I’D NEVER BEEN IN the evidence request room before. When we got to the door, Inspector Hamilton pulled a small brass cog from his pocket and slid it into the clockwork panel at eye level. He pushed a steam valve and the gears turned, unlocking the room. As the gear turned, it punched a series of holes in the long tape running through the gear panel. When the gears stopped turning, Inspector Hamilton pulled the cog out of the mechanism.
I watched him pocket the gear. “So no one can get in without one of those?”
Inspector Hamilton gave me a look. Apparently he decided it was safe enough to tell me, “That’s right. We each have our own. It punches our personal identification code at each step of the process. No one can sneak in or take evidence without there being a record. So you can’t get in without a sympathetic policeman.” He held the door so I could enter.
The evidence room was larger than any of the other rooms I’d been in at Scotland Yard, not that that was saying much considering the size of the offices I’d seen. The far wall was entirely taken up with a clockwork device. I was able to identify a pneumatic communication tube and six doors of differing sizes that looked like parts of a series of dumbwaiters.
Inspector Hamilton was watching me examine the room with a bemused look. “I’m afraid there’s no place to sit, but you can lean on the table for the moment. I’ll get you a chair once I’ve placed the request.
I took it as a hint to wait where he could see me and keep me out of trouble. I stood by the table — no leaning, goodness knows what had been placed on it — and watched Inspector Hamilton take a request form from the folder on the table and fill out all of the little lines with the description of what he wanted.
“How do you remember the number of the evidence you want?”
He smiled. “Practice, I suppose.”
Inspector Hamilton slipped the request form into the slot on the wall then slid his cog into place and released the steam valve. I watched as his cog allowed the gears to turn, sending the request downstairs and marking it and any forms that came through with his personal identification code. Apparently requesting evidence also required either a cog or someone who had one and was willing to have their code stamped all over your request.
“Now we wait. I’ll find you a chair.”
“What happens to the request? Does it have some way of reading it?”
Inspector Hamilton stopped on his way to the door. “No, that’s just delivering it and making sure whoever did the requesting is authorized to. Even though the process looks automated, the papers actually goes to a human evidence clerk in the basement. Then they have to sort through the shelves and boxes of evidence to find what was requested. Eventually, they find it and send it back up with a code for the dumbwaiter, which needs to be punched both downstairs and in here with the requester’s cog before it can be read. And that is why I am going to get us some chairs.”
~ * ~ * ~
I was just starting to wish I’d asked for the tea when the cog turned again and a new bit of paper rolled out. Inspector Hamilton retrieved the paper then his cog and brought it to the dumbwaiter, where he again used his cog, this time with a series of dials which needed to be turned to the correct series of letters and numbers shown on the paper. When he’d completed that, the dumbwaiter door swung open, and we finally had our box of evidence.
“Room 3 is open. Just through there.”
Evidence room 3 was slightly larger than a closet, with a large table and one chair. Inspector Hamilton gestured for me to take the chair while he put the box on the table.
When I was seated Inspector Hamilton took the lid off of the box and lifted out a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. He put it on the table in front of me and unwrapped it, spreading the paper out on the table underneath a folded dress shirt. “You can handle it if it will help. It’s already been checked for evidence.”
I spread out the shirt and unfolded it until I could see all the buttons. I tried to visualize the shirt on Mr. Ainsworth, to see how far down the spot I’d slid my hand in had been. About mid-way down, but the shirt had been tucked into his trousers. I picked up the shirt so I could get a close look at the buttons, starting just above the middle. My fingers brushed a rusty red stain on the side and I pulled my hand back.
Inspector Hamilton was watching me. “That’s not blood.”
“Then what is it?”
“Wine. Please continue. Do you see it?”
I reached for the shirt again, avoiding the stain just in case, and studied the buttons. “There, third one down. That’s the one I sewed on. See the thread? It’s knotted very, um, thoroughly on the front.”
Inspector Hamilton sighed. “Oh well, there went that idea.”
He took the shirt from me and folded it badly then wrapped it in the tissue paper even more sloppily.
“Do you want me to tidy that?”
He looked at the mess he’d made of the parcel. “That’s all right; they’ll just re-wrap it downstairs.” He dropped the shirt back into the box and carried it through to the main evidence room. I followed him out and watched as he put the cog back in place and stuck the box back in the dumbwaiter. He slid the paper back into the slot and the gears started turning, punching the form and lowering the box back to the storage room. When the gears stopped, he recovered his cog and stuck it in his pocket. “Come on, I’ll get you that tea now.” He held the door for me.
