Inspector Witherspoon hated mortuaries. He hated looking at dead bodies too. But as it was an integral part of his job, he did it without complaint. He stared at the corpse lying beneath the gray sheet on the wooden table and braced himself. “Right, Dr. Bosworth. We might as well get on with it.”
Dr. Bosworth, a tall young man with red hair and an earnest, intelligent face, gazed at the inspector sympathetically. “He’s not as bad as many victims, Inspector. By my estimation, he’d only been in the canal a couple of days, not long enough for too much decomposition to have set in.”
Witherspoon smiled weakly, reminded himself of his duty and stepped closer to the table.
“Actually, the water in the canal was quite cold for this time of year,” Bosworth continued chattily. “Kept the fellow very well preserved, especially as he hadn’t sunk.”
The inspector made himself watch as Dr. Bosworth pulled the sheet away. The body was fully dressed in formal evening clothes—white shirt, proper black tie, black and gray vest and black longcoat. But the face was ghastly white, the eyes open and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. They were hazel and bulging wide, as though the poor fellow was surprised to find himself lying on a mortuary slab. His hair was brown and thinning on top, his lips thin and his nose long and aquiline.
“Excuse me, Dr. Bosworth,” Witherspoon said hesitantly. “I’m not trying to tell you your business, but isn’t it usual to conduct a postmortem with the clothes off?”
“I left them on for a reason,” Bosworth said. “They could well be evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes. Have a good look at this, Inspector.” The doctor leaned over and pointed at the vest. “The buttons are fastened incorrectly. See, the top button goes into the second hole, not the first. But that’s not all.” He quickly undid the vest and pulled it apart, exposing the shirt. “Have a look at this.”
Witherspoon noticed the shirt hadn’t been buttoned right either. But he didn’t quite see what that had to do with anything. “It’s not done up properly either,” he said.
Bosworth nodded. “That’s what I noticed when the fellow was brought in. I asked the constable who pulled the body out of the canal if anyone had tampered with the victim’s clothes. They hadn’t. You do see what this means, Inspector.”
“It could mean the victim had been dressed after he was already dead,” the inspector guessed, hoping his reasoning was along the same path as the doctor’s.
“My thoughts exactly.” Bosworth leaned down and pointed at the man’s shoes. “And look here. Brown shoes. Day shoes. No one wears brown day shoes with evening dress. It looked most odd to me. So I had a good look at the chap’s feet.”
Witherspoon gaped at Bosworth, who was busily working the victim’s right shoe and sock off.
“See.” The doctor pointed to a pronounced bluish im-print angled at the bottom of the man’s shinbone. The discolored flesh was approximately the size and shape of a withered sausage. “Look at this mark here.” He quickly grabbed the other leg and shoved the sock down. “And here, there’s another one. Equally pronounced and lying in almost the same position, only reversed.” Bosworth looked at him expectantly.
Baffled, Witherspoon could only mutter, “Yes, it’s most odd.”
“There’s more,” Bosworth said excitedly as he yanked the right foot up again and stuck it under Witherspoon’s nose. “See, there’s a bruise on this heel.”
The inspector stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet to get away from the hideous dead foot the doctor thrust at him. But he did see the bruise. “You’re right, Doctor,” he mumbled, “it’s…it’s very much a bruise.”
“Of course it is,” Bosworth agreed. “But there isn’t one on the other foot. I checked. Well, naturally, as soon as I saw this, I immediately notified the authorities that this might very well be a homicide rather than an accidental death.”
“I see.” Witherspoon didn’t really see at all. What on earth was Bosworth getting at? But he wouldn’t for the world admit that he couldn’t follow the man’s reasoning. His inner voice told him that Bosworth might be on to something. “Would you mind explaining how you came to that conclusion? Just so I have it clear in my own mind.”
“Not at all,” Bosworth said enthusiastically. “It’s quite simple, really. From all indications, someone drowned this poor fellow in a bathtub, stuffed him back in his clothes and then dumped his body in the nearest body of water, which just happened to be the Regents Canal. Your killer, Inspector, was hoping to make it look like an accidental death.”
For a moment, the inspector couldn’t think of what to say. “Er, why do you think those marks on his ankle proved he was drowned in a bathtub?”
Bosworth looked surprised by the question. “I think it’s rather obvious, Inspector.”
“But wouldn’t the killer have just shoved his head under?” Barnes asked. “Shouldn’t there be marks around the neck, not the ankles?”
Witherspoon nodded gratefully at the constable, relieved that Barnes apparently didn’t get it either. “That’s right, if he was drowned in the tub, there should be some kind of bruises about the poor chap’s neck.”
