MONDAY MORNING, I WAS UP EARLY, ready to consider my next move over tea and toast and lots of butter. It turned out to be an easy decision. Mr. Lynvale. The second visitor at Mr. Ainsworth’s house. I still hadn’t talked to him, and it was unlikely Inspector Hamilton would have put off his visit for this long. Maybe there would be a clue there. I had the address in my handbag, so as soon as I finished my breakfast, I returned to the Underground and set off for the shop.
Mr. Lynvale’s shop was small, tucked between a bookshop and an estate agent. Inside, the shop was narrow and mostly filled with a long counter. Behind it was a wall separating the back room from the salesroom. The wall was covered in cubbyholes filled with different kinds of letter papers and envelopes and books showing examples of what could be specially ordered. There was a young woman behind the counter. She pasted on her smile as she saw me come in. “Can I help you?”
I decided on a round-about approach. “I need some letter paper that can be used in a typewriter.”
“We have several weights.” She pulled sheets from six of the cubbies and brought them to me. We discussed the various papers for a while, and I chose something suitable for sending out invoices to better clients.
As she was preparing my receipt, I casually asked, “Is Mr. Lynvale around?” I tried to sound like I wanted to discuss another purchase.
“He’s in the back room. Would you like me to get him for you?”
“Could I go back and see him?” It seemed more private, and I didn’t want him to feel rushed or be interrupted by customers.
“I suppose. There’s a small office on the left. You’ll find him there.” She finished wrapping my paper then opened the partition in the counter and let me through to the back room.
Mr. Lynvale was a middle-aged man with greying dark hair and a good quality suit, a little shiny at the cuffs. He was sitting at a desk that I took to be second hand until I got close enough to recognize the inlay as an 18th-century Venetian pattern. I’d seen one like it at the South Kensington Museum. I tapped on the door as I entered. “Mr. Lynvale?”
He looked up from what I could see was a ledger book. I tried but couldn’t tell if the numbers were balancing or not. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “May I be of assistance?”
“I hope so. You’re Mr. Lynvale?”
He nodded and gestured for me to sit in a slightly battered Hepplewhite chair. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking into the death of Mr. Ainsworth. Mrs. Delford said you had called on him in the days before his death.”
“Someone from your office was already here. Harrin. Harrington. Hamilton. That was it. I told him everything that I know, which wasn’t much.”
I debated whether it would be better to let him go on thinking I was with the Yard or not. I decided it was too obviously if not lying, then at least deceitful. “I’m not with Scotland Yard. I’m conducting a private inquiry. So if you could tell me what you told them—”
Mr. Lynvale shook his head. “I don’t think I should be discussing it with you at all then. I am sorry.”
It had been a long shot. I nodded. “I understand.”
“After all, I don’t know your part in all of this.”
“I’m a friend of Mrs. Pomeroy, the cook at Mr. Carrollton's house. She asked me to look into it.”
Mr. Lynvale straightened a little and smoothed back his hair. “Mrs. Pomeroy, you say? Well, maybe it’s all right then. Unpaid bills. I was going to see Mr. Ainsworth about unpaid bills.”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Carrollton’s, of course.”
“Why didn’t you see Mr. Carrollton about them?”
“I did. He told me that Mr. Ainsworth had the books, so I went to see him.”
“And was he helpful?”
“Yes, of course. He asked me to send over the invoices, and he would see they were paid.”
“And did you?”
“I got them together, but then I heard he died, and I didn’t want to bother them at that moment. I was going to bring the matter up again next week with whoever was going to take over the legal matters for Mr. Carrollton.”
“And where were you the night he died?”
“At home. Where else would I be?”
“Had you been to Parkside House that day?”
“As a matter of fact, I did go there. I had to deliver some envelopes to Mr. Carrollton, and I left them with Mrs. Pomeroy, so I could see she was quite busy.”
I had the feeling that visiting Mrs. Pomeroy had been the real reason for the call. “Did you see anything?”
He shook his head. “Just Mrs. Pomeroy preparing for the dinner.”
“What about Saturday at three thirty? Where were you?”
“Here in my shop. Where else would I be?”
“Did you have a lot of customers?”
“No, it was very quiet. Why?”
I didn’t want to give him any information Inspector Hamilton hadn’t. I shrugged. “I don’t know what’s important yet, I’m afraid.”
“That was very specific, though.”
“I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll mention to Mrs. Pomeroy how helpful you were.”
That distracted him from my questions. “If you think she would be interested. Yes, yes. Certainly. I’ll show you out.”
Back on the street, I wondered what I’d learned. The answer seemed to be: not much. His story sounded plausible, but there were no witnesses, and he had been in the kitchen on the day of the dinner party. He could have done something to the food, but then we were back to the question of how the poison was delivered. Still, he seemed to be my best hope. I shook my head and went home. I’d have a cup of tea and think about it.
~ * ~ * ~
When I got back to Paddington Street, I found Inspector Hamilton sitting in the balloon chair in the front hall, waiting for me. My first thought was that I was a suspect again now that the pills seemed to have been ruled out, my second that he knew about my visit to Mr. Lynvale; but he looked too cheerful for either of those possibilities. I settled for “Hello?”
“Miss Pengear. I was waiting for you. Would you mind coming with me? I’d like you to take a look at something.”
It didn’t sound threatening, and the word “arrest” wasn’t anywhere in there, but I was still cautious. “At what?”
