Chapter 6
For a man who’d just been released from a Scotland Yard holding cell, Dr. Iverson didn’t look particularly pleased to be home. Indeed, I suspected he and Mrs. Iverson had been having a tense discussion moments before our arrival, going by the strained faces.
Although signs of exhaustion circled his eyes, Dr. Iverson was still a very handsome man.
The flecks of gray through his thick brown hair suited him, and the lines across his forehead did nothing to detract from the strong planes of his face.
The way he looked at me when Harry introduced me made me feel as though I was important.
Where most men tended to treat me like Harry’s assistant, even when I wasn’t described as such, Dr. Iverson gave me his full attention.
As did his wife. She rose from the sofa and offered me her seat. “May I say, I am pleased to see you still working with Mr. Armitage, Miss Fox. It’s refreshing to see women take on traditional male roles.”
“You’d be surprised at how many female private detectives there are in London,” I said as I sat. “Despite popular belief to the contrary, we make up a good proportion.”
“But are they involved in important cases? Or are they merely hired to trap wayward husbands?”
The mention of wayward husbands threw a blanket over us, smothering the friendly greeting so that the air once again thickened.
“You are quite right,” I said, keeping my tone light in an effort to diffuse the tension.
“I’ve been fortunate to work on some very interesting investigations. Others may not be so lucky.”
“I would very much like to hear about them some time.”
Dr. Iverson cleared his throat. “I want to assure you, Armitage, I intend to continue with your services. The police may have released me, but my name is not yet in the clear.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. “I believe I’ve made progress.”
“Oh?”
The housekeeper entered carrying a tray of tea things. Mrs. Iverson dismissed her and poured the tea into cups, which she handed out.
Harry waited until the housekeeper closed the door behind her before speaking again. “I’m afraid we have to ask some delicate questions, but we would very much like you to stay, Mrs. Iverson.”
“I understand. I must be considered a suspect in the murder of Isabel Kempsey, since she was having an affair with my husband.”
Dr. Iverson’s face flushed. “I only told my wife this morning, so she is not a suspect.”
“They only have your word for that, and since you omitted to tell Mr. Armitage about the affair in the first place, he quite rightly must doubt everything you say now.”
Dr. Iverson mumbled an apology to Harry.
“It would have been helpful if I knew,” Harry said.
“My husband hoped it wouldn’t come out,” Mrs. Iverson said. “But these things always do in the end, don’t they, Miss Fox?”
I was caught off guard, but managed to cover my surprise at being addressed by nodding. “How long had it been going on?”
“Since June,” Dr. Iverson said. “It has been over for a few weeks.”
“They ended it when Mr. Kempsey found out.” Mrs. Iverson turned to her husband. “It’s important to be honest with Miss Fox and Mr. Armitage. They are here to help you, and they cannot do that unless you speak truthfully.”
“You are right, my dear. You always are.” He regarded Harry.
“As my wife said, the affair ended because Kempsey found out. I’m not sure how.
I think he guessed and confronted Isabel.
We thought it best to stop our liaisons at that point.
We didn’t want to ruin her marriage. She didn’t love her husband, but she didn’t want to leave him, and I had no intention of leaving my wife. ”
So, Mr. Kempsey had known before her death, despite what his sister-in-law, Miss Rowbottom, claimed. That placed him very much near the top of our suspect list.
I watched Mrs. Iverson, but she showed neither surprise nor annoyance at her husband’s admission.
They’d said he’d only just informed her, so I expected more shock and hurt on her part.
Although I was quite sure our arrival had interrupted a tense discussion, that tension seemed to have already dissolved, at least as far as the affair was concerned.
Had they been discussing it at all, or something else?
“If the affair was over, why did Isabel Kempsey continue to see you professionally?” Harry asked.
“I’m an excellent doctor.” Dr. Iverson said it with conviction, not a hint of doubt in his voice. He truly believed it. Clearly, he didn’t know why my aunt was no longer his patient. Since he hadn’t asked about her, I presumed he didn’t know we were related.
Even though I was listening to Dr. Iverson, I watched his wife’s reaction. As one of our main suspects, she might give something away with a look or movement. But she simply calmly sipped her tea.
“Some of your letters to Isabel Kempsey were found in her things,” Harry went on.
