Chapter 8
Mrs. Ogilvie had decked the halls of the Lewis town house in Christmas trimmings, but Julia felt low on holiday cheer.
Inspector Tennant had dropped by briefly on his return from the Isle of Wight.
But Sir Richard Mayne was impatient for the inspector’s report and expected him that evening.
He stayed only long enough to wish them a happy Christmas.
Dr. Lewis had asked, “Do you have plans, Richard? My sister is our only guest. You’d be most welcome to join us.”
Tennant hesitated. “Thank you, sir. That’s kind of you, but I spend Christmas in Kent with Hannah, our old housekeeper.”
Julia accompanied the inspector to the front door. “I’m sorry to refuse your invitation,” Tennant said, fiddling with the brim of his hat. “Hannah is … well, she’s something more than a servant.”
“I gathered that last June in Kent,” Julia said. “Over tea, she called you ‘Richard.’ Not many housekeepers use the Christian names of their employers.”
“The story is too long for the front door.”
“Another time, then.” Blast, Julia thought. I sound so … She tried to infuse more warmth in her voice and said, “Good night, Richard, and happy Christmas.”
Julia closed the door and leaned against it, eying her look of dejection in the hall mirror. What’s wrong with me?
When her hansom cab had pulled up on Horseferry Road, and she’d seen him for the first time in months, her heart had leaped.
Not something described in my anatomy books, she thought wryly.
And what had she done? She’d coolly brushed his cheeks when she’d wanted to wrap her arms around him.
And I call him buttoned up. One thing she knew.
We’ve become too polite with each other. Perhaps …
Julia nodded, smiling at the mirror’s reflection.
Yes. A healthy jolt of annoyance might shake things up.
In the past, she’d been skilled at provoking it.
She had an idea about a line of inquiry that needed pursuing.
Why not? She pulled her skirts away from her ankles and bounded upstairs to her sitting room.
She found the half-completed thank-you note to Lady Styles on her desk.
Alexandra’s lady-in-waiting had sent Christmas wishes and a twenty-pound contribution to the clinic from the princess.
Lady Styles had added a postscript, writing that she hoped the doctor had room on her private patient’s list for her, as well.
Room? I can add an auditorium of ladies-in-waiting to my practice.
Julia thought for a minute, added a question for Lady Styles, and sealed the letter. There. It’s done.
In Tennant’s office on Monday morning, O’Malley reported his lack of progress in the Dermott inquiry.
“Throwing money around a pub always earns praise from a barkeep,” Tennant said. “We’ll have to look elsewhere for information.”
“’Tis early to hear back from Brigid Dowling’s employers in Ireland. Something might turn up in her belongings.”
Tennant asked, “Any joy over the canvass of the theatrical supply shops?”
“Nothing so far, but there’s more of them than you’d think. Our coppers are still on it.”
“Our only witness is that young sweep who saw Brigid entering the carriage. He said the ginger-bearded suspect was a tall fellow. So is Dermott, and an absurd disguise would appeal to his odd sense of humor.”
A young policeman knocked. “Arrived by messenger, sir.” He handed the inspector an envelope.
Tennant turned it over and read the flap. “Well, well. Speak of the devil.” He opened it and read through the opening lines. “Sir Lionel sends us Frederick Locock’s address, as promised.” The inspector read the rest of the note and chuckled.
“You said the fella’s something of a card. What’s he saying for himself?”
“Dermott is trying his best to incriminate Major FitzGerald for Brigid Dowling’s murder. Listen to this. ‘I ran into Skittles on my ride in Hyde Park this morning and—’”
“Skittles, sir?”
“Catherine Walters, known as Skittles, is a high-priced courtesan, rumored to be the mistress of a long list of wealthy and important gentlemen, including the Prince of Wales.”
O’Malley shook his head. “And him, a young father of three and married to the lovely princess.”
“Dermott writes, ‘I remembered seeing FitzGerald riding with Skittles recently. Checked my diary, and happily—’ He’s underlined the word for us.
‘I noted an outing in the park on the morning in question, as you coppers say. So, FitzGerald was in London on the fateful day of Brigid Dowling’s murder! ’”
“Why happily? What’s the major done to him?”
“He doesn’t like the man, so it amuses Dermott to implicate him.”
“Sure, it’s daft since he puts himself in the frame as well.”
“Sir Lionel knows that, Paddy. It speaks to his innocence or a breathtaking arrogance if he’s guilty.” Tennant passed the note to O’Malley. “At least we have one accurate piece of information—Captain Locock’s address.”
