Seeking Help
“Mrs. Berry, how lovely to see you again. Hannah,” Delia said, turning to her companion, “this is the lady I told you about who stood up to Henry Collins at the Society meeting the other day. Mrs. Berry, this is my friend Hannah Foyle. Our fathers are in business together.”
“How terribly brave of you,” Hannah said, extending her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Foyle,” Emma said, noticing how both young women were eyeing Jonathan.
“May I introduce Mr. Jonathan Inglis. This is Miss Delia Rasmussen, and as you heard, Miss Hannah Foyle. Mr. Inglis is affianced to Henrietta Pickles niece, Miriam,” she added, in order that there be no misunderstandings.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Inglis,” Delia said offering her hand.
“Likewise,” said Hannah.
“I had heard the Pickles were hosting family visitors,” Delia went on. “Are you staying long in town?”
“We have no definite departure date as yet,” Jonathan told her. Oh dear. There was definitely a little spark between these two. Best for Miriam if the visitors didn’t linger long in town.
“And what,” Delia asked prettily, “if I’m not presuming, are you and Mrs. Berry doing about town today?”
“Business, I’m afraid, Miss Rasmussen,” Emma said, before Jonathan could speak. “And we really must be getting on. You are going into the Tearoom for lunch?”
“Yes, we are,” Delia replied, frowning, apparently not used to having her questions unanswered.
“Then may I suggest the tomato soup and chicken salad sandwiches.”
“Well, thank you for the suggestion. Perhaps I will see you about town, Mr. Inglis?”
“That’s quite possible, Miss Rasmussen. The town is not overly large. Good day to you both.”
He doffed his hat to them. Emma took his arm and drew him across the street. A covered delivery cart was standing outside a shop, providing a convenient cover from prying eyes.
“Are you coming with me, or not?” Emma asked, as she stopped on the far side of the cart.
“I feel it would be remiss of me if I didn’t,” Jonathan said somewhat stiffly, “but I’m not altogether comfortable about it. I feel we’re stepping into an area that is not our business.”
“Janet’s defence is our business, so I don’t see the problem.”
Emma didn’t take Jonathan’s arm as they walked on. She wasn’t sure how they had come to this pass, but it was understandable that he would be more conservative in his approach, being more attuned to the law and its application, while she was prepared to bend the rules a little if it meant getting to the truth.
Her mind wandered to what she would do after seeing Mr. Rasmussen. Interviewing the Pickles ladies was a priority now. Working out where everyone had been, what they’d been doing, and when. Her step faltered for a moment.
The ladies weren’t the only ones in the house at the time Old Mr. Pickles had died. Jonathan Inglis had been there as well.
The solicitors occupied another two-storey building on Heygarth Street. Jonathan held the door for Emma to enter. There was no one waiting in the public room, and the person behind the desk was a young man busy with paperwork. The name plate on the desk declared him to be Marcus Thrum. A clerk doing double duty, Emma supposed.
She let Jonathan approach and ask to see Mr. Rasmussen.
“Do you have an appointment?” Mr. Thrum asked doubtfully, reaching for a register.
“No, but we would appreciate very much if we could speak to him about the death of a client of his, Mr. Augustus Pickles, and the subsequent arrest of Mr. Pickles granddaughter on the suspicion of murder,” Jonathan said.
Mr. Thrum’s eyes widened. “Your name, please?”
“Jonathan Inglis,” he said, handing over his card, “representing Janet Naughton, the woman accused.” Mr. Thrum’s eyes flicked toward Emma. “And Mrs. Emma Berry.” If Mr. Thrum wondered what part Emma was playing in this Jonathan didn’t enlighten him.
“Thank you. Please take a seat, and I will enquire if Mr. Rasmussen is available to see you.” He disappeared through a door at the back of the room.
“That was most straightforward of you, Mr. Inglis,” Emma said.
“You don’t approve?”
“I do approve.” She was having trouble keeping up with what she thought of him.
Mr. Thrum came back in and beckoned to them.
“Mr. Rasmussen will see you,” he said and led them down a hall past closed doors and the sound of one of those new typewriting machines. At least the firm seemed up to date in their approach.
Mr. Samuel Rasmussen proved to be a man in his late fifties or early sixties, mid-height as he stood to greet them, and fit for someone his age who sat behind a desk. Emma imagined he rode for exercise. His manner, when he greeted them and invited them to sit was friendly, although his deep-blue eyes were a little disconcerting as he sized them up. Emma was certain there was a sharp mind operating behind them.
Jonathan explained their mission. Mr. Rasmussen’s gaze flicked to Emma at the mention of Henry Collins. If she’d wondered at all if he’d heard from his wife or daughter about her confrontation with the man at the Society meeting, she’d had that confirmed.
“Do you suspect Mr. Collins of being involved with Mr. Pickles death?” Mr. Rasmussen asked when Jonathan had finished. It was a straightforward question, with no indication of surprise or scepticism.
Jonathan hesitated for a moment.
“We really can’t say,” Emma spoke for the first time. “And we only have the maid’s word that they were arguing, but his sudden departure does pose questions, wouldn’t you say? In any case, as Mr. Inglis has pointed out, we can’t piece together the story of that afternoon without his evidence.”
“Surely Mr. Collins would have called for help, or informed someone in the house, if Mr. Pickles had died in his presence.” Was Mr. Rasmussen now playing devil’s advocate?
