Chapter 7 #2
“I’m not going to tell her, since I disagree with everything he said.
Mrs. Poole is a magnificent chef. Everyone in London says so.
” Uncle Ronald made a scoffing sound that had his jowls wobbling like one of Mrs. Poole’s jellies.
“Lombardi just likes being obnoxious. Even Floyd complained about the way he was treating Miss Cotton, and you know Floyd, he’s rather untroubled by most things. ”
I was glad Floyd had mentioned it. I wanted to ask my uncle if he was going to have a word with Mr. Lombardi about his behavior, but the lift door opened and there was no more privacy.
Uncle Ronald and I parted in the foyer, but I held my breath until the hotel door closed behind me.
Although he’d given his consent for me to investigate alongside Harry—albeit reluctantly—I still expected him to forbid it, or to demand I take a chaperone with me when I leave.
He did not, so it seemed I’d won that particular battle.
Harry had some work to conduct for another case, so I waited for him in the Roma Café below his office.
I sat at the table in the window and read the newspaper, noting the time and venue of Isabel Kempsey’s funeral listed in the obituaries.
I was surprised to see it being conducted already, considering there was a murder investigation going on.
“Another coffee, Miss Fox?” Luigi asked as he collected my used cup. Although he was of Italian descent, his accent was as Cockney as any Londoner’s.
“No, thank you. Do you have any other newspapers? I’ve finished this one.”
“Not in English.”
“You get Italian newspapers here?”
He indicated the two elderly men sitting on their stools at the counter. Every time I came into the café, they were there. I was beginning to think they’d glued themselves to the seats. “They like to read the news from back home, even if it is out of date by the time the papers arrive.”
“We have an Italian man staying at the hotel at the moment. I should send Mr. Lombardi here for some authentic food since he doesn’t like our restaurant’s offerings.”
“Lombardi? From the Bella Vita Company?”
“The same. Do you know him?”
“I know of him. I read he was in London.” He said something in Italian to the two regulars. The only word I picked up was Lombardi.
One reached for a nearby newspaper, flipped the pages until he found the article he wanted, then held it out for Luigi.
Luigi read the relevant part to me, translating into English.
“The Bella Vita Company’s Nerve Elixir has come under fire from pharmacology researchers at the University of Bologna for its addictive qualities.
’” He showed me the text, but I could only understand a few words.
“They’re calling for a ban on its sale, as well as the sale of other medicines that contain cocaine, saying they cause addiction, which can lead to other health problems and eventually death. ”
“Do you think they’ll ban it?”
Luigi repeated my question in Italian for the two men. They both shrugged and started speaking over each other. Even if they spoke in English, I doubted I’d be able to follow both at the same time, but Luigi seemed to have no trouble.
“They say it’s unlikely to happen soon,” Luigi said.
“That’s similar to what’s happening here in England. Despite some experts condemning cocaine, most doctors are still prescribing medicines that contain it. Some patients become addicted and their health actually gets worse.”
One of the men held out a second Italian newspaper and said a few words to Luigi. Luigi then interpreted for me. “This article says the Bella Vita Company has borrowed heavily and must increase sales internationally or face ruin.”
“But sales of its tonic are excellent, aren’t they?”
“The article says the Nerve Elixir sells very well, but the company has developed a number of other medicines that have failed in a heavily saturated market abroad. The Bella Vita Company built too many factories in the wake of its success with the Nerve Elixir, but most will have to close soon unless sales improve.” He lowered the paper.
“A great deal must be riding on the presentation he’s doing at your hotel. ”
“Indeed,” I murmured.
Harry entered the café and apologized for his tardiness. “I hope you haven’t been bored, Cleo.”
“Not at all. In fact, it’s been very enlightening. Oh, and the funeral starts soon. Shall we go?”
“All right. I’d like to see how upset Mr. Kempsey is.”
“And Miss Rowbottom,” I added.
I paid for my coffee at the counter and thanked the two old men in Italian. One after the other caught my hand then kissed me on each cheek before concentrating on their coffees again.
Harry held the door open for me. “Did I miss something?”