“St. James Mews. Off Cleveland Row and near Green Park, he’s saying.”
“It’s early and a short walk. Let’s see if we can catch Locock at home. We’ll ask him what took him to the Isle of Wight in October.”
Their trek took them past the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall and along Cleveland Row.
The first right turn was St. James Mews.
Six Georgian town houses lined the courtyard.
O’Malley’s knock at number three went unanswered.
Tennant stopped a passing postman who said the Lococks would be away through Christmas.
From the pavement, Tennant looked up at the house, jingling the coins in his overcoat pocket.
“What’s your guess, Paddy? How much would the monthly rent set one back?”
“More than I earn in a year, I’m thinking.”
Tennant spotted a bowler-hatted man unscrewing a discreet FOR RENT sign at number six. “Let’s find out.” The inspector crossed the street and tipped his hat. “Are you the agent for these properties, sir?”
“I am.” The smiling, gap-toothed man stuck his screwdriver in his pocket and shifted the sign to his left hand. “What can I do for you gents?”
“I’m too late for number six, I see.”
“Sorry, guv. Got to be quick if you want to rent one of these beauties. Grosvenor properties they are, the three of them.” He grinned. “Folks like to brag that the Duke of Westminster is their landlord.”
“What about the houses across the street?” Tennant asked. “What rent might I expect to pay for number three, for example?”
“You’d pay nothing for that one. It’s a grace-and-favor. Rent-free if you’re a friend of the Prince of Wales. Chap who lives there moved in a few months ago.”
“So, I’m out of luck.”
The man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his card. “Lots of other fish in the sea, guvnor. Drop by my office anytime.” He tipped his bowler and walked off.
“Rent-free, royal accommodations. Captain Frederick Locock grows more interesting by the hour,” Tennant said as they retraced their steps to Pall Mall.
On their way back to the Yard, they passed the columned portico of the Athenaeum Club. Tennant eyed its gilded statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom. I could use some just now … and not only for the case, thinking of Julia.
It had been a snowy day in December when Dr. Andrew Lewis invited him to the club for a drink.
Only a year ago. Strange how much a part of his life Julia and her grandfather had become in so short a time.
Even Lady Aldridge. Tennant sensed a concern from her that he had never felt in his mother.
And Julia … He had to find a way to gather the strands before things were beyond raveling.
The inspector and his sergeant stopped and waited for the traffic to clear at the corner of Pall Mall and Waterloo Place. Tennant’s left boot slipped off the curb, and he winced.
O’Malley’s gaze flicked to Tennant’s leg. “You all right, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant.” Who do I think I’m kidding? He’s watched me struggle. O’Malley had never said a word, but the sergeant was an observant copper and no fool. “Are you spending Christmas with your sister, Paddy?”
“That I am. With those two young hooligans, my nephews, and a new niece, as well. What will yourself be doing, if I may ask the question?”
“I’ll spend Christmas in Kent with the woman who was like a mother to me.”
O’Malley nodded. “Ah, family. Whoever they may be. There’s nothing like having them around you at Christmas.”
When the traffic cleared, two sweeper lads brushed a clear lane through the road’s dung, and in the spirit of the season, Tennant gave each boy a shilling instead of a penny.
“All right, Paddy,” Tennant said when they reached the other side. “Give me your thoughts on Locock.”
“’Twas some good turn the fella did for Bertie to earn that grace-and-favor gaff.”
“He’s a half-pay captain, a man with a middling job in the Colonial Office, a doctor’s son, the third of five. He bought himself a yacht and lives, rent-free, at an expensive address, and moves in the first social circle.”
“They say there’s always room at the top,” O’Malley said. “But what did the fella do to climb there?”
On a crisp, clear Christmas morning, Dr. Andrew Lewis and his granddaughter attended services at All Hallows Church on the London Wall road, a short walk from the entrance to Finsbury Circus.
They had lingered for the celebratory ringing of the bells.
One hundred years earlier, in 1767, a new church had been built to replace the old.
“My grandfather missed the old All Hallows he knew as a boy,” Dr. Lewis said. “But I’m fond of the new church. You were baptized at its font, and I married your grandmother at the altar.”
“When was the old church built?”
“In the twelfth century. Parts of its foundation were older than that, constructed on the site of an older church and on the remnants of the Roman wall that ringed the city. You can spot some of the wall’s remains along the road if you look for it.”