A crash on the Great North Road cost Troy half an hour and more. By the time he reached Eaton Place it was past seven—a dark autumn evening, rain not falling but hanging in a slick miasma. One lone, bedraggled bobby on the door. The man straightened up and saluted as he saw Troy approach.
Troy did not return the salute.
“Mr. Wildeve’s inside, sir.”
He thrust the door open.
At the foot of the staircase a body … the body … her body … lay covered by a bedsheet.
Kolankiewicz sat on a hall chair by one of the ornamental half-moon tables—his vacuum flask out, sipping at black Russian tea.
Troy turned on the threshold.
“Go home to the wife and kids, Jim,” he said to the bobby. “I think we’ve all the coppers we need here.”
Kolankiewicz looked up, said nothing.
“Where’s Jack?” Troy asked.
“Kitchen. Waiting for you.”
Troy knelt and lifted a corner of the sheet.
She was as beautiful dead as she had been alive. She was wearing the same scarlet dress she had worn when last he had seen her. The one that had cascaded down her back like a waterfall. Expecting him. She had been expecting him. He must have held up the sheet far too long. He felt a hand take it from him. Heard a voice call his name.
“Freddie. Freddie. Let go now.”
He looked up.
Jack.
“Let’s all go back to the kitchen.”
Troy did not move.
“Freddie. Nothing more can happen. Leave her now.”
In the kitchen, Kolankiewicz handed him his plastic cup. Troy muttered thank you and tasted strong, sweet tea.
“Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
Jack sat on one side of the table, Troy and Kolankiewicz opposite him. He was being far too gentle. Troy could guess why.
“You’ve fingerprinted the house?”
“Yep.”
“Any prints besides hers or mine?”
“Three sets of prints from small hands, which I take to be the cleaning ladies. It was one of them found her. Let herself in just before five today. Said she’d forgotten her bag. Had enough sense to dial 999, but it soon evaporated. She was near-hysterical when I got here. I sent her home in a squad car. We’ll get prints and a statement in the morning. Otherwise the house is uncommonly spotless.”
“They scrubbed the place from top to bottom. Tuesday, I think. Possibly Wednesday.”
“And when were you last here?”
“Wednesday.”
“All night?”
“Yes. My prints will be in Venetia’s bedroom, the loo, possibly in here too.”
“They are. How long had you been lovers?”
“Just that night.”
“But …”
“But what?”
“But there’s more.”
“Of course,” Troy said.
“Do you want to tell me or would you prefer to recuse yourself?”
“Neither. I’ll tell you everything when I can, but first I want to hear from him. You say it looks like an accident. What does the pathologist say?”
Kolankiewicz sighed, said, “I would prefer to get her to the lab, but I know you will not wait that long. Yes, it seems like an accident. Tripped and fell the length of the staircase from the first floor. Neck broken. No other apparent cause.”
“To which I’d add,” Jack said, “no signs of forced entry or a struggle. It seems Lady Stainesborough was alone.”
“But,” Kolankiewicz continued, “I am with Hamlet. I know not seems. This is a suspicious death, so I have my suspicions.”
“Based on what?” said Troy.
“Based on one simple but complicating fact. And that fact alone will suffice to make me suspicious. The spanner in the works, as you English are so fond of saying—she was fucking you.”