Chapter One #3
Solomon poked around the tidy bookshelf, while Constance examined the bland landscapes on the wall.
But there was little clue to the Walthams’ characters from either.
Solomon was just straightening when the door opened and a young couple burst into the room, their faces wreathed in mischievous grins.
Constance, of course, was up to any social occasion. She advanced, smiling upon the couple, who had pulled up short at sight of Solomon. “Mrs. Waltham? We’re so sorry to intrude upon you unannounced.”
“Oh, no,” said the pretty Mrs. Waltham, “Sheeves announced you perfectly and curiosity got the better of us. But we’re not acquainted, are we?” She did not offer her hand.
“Not yet,” Constance said. “I’m Mrs. Grey. This is my husband.”
“I say!” Waltham exclaimed as Solomon bowed to them. “You are the Solomon Grey, aren’t you? In shipping?”
“I am in shipping,” Solomon admitted, “among other things.”
Waltham thrust out his hand with casual friendliness. “Robert Waltham, at your service. Tell you what, come up to the drawing room—it’s always cold in here.”
The lady of the house and Constance led the way. Constance said admiringly, “What a charming home you have. Is the decoration your own design, Mrs. Waltham?” Everything was light and bright and uncluttered, from the plain-painted walls to the dainty, almost-sparse furnishings.
“It is,” Mrs. Waltham said, beaming. “My mother hates it, of course. She doesn’t think it’s dignified enough, but we’re just not dignified people, are we, Bobby?” she appealed to her husband, who gave a rueful laugh.
“Sadly not. Can’t seem to stay serious for long enough. Which is why I’m at a loss to explain your visit, sir—welcome as it is,” he added hastily as they entered a drawing room in a similar style. “Refreshment? Tea? Something stronger?”
Solomon and Constance both refused, and they all sat down comfortably, their hosts together on the sofa like children expectant of a treat.
Solomon spoke lightly. “Don’t worry, we have not called on a serious matter. Merely, we are looking for Mr. Percival Harvey.”
“Percy? He’s got rooms just off Piccadilly, in—”
“He hasn’t been back to his rooms in a few days. His father is worried—no doubt forgetting his own youth.”
“Not sure old Harvey was ever young,” Waltham remarked.
“The thing is,” Solomon said, “it might be best if I find him before his father does.”
Waltham grinned. “I should say so.”
“Have you any idea where I should start?”
Waltham opened his mouth, then closed it again and scratched his chin. “Not sure I do…”
“I understand there is a lady, a Mrs. Jenkins…”
Waltham frowned. “Oh, there’s always a lady with Perce. Not sure I know a Jenkins, though. What’s her first name?”
“Adelaide, I believe. She is a widow.”
Waltham brightened. “Adelaide! Of course. Yes, he’s quite besotted with her, whoever she is. Never met her.”
“I understood she was in Town just now.”
“Ah, then she might be at Grillon’s Hotel—he did go haring off there the other night.”
“Thank you, I’ll inquire there. When did you last see young Mr. Harvey?”
Waltham frowned with the effort of remembering. “Wednesday afternoon, at White’s. Had luncheon together.”
A day later than his valet had seen him. “How was he?”
“The worse for the night before,” Waltham said, grinning, “but cheerful enough with it.”
“How long did he stay in your company?”
“A few hours. I left him to come home about five, I think.”
“Did he say what he was going to do next? Or during the rest of the week?”
“No, he just follows his nose, does Perce. Though I could hazard a few guesses.” He cast Solomon a quick glance. “Guesses old Harvey wouldn’t like.”
“I shan’t tell him unless I need to.”
“Women and gaming. I daresay this Adelaide took care of the first. And he was a member of several clubs.”
“Did he only play at respectable clubs? Or did he favor any less salubrious establishments?”
“He’d play anywhere, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t seek out criminal places. To my knowledge.”
Solomon nodded. “Was he lucky?”
“Sometimes,” Waltham said dubiously.
“I understand he donated to several charities. I don’t suppose you know which he favored?”
Waltham raised his eyebrows. “Really? Ha! You think you know someone and then they surprise you! No, I’m afraid I’ve no idea.”
“I see… Just between ourselves, Mr. Waltham—and I have no desire to pass such confidences on to Mr. Richard Harvey—what else did Percy get up to that might have put him in bad or dangerous company?”
“Dangerous?” Waltham repeated, startled. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Did he go into poorer parts of the city for his diversions? Some call it slumming.”
Waltham’s face reddened and he shifted uncomfortably, glancing across the room at his wife and Constance, who seemed to be chatting happily together.
“I don’t know. Maybe. For girls, perhaps, if those of better breeding are—er…
unavailable. Or for gaming. He doesn’t mind risk, old Perce, not afraid of anyone.
But he’s not stupid. Why play crooked games when he can lose in legal ones? ”