As I passed him into the hall, I got a good look at his face. “You're disappointed.”
“I suppose I am. You said you sewed a button on, so when I couldn’t find it, well, it seemed like a clue.” He shrugged. “But there it was, so I suppose not.”
Inspector Hamilton led me through the hallways and back to his office. “There’s tea in the carafe over there, and I’ve got some biscuits in the drawer. I’ll finish up the paperwork and ask you to sign it.” He handed me a small cup. I took the carafe and poured myself a cup of tea I didn’t want. I wanted it even less when I tasted it.
It only took Inspector Hamilton a few minutes to complete the paperwork. I read the statement saying that I’d identified the button I’d sewn on and signed it. I handed the papers back and looked around for somewhere to leave the cup.
“Did you want to finish that?”
I tried to think of a nice way to say that the tea was awful, but then Inspector Hamilton smiled. “I’m no Mrs. Pomeroy, I know that. I’ll bring you down in the staff lift. It’ll be faster. If you're done?”
I left the cup on the desk and stood up. “That’s very kind of you.”
Inspector Hamilton led me back through the maze of desks until we ended up at the lift. Now that I had him alone and in a good mood, it seemed like I should ask him something. I just had to think of how to phrase it properly. I was still working up to it when the lift doors opened. Inspector Hamilton ushered me in. There was no one to work this lift and Inspector Hamilton pushed the levers to send us down to the ground floor.
“Miss Pengear, did you really forget that Mrs. Pomeroy prepared a separate plate for Mr. Ainsworth?”
That caught me off guard. “Yes, Inspector, I really did. Although, to be perfectly honest, I might not have told you if I had remembered. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering why you were hunting for Mr. Williamson, then. You thought the pills were the answer, so why look farther?”
I paused. “I don’t really know.”
“Oh well, no matter. Here’s a cab.”
I had planned to take the Underground again, but Inspector Hamilton held the door for me, so I gathered up my skirts and prepared to climb in. “So what will you do now?”
Inspector Hamilton shrugged. “Go back to checking alibis for the second crime.”
He seemed to be in an expansive mood. “Do people have them?”
“You and Mrs. Delford alibied each other, and I confirmed that with the school. They were having a sports day that afternoon which ended at three. Other than that, I’ve only been able to pin down Mr. Sharma and Miss Carrollton. They say they were together, but of course I’d feel better with independent collaboration.”
I glanced down at his notebook. “You’re going to see Mr. Sharma then?”
Inspector Hamilton snapped his notebook closed. “Mr. Warland didn’t seem to like him. I’d like to know why.”
“I might be able to help you with that.”
“Is that a ploy to be in on my questioning again?”
I grinned. “Maybe a little bit, but I really can help you. Mrs. McWade would know where he was.”
“Mrs. McWade? Who is she?”
“A widow staying at the same hotel as Mr. Sharma. She sits in the lobby in the afternoon and people assume she’s a good chaperone. If they were there, she’d have noticed.”
“And you can introduce me to her?”
I nodded.
He leaned back to talk to the driver. “The Prescott Guest House.” Then he climbed into the cab beside me.
When he was settled in the cab, I said, “Mr. Ainsworth seemed to think Mr. Sharma was all right.”
“We only have Mr. Sharma’s word for that.”
“They seemed to be on fine terms at the dinner, but then so did Mr. Warland and Mr. Sharma.”
“And if it’s Mr. Sharma, it won’t be Mrs. Pomeroy.”
I smiled. “There is that. But why would Mr. Warland and Mr. Ainsworth dislike him?”
Inspector Hamilton shrugged. “Why isn’t as important as how, but I suspect that it has something to do with the merger.”
“What is this merger anyway? Is it big enough to murder over?”
“Most definitely. Mr. Sharma’s family owns one of the largest steamworks in Delhi. Mr. Carrollton’s company makes the pipes and fittings used to transport the steam. If they manage this deal, it will mean huge amounts of money for Carrollton and huge savings for Sharma.”
“But now Mr. Sharma’s backing out because the finances don’t look as good as he expected.” I leaned back against the cushions of the cab and tried to see how this fit in with the murder. “I suppose, if they were pushing for the merger, he might have — but no one’s forcing him to sign. It would make more sense if they were against a merger he was for.”
Inspector Hamilton smiled. “Any other help you’d like to give me?”
I glared at him, but he seemed to find it funny. I was still thinking of something to say when the cab stopped. Inspector Hamilton hopped out and held the door for me. “Now where is this font of knowledge you’ve located?”
“In the sitting room. Pay the driver, and I’ll show you.”
