smothered the shoes, extinguishing the flames.
Harry stood over Mr. Mathers and glared down at him. His breathing was heavy, more from anger than the exertion, I’d wager. He looked furious.
“It’s not what you think!” Mr. Mathers cried.
I lifted the blanket off the singed shoes. “You’re not trying to destroy evidence?”
“I’m innocent!”
Harry put out his hand to help Mr. Mathers to his feet. “Then you shouldn’t have done that. It only makes you seem guilty.”
“I’m not a murderer. I’m just worried about all this affecting my reputation, my life… I have a lot to lose.” He indicated the shoes. “What will you do with those?”
Harry checked that the shoes weren’t too hot to touch then picked them up. “We’ll take them until we deem it necessary to hand them over to the police.”
Mr. Mathers dragged both hands through his hair and down his face. “Why are you two here anyway?”
“We wanted to ask you a favor,” I said, stressing the last word so that he understood this wasn’t blackmail.
“Last night you told me it was a delicate time for your party, the Liberals. Secret talks were supposed to be in process to overthrow the current leader, but they had to be put off. Were those secret talks supposed to happen at the Mayfair Hotel this Saturday night over dinner?”
“Your uncle and cousin weren’t supposed to tell you.”
“They didn’t. I worked it out.”
“You’re a good detective,” Mr. Mathers said with a twist of his lips.
“She’s brilliant,” Harry told him.
“In that case, she’ll find me innocent, but only if I convince the faction’s leaders to have the dinner at the Mayfair after all. Is that right? Is that your favor?” He huffed a humorless laugh.
I bristled. “Harry and I will find the murderer regardless of whether the dinner goes ahead or not. I’d appreciate it if you put in a good word for the Mayfair while we’re busy at work, that’s all. I’m asking as a favor, from a friend.” I indicated Harry.
Mr. Mathers shook his head. “They won’t hold the talks at the Mayfair while the journalists are swarming over the place.”
“Convince them,” Harry said before I could speak. With the shoes in one hand, he led me away with the other.
I took my cue from his determinedly forward stare and did not look back, despite wanting to see Mr. Mathers’ reaction to the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
“I thought we were going to make it known it was just a favor that required no reciprocation,” I said.
“Unreciprocated favors are only granted between friends. He tried to destroy evidence that may prove he’s guilty. I think we’ve both come to the realization our friendship can’t be revived.” Harry’s hand squeezed mine. “Don’t worry, Cleo.”
I tried not to. But it wasn’t easy knowing we’d just attempted to blackmail a man who may be a murderer.
* * *
I was so pleased to see Goliath that I threw my arms around him and gave him a fierce hug. He awkwardly patted my shoulder in return.
“Are you all right, Miss Fox?”
I pulled away and smiled grimly. “Never mind me. Are you all right, Goliath?”
“Good enough. Sorry about the mess. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied up.” He quickly folded the blanket and placed it at the foot of the mattress lying on the floor.
Harry’s flat wasn’t large, but once the furniture was rearranged, there was enough space for the spare mattress. Whether the mattress was long enough for Goliath was another matter. At least it didn’t look lumpy or thin.
Harry emerged from his bedroom where he’d hidden Mr. Mathers’ shoes. We’d decided it was safer to hide them here than at his office, the address of which was printed on Harry’s business cards.
I pointed to Louis Arkwright’s book about Blackheart, sitting on top of a stack of newspapers. “You’ve been reading,” I said to Goliath.
“Got to pass the time somehow. I finished the book last night.”
“And? Do you still believe the treasure is real?”
“’Course I do.”
Harry caught my attention with a lift of his eyebrows. It seemed this was a discussion he and Goliath had already had, and I suspected Goliath refused to entertain the possibility that the treasure didn’t exist.
Goliath picked up one of the newspapers and pointed to an article on the front page. “The papers are still obsessed with the murder and its link to Blackheart. This is an interview with the pirate’s grandson.”
“Bill Watson?” I asked, as Harry accepted the paper from Goliath.
“He’s saying the pirate treasure should be his, since he’s the only legitimate descendent of Blackheart.
He’s got proof and all. He says Bradbury contacted him before he died and reckons he was going to reveal that Arkwright confessed to him that he deliberately left out of the biography the fact that Blackheart had a son.
