Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
On the cab ride over to Mr. Callister’s St. James Square townhouse, Gideon pulled Percival Pennington’s diary from his pocket and began examining the pages. Pennington used full names rarely and abbreviations more often to note meetings, social events, and days when he would be arguing in court.
There were several mentions of “dinner with G. C.” or “billiards with Callister.” No mention of the Palladia club, but there was one “Gordie at club” noted two weeks prior.
Gideon noticed one pair of initials recurring frequently—meetings with a “D. D. at Regent Sq” or “D. D. at Rosebud.” Flipping through pages, Gideon stopped at an anomaly, running his fingers along the ragged remains of what seemed to be a ripped-out page.
A few more pages in, he found another jagged remnant of a missing diary page.
The meetings with D. D. were the most consistent appointments Pennington seemed to have. They were noted every single week for the past several months, always two days during the week—Tuesday and Friday.
A notation for “Beecham” caught his eye. That meeting had occurred only a week prior, but there was no mention of whether it was with the father or the daughter, to whom Pennington had once been betrothed.
At the very back of the diary, Gideon found several addresses, including one in Soho Square that he suspected was the lodgings Lance Pennington had mentioned. He also spotted an address on Regent Square, seemingly the mentioned location where Pennington had met with D. D.
Soon his carriage drew to a stop at Callister’s townhouse, and Gideon hopped down, paid the driver, and tipped his head up to soak in a bit of the sun after the previous day’s torrent.
Before he reached the front door, he heard the strains of a violin. Someone was playing rather energetically.
His first knock was ignored, and the violin music continued, but when he pounded harder, the music stopped. A moment later, a balding, dark-haired man with sharp features glared back at him. A violin hung from his fingers by its scroll.
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Gordon Callister?” Gideon’s mind struggled for a moment. Who lived in St. James Square and answered their own front door? As a detective working the district of Mayfair, he was accustomed to encountering servants before he crossed any threshold.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Detective Inspector Gideon Pierce.”
Callister’s testy demeanor faltered, and he lowered his eyes. “Of course. Please come in, Inspector Pierce.”
He opened the door more widely and ushered Gideon inside.
The house struck Gideon as every bit as richly furnished as any other townhouse in the square would be, and the man must have employed some servants, because every surface was polished to high sheen and fresh flowers had been set out on each available tabletop he could see.
Callister led him into what seemed more study than drawing room. The walls were covered in a deep burgundy wallpaper, bookshelves lined one wall, and dark-wood furnishings were interspersed with velvet-covered settees and several leather wingbacks, all grouped together as if for discussion.
“You must wonder why I am answering my own door,” Callister said as he closed the room’s door behind them.
He laid his violin on a settee. Gideon noticed a folded newspaper on the velvet cushions too. Then Callister moved toward a drinks cart to prepare himself a glass of what looked to be brandy.
“Would you like one?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“No.” Gideon generally abstained from alcohol, hating how it dulled his mind. He recalled, as he was certain Electra did, how it had been more menace than solace to her father.
When Callister turned back, he coughed several times and lifted a hand to cover his mouth. “Forgive me,” he said, voice raspy. “Now you know why I greeted you myself. Sickness has spread through my staff and many of us have been abed for days, including my housekeeper, footman, and butler.”
He waved a hand in the direction of the front door.
“The doctor has only just departed.” Callister pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at his nose.
“I know why you’re here, Inspector.” His light-colored eyes compelled Gideon to hold his gaze.
“My friend has fallen and in a most distasteful way. Have you found his killer?”
“No, Mr. Callister, but I will.”
There was a challenge in the way Callister assessed him, and Gideon found himself straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders in his expensive overcoat. He devoted a sizable portion of his wages to fashionable, tailored clothing for moments like these.
“I will hold you to that, Inspector.” Callister’s brows drew together, and he gestured to a pair of wingbacks that faced each other. “Shall we sit? I take it you have questions to put to me.”
Gideon removed his overcoat and hung it on the back of the chair, then he placed his bowler on top. Callister had not offered to take his hat as a servant would have.
Once they were both seated, the parliamentarian took a sip of his liquor, set the cut-crystal glass aside, and let out a rasping cough.
“You were a longtime friend of Percival Pennington, I understand.”