~ * ~ * ~
Mrs. McWade was right where I expected her to be, sitting in the lounge of the Prescott Guest House with her knitting in hand. She glanced at the door out of the corner of her eye. When she saw it was me, she sat up and let her knitting fall into her lap. “Miss Pengear. How nice to see you again.” She stared at Inspector Hamilton with one eyebrow raised.
Inspector Hamilton took off his hat and gave her a small bow.
I let him squirm for a minute so he’d appreciate my intervention; then I made the introductions. “Mrs. McWade, this is Inspector Hamilton from Scotland Yard. He’s investigating the murder I was telling you about.”
“Am I a suspect?” She seemed quite delighted by the idea.
Inspector Hamilton pulled a chair over from the other side of the room so he could sit across from her. “No, no, only the people at the dinner party are suspects at the moment. But I was hoping you could be a witness.”
“A witness? Yes, I suppose that is a more comfortable position to be in. So you want me to provide an alibi for Mr. Navin Sharma?”
I saw Inspector Hamilton’s lip twitch. He was finding her very amusing. “I knew you would be an excellent witness.”
“Flattery does not become you, Inspector Hamilton.” But she did seem pleased by it. “For when does he need an alibi?”
“Saturday afternoon.” Inspector Hamilton pulled out his notebook. “Anything you remember would be a help.”
“Around what, one o’clock? That’s easy. He was here.”
“By here you mean at the hotel, or—”
“Here in this room. Right over there.” She pointed to the telegraph table. “Mr. Prescott-Smythe was here with him, so you can have a corroborating witness if you’d like.”
Inspector Hamilton looked surprised. “You saw him? What was he doing?”
“They were trying to fix that machine. Mr. Sharma had just come back from lunch, with the girl who may or may not be his fiancée I think, and Mr. Prescott-Smythe had a telegram for him from India. Mr. Sharma went upstairs to read it, and came down and started working on the machine almost at once.”
“To send or receive?”
“He sent a telegram as soon as it was fixed.”
“Mr. Sharma sent it himself?”
“That’s right.”
“So it must have been personal. Something he didn’t want anyone else to know about, even at the telegraph office. I wish I knew what it said.”
Mrs. McWade waited until she had his full attention again. “I may be able to help.” She picked up her knitting and studied it. “It was long, long, long, short, long, short, short. Does that mean something?”
Inspector Hamilton scribbled on his notepad as she spoke. “‘OPE.’ What do you think that means?”
Neither of us said anything.
“Hope, maybe? Or some foreign tongue.”
Mrs. McWade picked up her knitting again. “The rest of it was long, short, short, short...” As she spoke, Inspector Hamilton scribbled furiously in his notebook. He didn’t look up until she said, “Does that help?”
“‘Ope best chance.’ Hope best chance? Best chance for what?” He looked back at Mrs. McWade. “Did you hear anything else?”
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Prescott-Smythe said lunch was ready, and it would have been obvious if I had stayed.”
“And the first message was delivered? Did you see from where?”
“It was delivered by a small boy with brown hair, recently trimmed. He was wearing a green jacket that may have been an attempt at a uniform. And he was on foot.”
“So, probably a local office.” Inspector Hamilton made more notes. “You said Mr. Sharma was here; did he stay all afternoon to wait for the reply then?”
“He was here for at least an hour. He got a telephone call at quarter to three and left in a hurry directly after.”
I tried not to react. He would have had time to get from the guest house to Mr. Warland’s if he’d found a cab quickly. So he didn’t have an alibi at all.
Inspector Hamilton scribbled something else in his notebook. “Well, thank you for your help. If I need anything else, I’ll call again.”
“I’ll be here until Friday.” Mrs. McWade met my eyes as I rose to leave.
Outside, Inspector Hamilton hailed another cab. “Thank you for your help with her. I don’t think she would have told me as much without you. I’m going back to the Yard. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I’m just going home.”
“All right. Then go home and leave this to me. I’ll get you a cab.”
“No, I can take the Underground.”
“Very well, but go home. No investigating.”
“I’ll send word if I remember anything useful.” I didn’t want to lie to him, and I certainly wasn’t going home.
“Remember, do not investigate, dig up, discover, cajole, or stumble upon anything to do with the murder. Remembering is permitted provided you send word to me at once.”
I pretended I hadn’t heard as I started walking slowly towards the nearest Underground stop. He tipped his hat and got into the cab.
I kept walking towards the Underground station until I saw Inspector Hamilton’s cab turn the corner. As soon as I was sure he wouldn’t see me, I turned back to the hotel.