“He could have panicked if the man died while he was speaking to him,” Jonathon suggested, “especially if they were arguing. Perhaps he threatened Mr. Pickles, and it caused his heart attack.”
Mr. Rasmussen’s fingers tapped his desk.
“Mr. Rasmussen,” Emma said leaning forward, “whatever the case, the police need to investigate this more thoroughly before we have a dreadful miscarriage of justice on our hands. The person accused is a young woman with a family. The very least she is owed is a thorough investigation and to date, I’m afraid, she has not had that.”
“That is true, sir,” Jonathan said. “When I spoke to Sergeant Donovan this morning and informed him of Mr. Collins’ presence in the house that afternoon, he informed me they had the person responsible in custody, based on the coroner’s report, and witness evidence.”
“And are you refuting the report or the witness?”
“Both are circumstantial, and neither are without reasonable doubt.”
Emma wondered how hard that was for him to say, given the witness was his fiancée. But he wasn’t questioning what she saw, after all, rather her interpretation.
“If the firm takes this on Mr. Inglis, Mrs. Berry, we will want to be fully involved with the necessary retainer. You say you are representing Mrs. Naughton,” he said to Jonathan.
“Pro bono, as a favour to the family.”
“Could the fee for any work you provide be paid for from Mr. Pickles estate?” Emma asked. “I imagine that would be in your hands. Janet’s grandfather would surely approve of such an allocation.” She wasn’t sure at all, but it seemed reasonable. “Besides, Janet stands to inherit the house, so she could be effectively paying for her own defence.”
“She can only inherit if she is found not guilty,” Mr. Rasmussen informed them. He was nothing if not pragmatic anyway. Had justice just come down to money?
“We will speak to Mr. Nathaniel Pickles, Janet’s father,” Jonathan said. “But I think in the meantime it is reasonable to assume the family will at least cover the cost of your preliminary work. May I retain you then to put in motion the immediate return of Mr. Henry Collins for questioning in this matter?” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a one-pound note which he placed on the desk.
“Very well,” Mr. Rasmussen said, accepting the note. “I will personally call on the police this afternoon and put the matter in process. Please make sure I, and the police, are informed when anything is learnt about Mr. Collins’ whereabouts.”
Jonathan assured him that they would do that. Mr. Rasmussen saw them out to the waiting room and wished them good day.
“That was very generous of you, paying to retain the firm,” Emma told him when they were out on street again.
“Mmm. I may have overstepped the mark guaranteeing the family would pay,” he said somewhat ruefully. “I suspect you’re having a bad influence on me, Mrs. Berry.”
“Am I indeed? Well, I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Inglis. I can’t see Nathaniel Pickles refusing, and even if he did, I’d be certain Mr. Rasmussen would add any fees incurred to whatever charges they make for handling the disposal of his father’s estate. Is dealing with the law always as mercenary as that?”
“Money has to change hands in order for the retention of counsel to be official. It ensures confidentiality.”
“I see.”
They were once more walking down High Street. Emma felt she knew every grain of sand along the way by now. She registered that her feet were hurting.
“We need to speak to Mr. Pickles and bring him up to date on what is happening.”
“Yes,” Emma said, “and then I need to speak to Miss Charity Pickles and your future mother-in-law.”
“And Miriam and I, no doubt,” Jonathan said, “though I can assure you neither of us had anything to do with Mr. Pickles death.”
Emma would take that under advisement.
This time when they visited the wharf office, they found Nathaniel Pickles at work. Mr. Norman’s discretion hadn’t prevented him informing his superior of the telegraph he had sent earlier at their request. Nathaniel thanked them for taking the matter in hand, but they had not received a reply yet. Jonathon also spoke to him about their interview with Mr. Rasmussen. Nathaniel was glad to hear the solicitors were acting, and of course he would cover the cost, though he blanched a little at the thought.
As they were leaving the wharf, Jonathan stopped and stared out across the river. Someone was fishing on the further bank and a wagon could be seen between the trees, moving toward the bridge crossing further upstream. A group of cockatoos screeched overhead to settle noisily in a tall river gum arguing all the way. As if to make the scene perfect, a steamer came into sight heading for the wharf, smoke pouring from its chimney stack, watery ripples catching the sun as they radiated out down its length.
“There could be worse places to live,” he commented turning away. Emma could but agree.
As they made their way to Connolly Street and the Pickles boarding house, Emma realised she still hadn’t checked on Nathaniel’s movements for the fatal Wednesday. But having now spent more time with him in the past forty-eight hours than she’d spent at any time previously, she knew she couldn’t see him angry enough to have hit his father on the head. And if he had, he would have confessed when his daughter was arrested. That was the type of man he was. She removed him from her list of suspects.
At the boarding house, Jonathan reached out to open the gate, but she stopped him.
“Mr. Inglis, I’ve just a had a thought. Could we please not mention Mr. Collins’ visit to Old Mr. Pickles just yet? I would like to learn about everyone else’s movements on Wednesday first. Someone may have seen or heard him, and if they mention it, that’s fine, but I don’t wish to influence their memories of the day. We can tell them about him afterwards.” Jonathan looked at her thoughtfully. “Please, will you do that for me?”
“You have something in mind?”
“I just think it a good idea not to put ideas in people’s heads,” Emma said, not wanting to say more. She would have preferred to interview the Pickles ladies without him present but suggesting that might be going too far. She would play it by ear. Perhaps Miriam would draw him away.