I told him about Mr. Lombardi’s company troubles while we walked, and he agreed I needed to mention it to my uncle so he could get full payment for the event up front.
“And if Mr. Lombardi refuses?” I asked.
“Then Sir Ronald will have grounds to cancel the whole thing.”
“That will damage the hotel’s reputation.”
“Unfortunately it will, but it’s that or risk being out of pocket.”
The drizzling rain seemed appropriately gloomy for a burial. Harry and I watched from a distance as mourners huddled under umbrellas in the cemetery. Once the formalities finished, they dispersed quickly along the gravel path. It wasn’t the weather for lingering.
We had decided not to disturb Isabel Kempsey’s husband or sister on this difficult day and be content with picking up any clues we could by simply observing.
While we couldn’t make out facial expressions from a distance, we did notice Miss Rowbottom dogging her brother-in-law’s steps. Whenever he moved, so did she.
When he made directly for us, so did she.
I thought our own umbrellas and the mausoleum hid us well, but apparently not. By the time we realized we’d been spotted, it was too late to leave with dignity.
Mr. Kempsey was understandably cross, but not as much as I expected. “You could have chosen a better time and place if you needed to speak to me again, Armitage.”
“We’re terribly sorry for the intrusion,” Harry said. “We’ll call on you tomorrow.”
“Get on with it now. No point putting it off.”
Before Harry could begin, Miss Rowbottom asked if she could say something. “The police told us the doctor has been released. If that’s so, then why are you persisting with your inquiries, Mr. Armitage? Your client is free now.”
“His name isn’t completely cleared,” Harry said.
“I see.” She pressed the handkerchief edged with black lace to her chest. It was damp from crying, and her eyes were red and swollen. “So…he may have killed my sister?”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Kempsey spluttered. “I told you, it was an accident. The infernal machine must have been faulty.”
Miss Rowbottom sidled closer, causing her umbrella to clash with his. She grasped hold of his arm. “I’m sure you’re right.” She blinked up at him. “You always are.”
Mr. Kempsey stamped the end of his walking stick into the soft earth. “Go on then, Armitage. What do you want to know?”
Harry hesitated. Even for someone as smooth as Harry, the topic wasn’t an easy one. “I’m afraid I have to ask you a difficult question.”
Mr. Kempsey smacked the end of his walking stick against his shoe, dislodging a chunk of mud. “Can’t be helped.”
Part of me admired his no-nonsense fortitude, and his eagerness to get to the truth.
But it did make me wonder if he’d cared for his wife at all.
There was no sign that he’d shed any tears for her.
Was that merely his nature? Or did it confirm what we already suspected—that their marriage wasn’t a happy one, hence she’d had an affair.
“Dr. Iverson told us that his affair with your wife came to an end before her death because you became aware of it, sir. Yet we were led to believe you only found out afterward, when you discovered the letters.”
“Don’t say anything, Ian! It’s a trap!” Miss Rowbottom’s loud outburst proved that first impressions could often be misleading. She may appear to be a timid spinster, but there was a fiercely protective side to her. She glared at Harry. “My brother-in-law is grieving. Please leave this instant!”
Mr. Kempsey stared wide-eyed at Miss Rowbottom.
Perhaps he’d never seen this side of her either.
“If I don’t answer, they’ll think me guilty.
I’ve done nothing wrong.” He tried to move away, but she tightened her grip on his arm.
“It’s true,” he told Harry. “My sister-in-law brought the affair to my attention some weeks ago. I was angry. Isabel and I had a row about it, at which point she promised to end the liaison. I had no reason to doubt her and we spoke no more about it. I did not kill my wife.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kempsey,” Harry said. “Again, we apologize for the intrusion.”
I wasn’t prepared to leave yet, however. Not without more answers. “How did you find out about the affair, Miss Rowbottom?”
Miss Rowbottom lifted her chin, defiant. “Isabel told me.”
Being an only sibling, I could never truly understand the relationship between sisters, but I doubted I could ever betray my two cousins, and I’d not even known them an entire year.
For Miss Rowbottom to break that trust and tell her brother-in-law about the affair meant she must have disliked Isabel, perhaps even hated her.
Or she wanted what Isabel had for herself.
