Chapter 14 #3
Harry and I waited in the sitting room while Sister Meersham went into the bedchamber.
A few minutes later, she returned with Mr. Arkwright, leaning heavily on her and his walking stick.
Harry got up and took over from the nurse to steer Mr. Arkwright to a chair.
He seemed more frail than the last time I’d seen him, his skin grayer.
He sank into the chair with a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.
“The notebook hasn’t turned up yet,” I said before he could ask.
He gave no acknowledgment that he’d heard me. When his eyes reopened, his gaze settled on Harry.
Harry introduced himself as my friend, not a private detective. “I used to work here,” he added. “I was assistant manager until last December.” I suspected he said it in an attempt to disarm Mr. Arkwright, but I wasn’t sure the elderly man could be disarmed. He was much too sharp.
“And now you’re sleuthing with Miss Fox, is that it?”
“When she lets me.”
Mr. Arkwright chuckled. “Is there any tea, Sister?”
“I’m afraid not,” Sister Meersham said. “Shall I order some?”
He squinted at me, then Harry, then shook his head.
“I think these young people will ask their questions and be on their way before it arrives. The kitchen here is fast, but not that fast.” He placed both hands on the top of the walking stick, one over the other.
“So, what have you discovered about the murder of my biographer, Miss Fox?”
“All manner of things, including the fact that some people believe there is a treasure and some don’t think it ever existed.”
“There will always be skeptics.” He settled back into the chair. “But as I told you last time, the treasure is real. If folk choose not to believe, then they will be the poorer for it.”
I’d expected his unwavering stance, so I pushed on. “We’ve also discovered that you argued with Mr. Bradbury before he left here on Tuesday.”
He glanced at Sister Meersham who kept her gaze firmly fixed on the scene outside the window where she stood. “You’re suggesting we argued, then I followed him home and stabbed him.”
Sister Meersham turned to him. “I told them I was here the entire time and you couldn’t have left without me noticing.”
“I believe you detectives call that an alibi,” he said.
“What did you argue about?” I asked.
“Let me see. He was always complaining about something, but on that particular occasion, he was venting his frustrations about his fellow lodger and the woman he was seeing.”
“Mr. Symond and Miss Newman?” I asked.
“I don’t know their names. Bradbury was always complaining about them arguing.
It sounds like their relationship was volatile.
I told him to stop complaining, that I was tired of hearing it, and he told me that he expected me to understand, given I was also an author.
The thing is, he was one of those creative types who likes complete silence to work, and I prefer noise and activity.
I wrote most of Blackheart’s biography while dining at a local chophouse of an evening. ”
“That’s all?” Harry asked, skeptical. “That’s what caused Bradbury to storm out of here, saying he’s done? A difference over your creative process?”
“More my lack of compassion, but in essence, yes. We creative types are more thin-skinned than the average person, Mr. Armitage.” His lips twisted with a wry smile.
“Bradbury wanted sympathy from me, and I gave him none. As I said, I was tired of his complaining.” He clamped his hand on the head of the walking stick. “Is that all?”
“Not quite,” I said.
He chuckled. “One last question, Miss Fox? Careful you don’t become a cliché.”
“It’s not a question. It’s a request for you to speak with Bill Watson.”
“The crackpot calling himself Blackheart’s grandson?” He shook his head emphatically. “No. Tell him Blackheart never had children.”
“He needs to hear it from you.”
He pointed the walking stick in the direction of the door. “I think we’re done here.”
I rose, and Harry stood, too, but he wasn’t ready to leave.
“Bill Watson’s father told him he’s Blackheart’s grandson.
” The unexpected earnestness in Harry’s voice compelled all three of us to focus on him.
“He deserves the truth. If he isn’t the pirate’s grandson, he will only stop believing it if you tell him.
He needs to know, so he can move on and try to discover who his real grandfather was.
Everyone should know their roots, Mr. Arkwright. ”
“You sound like you have a story of your own to tell, Armitage. I’d like to hear it one day, but not now.” Mr. Arkwright rubbed his palm over the top of his walking stick as he turned to me. “Is Bill Watson one of your suspects, Miss Fox?”
“Yes.”
“If you prove him innocent, I will invite him into my home.” He indicated the room.
“I won’t have him here if there’s a chance he’s guilty.
I’m not afraid for myself—he can only hasten my pending death—but I won’t endanger Sister Meersham.
” He suddenly switched his gaze to Harry.
“You understand that sentiment, don’t you, Armitage? ”
Harry blinked slowly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Mr. Arkwright signaled for Sister Meersham to show us out. “Order that tea through the speaking tube while you’re there, Sister. I’m parched.”
Out in the corridor, I thanked Harry for influencing Mr. Arkwright’s decision.
He nodded stiffly and walked off. “We’re none the wiser about who is lying—Bill Watson or Mrs. Jeffry.”
I fell into step alongside him and glanced up at the chiseled planes of his profile. He stared directly ahead. “I’ve sometimes wondered if it bothered you to not know your real father.” I touched my fingers to his, not sure what to say next.
His little finger hooked around mine. “It has, from time to time, especially when I was young. I’m less curious now, but others care.”
“Anyone in particular?”
The door on our left opened and Flossy emerged. I hadn’t realized we’d already reached the family suites. Harry suddenly released my finger and put some space between us, but it was too late. Flossy had noticed our intimacy.
“Mr. Armitage!” Her wide-eyed gaze shifted to my door, next to hers. “What are you doing here?”