Callister’s sandy brows lifted. “Who have you been speaking to?”
“Mr. Pennington’s staff and family.” Gideon flipped his notebook open. “How would you characterize your connection to Mr. Pennington?”
“Much as you did, Inspector. We met at Oxford some twenty years ago and have been friends since the day we met. We’ve visited each other’s homes both here and in the country. Our families have spent holidays together. And we belong to the same club.”
“Only one? I’ve been told that you were both associated with two clubs.
” Gideon watched as the man's face registered what seemed like half a dozen emotions in the space of a few seconds.
Gideon could detect what looked like genuine shock.
Remorse, perhaps? And then the gentleman schooled his features into something less expressive.
“I don’t know who would make such a claim.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
“Only one club. The other…is a place where gentlemen go to be entertained.”
“And the name of that establishment?”
Callister glared at him and then let out a shaky sigh. “You will dig for all of his secrets, won’t you?”
“I intend to find his killer, Mr. Callister. I must know him to find the person who would cut him down in the street.”
Flinching at that characterization, Callister reached for his liquor again.
“It is called the Rosebud Club,” he said in a ragged voice, then broke into another fit of coughing.
Gideon noted the name, recognizing that whoever Pennington met there went by the initials D. D., but instinct told him to hold that detail for now.
“I understand you were one of the last people to see Mr. Pennington yesterday evening.”
Callister flinched at that.
“His staff was told that he was dining with you last evening.”
“No, he did not, nor did we plan to do so. He did call here earlier in the day. I told him not to stay as I was still feeling rather rough.”
“But you improved as the day progressed?” Gideon asked, brows arched. “A constable attempted to call last evening, and a maid answered, telling him you were out.”
Gideon could tell Callister was clenching his jaw by the shift of muscles in his cheek.
“I did go out for a bit last evening.” He smiled tightly. “Gentlemanly pursuits.”
“Despite your illness.” Gideon arched a brow.
Callister gave him a withering stare. “The worst has passed, and I had been housebound too long. A man has needs, Inspector.”
The comment inspired immediate disdain, and Gideon felt his lips tightening, but he tamed his expression. It wouldn’t do to sneer at the man.
“You went to the Rosebud Club?”
“No, not the club itself. But I was in the company of a congenial young lady who I’d once met there for much of the evening.”
“Are you married, Mr. Callister?”
“Widowed, Inspector.” The parliamentarian frowned. “How is that relevant?”
“Merely a question, sir.” Gideon refused to lower his gaze. “So the last time you saw Mr. Pennington was at what hour?”
Tipping his head to gaze up at the ceiling, Callister took a long while to ponder the question. “It must have been around two in the afternoon, and he stayed for perhaps half an hour or so. We shared a cup of tea and he departed.”
“May I ask the nature of that conversation?”
Callister bristled. “We discussed several pieces of legislation that will be coming up for debate in the House. We agreed that we'd be at certain events in the coming days. It's shocking to think that he won't be there.”
As Gideon bent his head to note Callister’s answers, he felt the man assessing him again.
“He was attacked with a knife according to the papers,” Callister said quietly. “Who would do such a thing?”
Gideon lifted his head. “Do you know of anyone, Mr. Callister, who might wish Mr. Pennington harm? I have reason to believe it was someone known to Mr. Pennington. Likely someone who knew him well.”
“Christ.”
“That surprises you?”
“Of course, it surprises me.” Callister emptied his glass and sat it down hard on the table at his side. “Percival was a decent chap. An excellent barrister. Smart as a whip. Amusing. Particularly when he was in his cups, of course.”
The man was painting a glowing portrait, and yet his reaction about the Rosebud Club was telling. And then there was the matter of what the Pennington staff had overheard, and Lance Pennington’s cryptic comment.
“So an affable man, and yet he seemed to have at least one enemy,” Gideon said, watching Callister’s response.
“Apparently,” Callister bit out. “Tragically.”
“In twenty years, I would assume there were conflicts between yourself and Mr. Pennington.”
Callister scoffed. “Yes, I suspect there were, of course. There were bound to be arguments.”
“An argument between the two of you was overheard last week at Mr. Pennington’s townhouse. Do you recall the nature of that disagreement?”