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Dr. Eliot kept offices on Harley Street. Well, technically just off Harley Street. Close enough he could claim he had offices in that elevated area, far enough that the rents weren’t so exorbitant.
His secretary—a spare, angular woman about my own age—opened the glossy black door marked with a brass “42” and gave me the once-over. “Have you an appointment?”
Her voice had the carefully modulated tones of the upper classes, but with the slightly flat undertone of someone who hadn’t set foot in London until she was an adult. I was guessing she’d been born in the Midlands and to a lower-class family, no doubt, and had bettered herself through elocution and education. I had to admit I approved. I always admired a woman who pullled herself up by her bootstraps, as those brawny Americans say.
“No appointment,” I admitted cheerfully. “However, I’m certain the good doctor will see me. Lady Rample.”
The woman didn’t blink as she stared down her angular nose. “He’s busy.”
“It’s about the murder.”
This time her eyes did widen a fraction, although she quickly hid her reaction. “You’d better come in.” She swung the door open and ushered me into a narrow entry. “Wait here.” She slammed the door and disappeared down the hall and through a door, her sensible heels clicking smartly on the black and white tiles.
“Well, send her in!” I recognized the booming voice of the doctor.
The secretary reappeared and pointed me down the hall before departing for some other part of the house without a word. Shame. I could really use a cup of tea right about now. Preferably with a splash of medicinal whiskey.
I found the doctor seated behind the desk of a typical doctor’s office. A potted fern sat in one corner, multiple certificates and licenses in silver frames graced the walls, and a shelf of medical texts leaned precariously next to a window overlooking a miniscule garden. A willow tree neatly framed the outside of the window, its leaves gone yellow with the approach of winter.
“Lady Rample,” the doctor boomed, standing slightly. “Please sit. What can I do for you?”
I took a seat so that he could sit, too. “Dr. Eliot, thank you for seeing me. I wanted to speak to you about the death of Mr. Musgrave.”
“Nasty business, that. Terrible.”
“Yes,” I murmured. “I heard that the saxophone player admitted to the deed.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise. “Did he? Dashed odd, these foreigners.”
“Well, it’s all very strange, don’t you think? The note, for one. Don’t you think the fact that he wrote the time at the top was... unusual?”
“Ah, the note. I saw that, too. Yes, I agree. I sometimes am required to note times in my note taking for patient files, but in a personal note? Unusual at the least.” His confirmation was satisfying.
“Then there was the pocket watch.”
“Smashed, yes. The detective was quite thrilled. Proof of time of death. In a way.”
“What do you mean?”
He harrumphed. “Well, I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but according to the watch, the victim was killed at twenty past one. However,” he leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk top, “I inspected the body at one forty-five, which would have been a mere fifteen minutes after the supposed death. However, that’s impossible. Musgrave was dead much longer than that. As I said at the time, at least thirty minutes. Temperature, you know.”
“I assume you informed Detective North,” I said. The doctor seemed the conscientious type.
He snorted. “Of course, but D.I. North isn’t exactly a listening sort. I think he’s decided that the pocket watch is the final word. And, after all, I’m not an official police physician. He doesn’t consider me the sort of ‘expert’ he should listen to.”
I sank back down, remembering the brusque detective. “Fair point.” I mulled it over a moment. “Perhaps he’ll listen to someone else.”
The doctor lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Someone in a position of authority. Someone with a bit of power behind him.” A male someone. Preferably with a title and a pocketful of connections.
“Have you any suggestions?”
Chaz was the first to come to mind, but alas Chaz was more charm. Less battle-axe. “I have an idea, yes. Meet me at the police station tomorrow. Nine sharp. We’ll make that detective listen.”
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“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU talked me into this,” Aunt Butty said, adjusting her hat. It was a felt cloche in flamingo pink with a gaudy diamond pin the size of a tea saucer from which sprouted half a dozen pink feathers in varying shapes and sizes. In style, it was about as close to modern fashion as could be expected from my aunt, but it was as startlingly hideous as the rest of her head gear.
In front of us loomed the Gothic ramparts of the London home of Lord Varant. Frankly, the place needed a face lift. It was the perfect setting for some ghastly Hollywood horror. There was sure to be a body plastered behind a wall in the library or buried beneath the floorboards in the wine cellar.
We were ushered into the parlor by Lord Varant’s very proper butler where we made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the most dashedly uncomfortable furniture imaginable. I was certain most of it dated back to Queen Victoria’s reign, if not further. The room smelled of lemon and wax, a sure sign that the maids paid attention to the room, if no one else did.
At last, Lord Varant put in an appearance. “Ladies, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Aunt Butty held out her hand and posed dramatically. “Varant. So lovely to see you again. Thank you for seeing us. Ophelia has a small matter she wishes to discuss with you.”
Varant’s lip curled in amusement as he bowed over my aunt’s hand. “Of course.” He turned to greet me, a smoldering heat in his gaze. I wasn’t entirely sure whether it displeased me or not. “Lady Rample.” He bowed over my hand, but there was no amusement, only that smoldering heat, turned up several notches. “Pleasure.” There was a wealth of meaning in that one word.
I cleared my throat. “Lord Varant—” Might as well get right down to it before I did something unladylike.
“Just Varant, please.”
“Very well.” I might have blushed a little, which was silly. Calling him simply Varant indicated a certain level of intimacy. “I need your help.”
“Anything.” He meant it.
I was well aware of my powers over Varant. His solicitousness during Aunt Butty’s party had proven that. Not to mention our history, such as it was. Varant took a seat directly opposite me, neatly crossing one leg over the other. His trouser legs were pleated to a knife edge and his shoes shined so thoroughly I could have no doubt seen my reflection in them. “Now, how may I be of assistance.”
“I have a meeting tomorrow morning at Scotland Yard,” I blurted.
If he was shocked, he gave no indication. “How interesting.”
I quickly explained about the murder, the watch, and the saxophonist’s likely false confession. “So, you see, I must remind the detective in charge of all of this, and convince him that the musician has made a false confession.”
“I see.” He appeared to mull it over. “What I do not see is how I can be of assistance.”
“You know the police commissioner, I believe,” Aunt Butty said.
Varant raised a saturnine brow. “He’s a member of my club, yes.”
“Well, this detective is a bit of a... well, he’s not going to listen to a woman, is he? So I was hoping you would come with me tomorrow and help me speak to him. Maybe then he’ll listen.” It goaded me to have to ask a man’s help, but I wasn’t stupid. I might be a modern, independent woman, but the rest of the world had yet to catch up. Men like Detective Inspector North were firmly rooted in the past and preferred to stay that way.
Varant smiled as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “What time?”
“Nine sharp.”
“That’s quite early for you.”
“Needs must,” I said firmly. I’d just have to skip the jazz club tonight. More’s the pity. I’d been rather looking forward to another bout of flirting with Hale Davis. But our introductions would have to wait. “Will you help me?”
Varant gave a quick nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”