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ROSEMARY WAITED FOR Wadsworth to answer the chiming of the doorbell and watched as he led Abigail and Martin through the parlor door. She stood and greeted her guests, inviting them both to take a seat. “I have good news,” she said when everyone was settled around the coffee table.
“I spoke to Max, and the case is officially closed. Martin is off the hook, and there won’t be any further investigation.”
“That’s wonderful!” Abigail cried, her face breaking into a mile-wide smile. “Things can go back to normal, and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.” She seemed quite satisfied until she noticed the furrowed brow of her husband.
“What does that mean?” Martin asked slowly, “That there won’t be any further investigation?”
“It means there is insufficient evidence for them to bring a charge of murder,” Rosemary explained, “and it will go down as death by misadventure.” She had expected Martin to be relieved, but he didn’t appear to be.
“What you’re trying so hard not to say is that the police still believe I’m a killer.”
Unable to deny the truth, Rosemary said, “I don’t believe you’re a killer if that helps at all. None of us do.”
The admission fell on deaf ears as Martin railed against his fate.
“What about my reputation? My business? My livelihood? Regardless of whether the police file charges, I’ve had a significant loss of business, and without a clear statement of innocence, the papers will continue branding me a killer. It will take months, if not years, for the stench of this accusation to dissipate. We’ll be bankrupt in a few weeks.” Martin put his head in his hands. “Is there no way to prove, beyond all doubt, I am not a killer?”
Rosemary had wanted to gauge his reaction to the news before informing him that she wasn’t prepared to let the case go. It seemed prudent to keep some of her cards close to her chest for the time being, until she was undoubtedly sure he was innocent. One could never be too careful.
Abigail gave her husband an odd look. “I thought we had money in savings, Martin.” There was an edge to her voice that suggested the money might have been hers. An inheritance or an allowance, perhaps. It wasn’t any of Rosemary’s business, so she kept her mouth firmly closed but observed the pair with even more scrutiny than before.
“It’s all gone. I’m sorry. I’ve made some mistakes. We should speak in private.” He eyed the group as if he’d forgotten they were there and flushed.
“We can talk about it right now. What have you done?” Abigail crossed her arms and planted herself as if she’d grown roots.
“I’d really rather discuss this without an audience if you don’t mind,” Martin said, but there was little fight in his tone.
Abigail held up her hands and shrugged. “I’d really rather you didn’t have anything to tell, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?” she demanded. “We need to lay all our cards on the table, Martin. Otherwise, you’ll be losing more than just the business and the house. You’ll lose me as well. I trust that’s not the outcome you desire, so it’s most decidedly time to talk.”
Martin sighed and hung his head. “I was in debt to Claude Segal to the amount of several thousand pounds. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. However, when I realized he was dead, I admit I was relieved, hoping it meant I was off the hook. It turns out the man has pull even from beyond the grave. Or, at least, he has people who intend to carry on his business—which means they also inherited his accounts receivable. I had no choice but to take out a loan against my practice, which includes the building. So, you see, without patients, we’ll lose not only our livelihood but our home as well. I’m sorry, Abigail.”
For Rosemary, the revelation answered several questions; but she imagined that for Abigail, it meant something entirely different. Something having to do with betrayal, anger, and fear.
“Did you think for one second that I didn’t know about this already? I’m not quite as oblivious as you believe me to be, and Polly isn’t as discreet.” It wasn’t just Martin who gaped at Abigail’s reaction; the entire room stared at her as if she’d grown a second and third head. If Frederick’s eyes got any bigger, they’d pop right out of his face.
“You might as well come clean,” Abigail continued railing at her husband, “and let Rosemary decide if she still wants to help us set this to rights after learning the truth. I tried to protect you, but now we have no choice. If she won’t, perhaps she can refer us to someone who can put pressure on the paper to print a retraction.”
Rosemary could hardly believe her ears. She’d never have guessed Abigail had any idea about Martin’s gambling, nor that she’d stand up to her husband as forcefully as she was doing now. What she didn’t want was to allow her admiration for the woman to cloud her judgment. If Abigail, possessed with the level of fortitude she was currently displaying, had kept Martin’s secrets under wraps this long, what else might she be capable of doing to protect him?