Bosworth shook his head stubbornly. “Not necessarily, Inspector. If someone has his head shoved under, he might be thrown off balance for a second, but he could use his legs and arms to fight back against the hands holding him under. Unless, of course, he was in a such a huge tub his legs didn’t reach the end. And neither of the victim’s arms had any bruises or abrasions at all. If someone was holding the poor chap’s head under, unless the hands were tied, he’d have been flopping about and fighting back for all he was worth.” Bosworth suddenly scurried down to the end of the table and grabbed the dead man’s ankles. “However, if you walk up to someone in a bath, reach in and quickly jerk their ankles straight up”—to Witherspoon’s horror, he jerked the corpse’s legs straight into the air—“the entire upper torso and head gets pulled under quickly and the legs cannot be used defensively,” Bosworth explained eagerly. “The arms are almost use-less because in most of the new baths, the sides are so high it would be hard to grab them to lever yourself up. Plus, if the killer acted quickly, the victim’s mouth and lungs would be filled with water so fast, they literally wouldn’t have time to react.” Bosworth put the poor chap’s limbs down.
Witherspoon sighed in relief. For a moment there, he’d been afraid that in his enthusiasm, the good doctor was going to yank the fellow off the slab. He glanced at Barnes, who was staring thoughtfully at the body.
“Too bad we don’t have a bathtub handy,” Barnes mumbled. “It could easily have happened like that.”
“That would be a rather interesting experiment,” Bosworth said cheerfully. “Perhaps I’ll try it at home.”
Scandalized, the inspector gasped. “You’re going to take the body home?”
“No, no.” Bosworth grinned. “I wouldn’t be that disrespectful, Inspector. However, I’m sure my landlady’s son will give me a hand with it. He’s helped me conduct some other experiments. Of course I will promise not to drown the lad.”
Witherspoon smiled weakly. He wasn’t sure this theory made sense but he made a mental note to have a good, hard look at the victim’s bathtub. “So you think the killer held him under by grabbing his ankles? Right?”
“Yes,” Bosworth said. “That would explain these bruises.” He leaned over and gripped the dead man’s ankles again. This time, he carefully placed his thumbs over the bruises at the bottom of the shins. They fit perfectly. “See. That could be what made these bruises. I’d have to hold tight to keep him under the water, but it could certainly be done.”
“What about the bruise on the heel?” Barnes asked.
“Probably from the top of the tub.” Bosworth stepped back. “Even under water, the victim would have had some fight left in him. I expect the killer had a bit of a hard time hanging on to him. With all the other evidence, I think it’s quite clear, don’t you?”
“Other evidence?” Witherspoon wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.
“The soap under his fingernails.” Bosworth lifted one of the lifeless hands. “Here.” He shoved the extremity toward Witherspoon’s nose. “Take a sniff, you can still smell it. lavender soap. Luckily, whoever dumped the body didn’t realize it landed on top of a carriage wheel someone had tossed in the canal. This hand wasn’t in the water at all and the soap didn’t get washed away. Believe me, Inspector. One doesn’t find much lavender soap in the Regents Canal. From the way the soap’s caked under the fingernails of the hand, I’m rather led to believe that the victim must have been washing when the killer grabbed him. Too bad he didn’t have a better defensive weapon at hand. You can’t do much damage with a bit of soap. More’s the pity.” Bosworth smiled sheepishly. “Mind you, Dr. Potter doesn’t necessarily agree with my analysis of the situation. But considering the evidence, I’d wager the family silver, if I had any, that you’ve a murder on your hands.”
Impressed, Witherspoon gazed at the young doctor. “Are you doing the postmortem?”
“Yes. Potter didn’t think it would be fitting for him to do it.” Bosworth grinned. “Slicing into an old friend, you know.”
“So, Dr. Potter was a friend of the victim,” Barnes said.
“Not really. More of an acquaintance, I’d say.” Bosworth pulled the sheet back up. Witherspoon smothered another sigh of relief. “But it did give the poor fellow a shock when he came barging in here and saw who was lying on the table. That’s how we identified the victim so quickly. Well, what do you think, Inspector?”
Witherspoon wasn’t sure what to think, but he did have a great deal of respect for the doctor. “You’ve made a most compelling case. Most compelling, indeed. But isn’t it possible that the buttons got mangled from being in the canal? Currents, that sort of thing?”
Bosworth shook his head. “No. The buttons on the vest are extremely small and quite difficult to undo. The shirt buttons are even tinier. I had a good look at the size of the holes too. No current is strong enough to worry the material out of shape so much that buttons could slip out then slip themselves back in again in a different order.
“Besides, as I said, the body was actually caught on a carriage wheel some fool had tossed under the canal bridge. I should have loved to have had a go at the poor chap before they fished him out. I’ve a theory you can get an awful lot of information about the crime if you just take the time and trouble to look at the body before people start mucking about with it.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Actually, Witherspoon thought that was a rather silly notion. Dead was dead. Furthermore, most police surgeons did have a look at the corpse before it was moved. He didn’t see what good it would have done Dr. Bosworth to stare at this poor fellow while he was flopped over a wheel in a canal. But there was no point in being rude.