Dr. Iverson’s face blanched.
Mrs. Iverson set down her teacup in the saucer with a clatter. She shot her husband a steely glare. “I told you. Never write anything down unless you don’t care who sees it.”
Dr. Iverson rubbed a trembling hand over his jaw. Perhaps this was what they were discussing when we arrived. Mrs. Iverson wasn’t angry with her husband about the affair; she was angry because evidence of it existed.
She turned to Harry. “Can you acquire the letters? We’ll double your fee.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, noncommittal.
I studiously avoided glancing at his jacket pocket where the packet of letters was safely hidden. “One of the letters was different to the others and appears to be written by someone else,” I said. “Do you know anything about it, Doctor? Could it have been from another of Mrs. Kempsey’s lovers?”
“There were no others,” he spluttered in his eagerness to deny my remark.
His wife rolled her eyes and sipped her tea.
“Perhaps Mrs. Kempsey had another lover after you,” I went on. “The letter was dated five days before she died and asked to meet her tonight on Regent Street.”
He frowned. “I’ve seen that letter, although I can’t recall which day exactly. Last week, I do know that much. It wasn’t Isabel’s, so I don’t know how it came to be in her possession.”
“Who was it addressed to?” Harry asked.
“No one. It came to the clinic. It was given to me along with some other mail. I threw it away since it made no sense to me. Isabel must have taken it out of the wastebasket and kept it, although I can’t think why.
Perhaps she thought I was seeing someone else and was jealous, even though our relationship had ended.
” He seemed quite surprised by the revelation.
“She was at the clinic the day you received it?” Harry asked.
“That day, and twice more last week. Her nerves required a great deal of treatment.”
Mrs. Iverson smiled tightly. “Many of the pretty patients have frayed nerves that require several appointments per week. More tea, Miss Fox?”
Once again, I was caught out by her sudden attention.
Was she using me to score a point in the battle of wills with her husband?
If so, I couldn’t quite work out what she was trying to achieve.
Was she trying to draw the doctor’s attention to me?
Encourage him to flirt with me and thereby catch him in the act and accuse him of being flirtatious with other women? If so, it was clumsily done.
Harry seemed quite oblivious to the strange exchange. He was still focused on the fifth letter, the one that was different to the others. “Why do you get the mail, Doctor? Isn’t it Miss Wainsmith’s job to go through it before passing on only what is relevant?”
Mrs. Iverson tutted. “That silly girl probably didn’t know what to do with it and simply handed it over along with the other correspondence.”
Dr. Iverson merely shrugged. “That must be it.”
“Speaking of Miss Wainsmith,” Harry went on. “Did she know about your affair with Isabel Kempsey? Did Sister Dearden?” He looked quite sincere, giving no sign that Miss Wainsmith had been the one to inform us.
Again, Dr. Iverson shrugged. “If they did, they didn’t mention it to me.”
“Mrs. Iverson?” Harry prompted. “Do you think either of them knew?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Armitage. You’d have to ask them.”
Harry moved on. “Doctor, can you say for certain that the cupboard where the Electro Therapy Machine is kept in your consulting suite was locked?”
“I can’t, no. I informed the police that I think I left it unlocked. Sometimes I am in a hurry and don’t get around to it.”
His wife tutted again and rolled her eyes for good measure.
Dr. Iverson stiffened. “The murderer still had to get into the building. The front door was locked, I’m very sure. He or she must have stolen the key.”
That led Harry to mention the woman calling herself Mary Linton, who’d returned to the clinic at the end of the day last Thursday in search of her glove, although it may have in fact been to return Sister Dearden’s key which had gone missing earlier that day.
He explained how the address she’d given didn’t exist, and we believed she’d derived her false name from the two streets, Mary and Linton.
“It’s possible she lives nearby and saw those streets regularly.
” He removed his notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flipped to a blank page.
“Can you remember what she looked like?”
Dr. Iverson settled back into the chair as he thought. “She wanted to use the machine, which I don’t ordinarily do during first appointments, but she insisted.”
“They want to know what she looked like,” his wife prompted.
“She was young. Younger than most of my patients. Quite attractive, too.”
“And confident?” I asked, recalling how Miss Wainsmith had described her.