Miss Rowbottom jutted her chin even further forward.
“I can see what you’re thinking, Miss Fox, and I’d like to point out that my sister was boastful about her affair with the doctor.
She enjoyed rubbing my nose in the fact that she was able to get a wonderful husband and a lover, and I had no one. I couldn’t let her get away with it.”
Mr. Kempsey extricated himself from her grip, all the while blinking at his sister-in-law as if he’d never seen this side of her before.
Miss Rowbottom reached for him, but he moved away. Her eyes filled with tears as she appealed to him. “Isabel showed no guilt or remorse, because she knew she could get away with it. So I did the only thing in my power to make her pay for her crime.”
We waited, holding our breaths, hoping for a confession.
When she realized the implication of her words, she quickly shook her head. “I didn’t kill her! I simply meant I told Ian what she’d done, to bring it all out into the open.”
Mr. Kempsey flexed the fingers that clutched the head of his walking stick. “You did the right thing.”
Miss Rowbottom sucked in a shuddery breath of relief.
“An affair is not a crime,” Harry pointed out.
“It should be, when the injured party is a decent man and good provider.” Again, she reached for Mr. Kempsey. This time he didn’t step away.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he intoned.
They walked off, arm in arm like a married couple.
“I wonder what the future holds for them,” I said. “It’s illegal for him to marry his sister-in-law, but perhaps she’ll keep house for him.”
“Is that a euphemism?”
I simply smiled.
He offered me his arm and we departed on the path leading to the cemetery gates. I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder at our suspects, mingling with the few remaining mourners near the gravesite.
“Miss Rowbottom may have denied killing Isabel, but I’m not ruling her out,” I said. “There was no sisterly love between them. In fact, I’d say Miss Rowbottom loathed Isabel. She certainly envied her life.”
“I’m not ruling Kempsey out either,” Harry added. “He may not show much emotion, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t furious underneath the cool facade.”
“Where to now?” I asked.
“Back to Mary and Linton Streets. I want to show you something.”
After warning my uncle of Mr. Pierce’s threat the previous afternoon, Harry had left the Mayfair Hotel and returned to Islington to watch the intersection of the two streets that had given Mary Linton the inspiration for her fake name.
He’d kept watch until darkness fell, for a woman matching the description given by Dr. Iverson and his staff.
He’d not seen her, but a sign on an office door had caught his attention.
It was that office we now watched. Positioned several doors down from the pub, we’d not passed it the day before, having approached the area from a different direction. But I agreed with Harry. It may be where Mrs. Mary Linton worked.
According to the sign on the door, it was the office of R. Bolton, Private Detective Agency.
Private detectives sometimes had to disguise themselves while investigating and the one thing we knew about Mary Linton was that she’d put on a wig to cover her distinctive red hair.
She was trying to be unobtrusive, to blend in, perhaps so no one would notice her when she stole Sister’s Dearden’s key then returned to the clinic at the end of the day to put it back, using the excuse that she’d left her glove behind.
Few ladies left the house without gloves, and if she did, she’d notice immediately, not hours later.
All of those points added up to suspicious behavior, and happening mere days before Isabel Kempsey’s murder made the woman even more suspicious.
But how was a private detective involved in the murder of a woman at a medical clinic?
It wasn’t until a slim redhead left the office carrying a bag that the pieces began to fit into place. “It’s her. Come on, Harry, let’s confront her before she disappears.”
He fell into step beside me as we crossed the street. “How do you know that’s the woman calling herself Mary Linton?”
“Do you see her bag?” The leather handbag wasn’t as large as a doctor’s medical case, but it was quite big.
Few women carried one that large on their everyday outings.
It was too unwieldy. It was the sort of bag a woman who worked in an office carried with her, a little like Mr. Hobart’s satchel that he used to carry paperwork to and from the hotel.
“What about it?” Harry asked.
“A woman who caught the omnibus outside Duncan Hamlin’s workshop carried the same bag. She had her wig on then, I think, but it’s definitely the same bag.” We were only a few steps behind the woman now. “Excuse me,” I called out. “May we have a word?”
She glanced over her shoulder, gasped, and ran off.