“There’s the shoes as well,” Barnes added. “I’d say that’s good evidence of a murder.”
Witherspoon glanced at the feet again. “True. One doesn’t usually wear brown shoes with full, formal evening dress.”
“And don’t forget the soap, sir,” Barnes persisted.
“Thank you for reminding me, Barnes,” Witherspoon said. He looked at the doctor. “How sure are you about the time of death?”
Bosworth looked doubtful. “Not as positive as I’d like to be. I should have a better idea once I cut him open.”
Witherspoon shuddered and glanced at the shrouded body. “Poor chap. I wonder where he’d been?”
“I know,” Dr. Bosworth announced proudly. “At least, Dr. Potter knew where he’d been on Saturday evening. He saw him, you see.”
“Saw him? Where?” Witherspoon hoped that didn’t mean that old Potter was going to end up being a suspect. He didn’t much like the doctor but he couldn’t quite see him as a murderer.
“The Hayden Theatre. They were both there. Not together. Dr. Potter was with his wife. But he said he saw Hinchley there and actually spoke to the man. A new play was opening. Potter said that it was duller than a rusty scalpel.”
“It were a right surprise, Mr. Hinchley coming back the way he did,” said Maggie Malone, proprietress of Malone’s, a grocer’s shop at the end of Avenue Road. She flipped her duster over a row of tinned sausages. “Saw him Saturday afternoon when I was sweeping the stoop,” she continued. “Told Mr. Malone he ought to go round to Hinchley’s house right away and collect what’s owed to us, but Mr. Malone said we’d wait until Monday. Had a bit of a row over it, we did. We’re only a small shop, now, aren’t we? Can’t be waiting forever for our money. But Mr. Malone says Mr. Hinchley’s a good customer, so he had his way. Blast, now the man’s dead and who knows if we’ll ever get paid?”
Betsy nodded sympathetically. She’d struck gold on her first try this morning. “Can’t you talk to this Mr. Hinchley’s solicitor and get them to pay it out of the estate?”
“That’ll take forever.” Maggie tossed the duster under the counter and began straightening a row of tinned ox tongue. She was a tall, rawboned middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and a ruddy complexion. “Once you get solicitors and such muckin’ about, you’re lucky if you get a tuppence for your trouble.”
Betsy nodded in agreement. “How long had he been gone?”
“Almost three months.” Maggie tugged at the tight bodice of her gray broadcloth dress. “He were supposed to stay gone for six.”
“How come he went there?” Betsy asked.
Maggie shrugged. “Who knows? Took it into his head to go and so up he went. He was an odd duck, if you know what I mean. I think he might have been writin’ for one of them American newspapers but I expect the Americans didn’t like his nasty pieces any better than anyone over here does.”
“Nasty pieces?” Betsy prodded gently. She wasn’t worried about this one shutting up on her. The minute Betsy had mentioned Hinchley, the shopkeeper’s tongue had taken off like a greyhound after a rabbit. “Was he a newspaper reporter, then?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not a reporter, a critic. For the theatre. He wrote reviews of plays and such for some of the newspapers. Seems a silly thing for a grown man to do, if you ask me. But he liked it well enough. Mind you, the people he wrote about didn’t like him much. More than once Lilly’s been round here telling tales about some actor or writer raising a ruckus with the man. Not that Mr. Hinchley cared what people thought of him. Rather hard sort of man, if you get my meaning.”
Betsy thought it sounded like Lilly liked to talk as well. She made a mental note to try and find the girl. “Some men are like that,” she agreed. “Don’t care if half the world hates them.”
“Hinchley certainly didn’t.” Maggie broke off just as the shop door opened and a well-dressed woman stepped inside. “Good morning, Mrs. Baker. I’ll be right with you.” All business now, Maggie looked inquiringly at Betsy. “What was it you wanted, miss?”
“A tin of Le Page’s Liquid Glue, please,” she replied. Drat. If that woman hadn’t come in, she’d probably have been able to get a lot more information out of the shopkeeper. But Mrs. Baker had a list in her hand and didn’t appear to be in any hurry. So Betsy paid for her glue, which would make a nice gift for Wiggins, smiled at Maggie Malone and left. She could always come back.
The late Ogden Hinchley had resided in a large, beige brick townhouse at the very end of Avenue Road, only a few hundred feet from the canal where his body had been found. From the outside, nothing about it looked extraordinary. But the inside was quite another story.