Watson says Bradbury was likely going to recount Arkwright’s admission of dishonesty and that everyone would have been scandalized by such an explosive revelation. ”
Scandalized. Explosive revelation. They were words I’d seen together quite recently. My gaze connected with Harry’s as it lifted from the newspaper. He remembered where he’d read them, too.
“You see what this means?” Goliath went on.
“The killer must be Arkwright. He didn’t want Bradbury to reveal that he left out something so important from his Blackheart book.
It will look like he did it deliberately, to keep the treasure for himself and out of Blackheart’s heir’s hands.
Arkwright’s reputation would be in tatters. ”
“Louis Arkwright is elderly,” I pointed out.
“Old age doesn’t mean he can’t stab someone with a sharp object. Have you met him, Miss Fox? If you say he’s too frail to leave his bed and kill someone then I’ll take your word for it. I trust your opinion.”
I couldn’t make that judgment. Mr. Arkwright couldn’t be dismissed as a suspect.
But at that moment, I was more interested in finding out where Bill Watson had seen the words of the opening chapter of Bradbury’s manuscript.
The paper had gone straight from Mr. Bradbury’s typewriter to the evidence store at Scotland Yard.
There was no way Watson could have read them unless he was in that room just before or just after the murder.
Yet he’d not told us he’d called there at all.
* * *
It may seem strange to describe the industrious St. Katherine Docks as a clash of worlds, but that was my first impression as we walked its cobbled quays.
Sailing ships vied for space with modern steamers, and porters dressed in flat caps pushed barrows alongside clerks in suits carrying clipboards.
There was even a gentleman in a top hat checking the time on his gold watch.
Overhead, mechanical cranes hoisted cargo from ship to shore, yet manual labor hadn’t been replaced entirely.
I was no linguist, but I detected all manner of English accents, as well as French, Italian, and what I suspected was Bengali and Cantonese.
The differences all worked together in this city within a city, so perhaps calling it a clash wasn’t doing it justice.
It was more of a blend, one that worked as harmoniously as an orchestral score, at least to this outsider.
Harry asked several workers if they knew Bill Watson, until a clerk eventually pointed to one of the large warehouses lining the quays. Mr. Watson emerged from the yawning entrance leading a horse and an empty cart as we approached.
“Whoa,” he said to the horse when he spotted us. “Morning, Miss Fox, Mr. Armitage. Have you come to tell me you’ve set up a meeting with Arkwright?”
Since he addressed the question to me, I responded. “He hasn’t agreed yet.”
Mr. Watson sucked on his teeth. “It’s Friday.”
“You gave me until the end of the week to organize it. That’s Sunday.”
He may have disagreed if his colleagues hadn’t emerged from the warehouse and told him to stop dillydallying. Instead, he got to the point. “Then why are you here?”
“You saw the piece of paper that was still in Bradbury’s typewriter when he died.”
“I never!”
“You quoted some words from that page to the journalist who wrote them in an article about you. We don’t believe you just happened to use the same words as Bradbury.”
“Why, because I ain’t got a fancy education like him?”
“Because the words were very specific. It’s too coincidental to believe that you—or anyone—just happened to quote the same words Bradbury wrote.”
“Coincidences do happen, Miss Fox.”
“You saw the words on the paper in the typewriter, Mr. Watson. Either you read them just before Bradbury died or just after.”
“It was neither! I didn’t go into his study! The landlady stopped me before I could.”
“Mrs. Jeffry?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know her name. She never introduced herself.
She was rude, saying I wasn’t expected by Bradbury, so I had to leave.
Some of the things I told that reporter came direct from her.
” He shuffled his feet. “I wanted to sound educated to get my point across, so I repeated some things she told me that she’d heard from Bradbury himself.
She said Bradbury told her he was going to include something scandalous in Arkwright’s biography, something that would be a revelation.
An explosive revelation—that’s how she described it. ”
“She claimed Bradbury told her those things?” Harry prompted. “Not that she read them?”
“I can’t remember. Or maybe she never said. All I know is, I wanted to speak to Bradbury about what he asked me to do in his letter.” He glanced around, leaned closer, and whispered. “The burglary.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you went to his lodgings on the day of the murder?” Harry asked.