Inspector Hamilton stood up. “You said you sewed a button on Mr. Ainsworth’s shirt that night.”
“That’s right.”
“I want you to try and identify it.”
That seemed safe enough. “If it will help. Let me leave this with Mrs. Albright.” I held up the parcel of letter-paper.
“Excellent. I’ll get us a cab. You’ll be happy to know I released Mrs. Pomeroy this morning.”
I left the parcel on the table in front of Mrs. Albright’s flat — after all, who would steal a packet of letter-paper — and followed him to the door. “Why didn’t you begin with that?”
“So it did make a difference, then? I wondered how far your interest in the truth went.”
I rolled my eyes as I followed him out into the street. “Fine, my interest is centered on Mrs. Pomeroy. Why did you let her go?”
Inspector Hamilton spotted an empty cab and flagged it down. He held the door for me and handed me in, then gave the address and climbed into the seat across from me.
I let him get settled before I said, “You were saying?”
Inspector Hamilton ignored my question. “How long would you say elapsed between the starter and the soup?”
“At least twenty minutes.”
“And how did the soup come up from the kitchen?”
“In the tureen.”
“And the bowls?”
“They were stacked on the tray. I put them out on the serving tray and filled them from the tureen.”
“So only you could have known what order they were in on the serving tray.”
“That’s right, but I’m quite sure I didn’t poison them. And Ross served...”
“You could have forced one on him. You were carrying the tray.”
“You mean like a card trick? Only I was carrying the tray with both hands. How would I have done it?”
He sighed. “And you have no motive. And an alibi for Warland’s death. And despite what you think, I would prefer not to arrest you for murder.”
“Well, that’s that, then.”
I stared at him until he added, “I knew you wouldn’t let that go. Simple, really. The medical examiner said the dose of poison as large as what he thinks was given would have acted quickly. If it had been in the mousse, he’d have been dead before the soup was even sent up.”
“So it couldn’t have been the first courses.”
“Exactly.”
“So it would have had to have been in the soup, which was served to everyone from the same tureen, and is, therefore, impossible.” I flopped back against the cushions.
Inspector Hamilton smiled. “Why are you the one who’s frustrated? Your friend’s in the clear again. If she didn't kill Mr. Ainsworth, she has no motive for poisoning the others, so I’ve still got to find the real killer.”
“But if he was killed within minutes of taking the poison, and the poison couldn’t have been in what he was eating, where did it come from?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, Miss Pengear.”
“What about the pills?”
“Did you see him take any at the table? Did anybody? Mrs. Delford would have known at the very least, since she was holding them in her handbag, but she swears they stayed in her handbag until she took them out when he collapsed.”
“But why did you think it was the pills, then?”
“Because they were full of cyanide.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, it took a moment for the words to register in my mind. “Are you sure he was killed with cyanide?”
“The medical examiner is. I asked him to check twice. It was not strychnine, even though what you described sounded like it. He also pointed out that, even if it was strychnine, it would have had to have been administered in the same way, with the same problems. Here we are.”
He helped me out of the cab and led me up through the reception area, where I was becoming a fixture, to the staff lift.
“The paperwork is in my office. We’ll stop there first, and you can leave your hat and coat so they won’t be in your way. Would you like some tea before we begin?”
“Will it be as bad as that?”
“No, no, not at all. Just a little bit of a wait.”
I slipped out of my coat in the hall while Inspector Hamilton unlocked his door. “Worried there won’t be room for you to do that inside?”
“Will there be?”
Inspector Hamilton grinned. “Probably not, but at least I have walls.” He opened the door and went in. Normally I would have thought that bad manners, but it was the only way he could be sure he’d get behind his desk. He scanned the papers and grabbed a file that had been lined up neatly on top of a stack of used Underground tickets. I balanced my coat on top of his on the second chair and put my hat on top of his desk.
Inspector Hamilton was still scanning the contents of the folder he’d picked up. I tried to read the folder upside down across the desk, but Inspector Hamilton held it at a sharp angle. All I could see was the cover.
He held the folder closer to his face, then farther away.
I gave him time to send me away, but he didn’t. He didn’t seem to remember I was there.
“Is it interesting?” I finally broke the silence.
Inspector Hamilton looked up. “I have no idea. Are you any good at reading bad handwriting?”
I saw an opportunity. “Yes, of course. You should see the scrawls some of my clients send over.”
He sighed. “What do you make of this?” He handed me the first page.
It was a summary of a report from the accountant. He had terrible, blotted writing, which explained why he was consulting for Scotland Yard and not working as a better-paid bookkeeper; no one would be able to read his figures. “It starts off with a summary. ‘The embezzlement seems to have started several years ago, but it was well hidden to the casual eye. Approximately nine months ago, the embezzlement changed. It almost doubled the amount being taken. But there is no indication who was taking the money.’ The rest of the page has a lot of figures.” I looked up, hoping Inspector Hamilton would hand me the next page.
He didn’t. Instead, he held out his hand for the page I had. Reluctantly, I handed it back.
Inspector Hamilton put the papers back into the folder. “At least it’s something. The embezzler got greedy nine months ago. Or something happened that caused him to need twice as much money. It’s an area to explore, anyway.” He closed the folder but did not put it down, so there was no chance for me to sneak another look. “Now, if you didn’t want the tea, I’ll show you to the evidence room. If you would.” He motioned for me to go out into the hallway so he could get out from behind his desk.