“I’m sorry, Rosemary, truly,” Abigail apologized. “I felt it was my duty to keep quiet unless the information was absolutely necessary.”
“I would have done the same for my husband.” The statement was true down to the letter, and Rosemary chose to keep any other thoughts that crossed her mind to herself for the time being. “However, you’re right. This information changes the circumstances a great deal.”
“Are you still willing to help me?” Martin asked, a plea in his eyes when they met Rosemary’s. “I swear to you, I didn’t kill Segal,” he repeated, “but I stand by my statement that I’m not sad he’s gone.”
It was enough for Rosemary and confirmed what she’d believed all along. Martin was innocent. She just wasn’t sure she could say the same of his wife.
“Yes, I’ll help you, though we’re at a bit of a standstill considering the lack of viable suspects. Nathan Grint might be a shoddy reporter and a travesty of a person, but I don’t think he has the stomach for murder. He’s an opportunist—he was angry with you for reprimanding him, and he lashed out. He’ll get his due, eventually. I highly doubt the elderly Mrs. Linley had any connection to Claude Segal, so for the moment, it appears that you two are the only ones with a motive. Unless there’s someone we’ve missed—” Rosemary stopped short, realizing the implications of what Abigail had said a few moments before. “Wait a minute,” she said, turning to face the woman. “Polly isn’t as discreet; what did you mean by that?”
Abigail collapsed into a chair and sighed. “You wouldn’t have any brandy on hand, would you?” Frederick jumped up from his chair and crossed the room to the bar cart, poured a glass of amber liquid, and handed it to Abigail. She tossed it back with a gulp and a cringe and set the glass back on the table.
“What I meant was,” she said, finally getting around to the point, “she’s an insufferable idiot who doesn’t know a thing about keeping her mouth closed. Honestly, it took no more than a suggestion that I knew Martin was hiding something for her to crack.”
Rosemary wasn’t surprised by the news. It hadn’t taken much for her and Vera to get Polly talking about the death of Mr. Segal, and they’d only just met her.
“It’s better if I start at the beginning. I knew something was going on, but I wasn’t sure what. So, I followed Martin one Wednesday night and watched him go into a bar in one of the less swanky neighborhoods. I’d thought maybe he was having an affair, though I didn’t really believe it. That’s not Martin’s style.” She remained faithful to her husband, Rosemary noted. Whether it was due to actual devotion, though, she couldn’t discern.
“I didn’t want to confront him until I knew exactly what he was hiding, and I didn’t dare follow him inside to find out. But then, one day I was bringing down Martin’s tray, and I heard Polly talking on the telephone. She was talking to her landlord, begging for an extension because her paycheck had been returned due to insufficient funds. That’s when I began looking into our finances and discovered that we were nearly broke.”
“That must have been quite a blow,” Rosemary said after a moment when she realized Martin had no intention of speaking up to either defend himself or provide an explanation. “How did you find out about the gambling?”
“That part was easy. I confronted Polly. Told her I knew about Wednesday nights, and she spilled. She begged me not to tell Martin she’d let his secret slip; said he didn’t even know she knew about it, but that she’d overheard a conversation between him and Claude Segal and connected the dots. Of course, I wanted to out her right away, but I was waiting until it became necessary. I’d say this qualifies.”
Rosemary directed her gaze towards Martin, who seemed shocked to learn his wife had been following him around and checking up on him. It was obvious he hadn’t expected to discover that he didn’t have any secrets left. She wondered if it was a relief or more of a burden than he already carried.
“I can’t do anything about the money you owe, but if we can figure out who killed Mr. Segal, the police won’t have any choice but to prosecute, and your name will be cleared. According to Max—Inspector Whittington, I mean—they consider the matter closed and will continue to do so unless we force their hand.”
The rest of what Max had told her, she’d hold in confidence until there was no other choice. Putting a target on his back was an unacceptable risk.
“The best place to start is the scene of the crime. Was there anyone else who might have had the opportunity to tamper with the tank besides the people in the waiting room?” She ran Martin through the events of the day two more times.
Though Martin had dismissed his secretary as a suspect, Rosemary wondered about Polly and decided she ought to keep her dentist appointment the next day. This time, she would have the opportunity to observe the girl with more knowledge of her character. Something told her she might be able to gather even more information using a direct approach.
“What about the back staircase Abigail mentioned? Could someone have entered from there?” Rosemary asked.
“Martin shook his head, “No, it’s only accessible from our kitchen, and we keep the door locked.”
“All right then. How much time have you spent with Mr. Segal and his associates? Can you think of anyone close to him who might have reason to want him dead?”
Martin spent another moment racking his brain for anything that might prove useful, and then slapped his knee and stood up with a start. “Claude had a bodyguard of sorts. Charles Dupont is his name, Charlie to his ... friends. One could rarely find Claude alone because Charlie was always hanging around in case things got out of hand. It was he who cornered me the night we all went to the theater. The night before Claude died.”
Another mystery solved, and one that even Rosemary had forgotten needed explaining. Now that she was aware that Abigail knew about Martin’s gambling problem, her reaction to her husband having been cornered on the street made more sense.
“It didn’t occur to you that that might be important information?” Rosemary asked, exasperated.
“It wasn’t the first time. Charlie spends a lot of time following up.” Martin gave the term emphasis. “Usually, that means someone walks away with a black eye or a couple of broken fingers, assuming they’re unable to make good on their debts. Mainly, he likes to let everyone know that he’s never far away and that he’s watching in case you get any bright ideas about running. He was cordial that evening, though—I got lucky because I wasn’t alone. He certainly wasn’t going to get physical with an audience of my friends and my wife, but he made it known that if I didn’t pony up, he’d make it worse for me later. The only reason I didn’t mention it before was because ... well ... I didn’t want Abigail to find out. Best laid plans, I suppose. If you want to find out who had a bigger grudge than me against Claude Segal, go and find Charlie. I’d recommend taking these two along with you.” Martin indicated Desmond and Frederick, the latter puffing out his chest in an attempt to appear menacing.
Rosemary agreed that the pertinent thing to do would be to find Charles Dupont, and see if there was anything he could tell them, but she didn’t have high hopes. If he had been employed by someone like Claude Segal and did the dirty work required for the job, she doubted he’d be willing to part with any helpful information. More likely, he wouldn’t want to implicate himself, and in the worst-case scenario, she’d be putting herself and her friends in danger.
Then Rosemary thought about what Max might say and decided it would be better if he knew as little as possible about her plans. If she could discover information that would break the case, Max could stay in London, and everything would be set back to rights.
Having said goodbye to the Redberrys, who thanked her profusely on their way out the door, Rosemary retired to her bedroom for the evening, followed by Vera. Neither felt like socializing, and all Rosemary wanted was a hot bath and a cup of tea.
Anna rallied to the occasion, filling the tub with steaming hot water and puttering about displaying the same odd behavior she had all week long.
“What is it, Anna?” Rosemary demanded, having finally had enough. There were already too many unanswered questions swimming around inside her head; she didn’t need another one. “What is going on with you?”
It was rare for Rosemary to raise her voice to any of her staff; in fact, Anna couldn’t ever remember having been spoken to so sharply, and it brought a tear to her eye. “It’s my tooth, miss. I didn’t want to trouble anyone, but it simply won’t stop throbbing. Nothing seems to help. Cook has made several poultices for it, but still, it aches.”
“Oh, Anna, why on earth would you keep that a secret?” Rosemary asked, her tone gentler now. “I thought you might be in some sort of feminine trouble, or perhaps that you were looking for another post. This is fixable, and therefore, we shall fix it. Don’t cry.”
Anna closed her mouth and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It’s just—it’s just—do you think I’ll have to take the drill?”
Rosemary realized Anna wasn’t scared of her and felt a little better for it. “It’s possible; however, it can’t be worse than the pain you’re already in, can it?”
Anna shook her head, but the expression on her face told another story altogether.