Inspector Witherspoon gazed curiously around the drawing room. Voluminous sheer fabric had been draped artfully across the ceiling, giving one the effect of standing in a rather opulent tent. The floor was covered with a huge, intricate and boldly patterned oriental rug. Gigantic red and white pillows were tossed willy nilly around the room and several low tables, all draped in elegant red and gold fringed silk were ringed about in strategic places next to the pillows. The air smelled faintly of incense. Tapes-tries, mostly Indian in style, and bright brass plate completed the decorations on the wall. The far end of the room was dominated by a low day bed covered with a white silk spread and canopied in sheets of sheer cream. At the foot of the bed was a chair, ornately carved and covered with a deep maroon velvet.
“Place looks like the throne room of a heathen king,” Barnes muttered, staring at the chair.
“It certainly does,” Witherspoon agreed. “Do you think the whole house is like this?”
“No, sir,” a low voice said from behind him. “Only this room and the master bedroom and bath. The rest of house is quite ordinary.”
Witherspoon and Barnes both whirled around. A tall, dark-haired man with brown eyes, sculpted cheeks and exceptionally pale skin stood just inside the doorway. “I’m Rather, sir. Mr. Hinchley’s butler. Lilly said you wanted a word with us.”
“Yes, I’d like to speak to the entire staff, if I may,” Witherspoon replied.
Rather smiled faintly. “There’s only Lilly and myself, sir. Mr. Hinchley sacked everyone else when he left for New York.”
“He wasn’t planning on returning then?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, sir,” Rather replied. “He was planning on coming back.”
“You don’t mean he expected a house this size to be managed by only two servants?” Witherspoon asked. Odd-looking room and all, it was still a big house.
Rather’s lip curled. “I wasn’t privy to Mr. Hinchley’s expectations, sir. Perhaps he was planning on hiring new servants when he returned. I wouldn’t know. I’d planned on leaving well before he got back.”
“You didn’t like Mr. Hinchley?” the inspector probed.
“It wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking.” The butler shrugged negligently, as though the matter were of no consequence. “I simply felt I could better myself somewhat by seeking employment elsewhere. Lilly was planning on going as well. Ogden Hinchley wasn’t the kind of employer to inspire loyalty amongst his staff.”
Witherspoon thought that most interesting. “Is there somewhere else we can talk?” This room was getting on his nerves. Perhaps it was that sickly, cloying incense smell. But he didn’t much like being in there.
Rather looked at him for a moment and a flash of amusement flitted over his face. “We can go into the butler’s pantry.”
The man led them down a long, wide hall toward the back of the silent house. Their footsteps echoed eerily on the polished wood floor. At the last door, the butler stopped. “In here, gentlemen. Should I call Lilly?”
The room was small and ordinary. A tiny fireplace, an overstuffed settee and two wing chairs.
“We’d like to speak with you first,” Witherspoon said. “Do you mind if we sit down?”
“Please do.” Rather nodded at the settee, but remained standing himself.
As soon as they were seated, Barnes whipped out his notebook while the inspector started the questioning. “You do know that your employer was found dead last night?”
“Yes. A police constable came round and told us this morning.”
“Mr. Hinchley’s body was found in the canal. Have you any idea how he got there?” Witherspoon asked.
“None, sir.”
“When was the last time you saw your employer?” Barnes asked.
“Saturday evening,” Rather replied. “He left for the theatre at half six. He told me he was going to a new play that was opening at the Hayden Theatre.”
“He left at half six?” Barnes asked.
“Yes.”
“Why so early?” the constable persisted. “The theatre usually starts at eight. Was he going to stop and have supper first?”
Rather shook his head. “He ate a light supper before he left.”
“Then why did he leave so early?” Witherspoon asked. “Even in traffic it doesn’t take an hour and a half to get to the Strand.”
“I’ve no idea,” Rather said calmly. “It wasn’t my place to question the man.”
Witherspoon leaned forward. “Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t return home that night?”
“I didn’t know he hadn’t come home, did I? I was asleep.”
“But when you saw he wasn’t here on Sunday morning, weren’t you alarmed?”
Rather hesitated. “Not really. Sometimes he’d go off for a few days on his own. He’d done it before. As his clothes were still packed, when he didn’t come down to breakfast, I thought he’d come home, grabbed a few things and gone off with a friend.”
“Did he have a lot of friends, then?” Barnes asked softly.
The butler smiled slyly. “Not really.”
“So the last time you saw Mr. Hinchley was early Saturday evening,” Witherspoon mused. “Tell me, how long would you expect him to be away without communicating with his household?”
“Lilly and I were thinking that if we didn’t hear from him by tomorrow, we might go to the police. But I honestly thought he’d simply gone off with a friend.”
“And you didn’t wait up for him on Saturday night, then?” Barnes asked.
“No. I was under my usual instructions. I left the side door unlocked and went to bed at my normal time.”
“Mr. Hinchley had you leave the door unlocked?” Witherspoon pressed. This was most curious, most curious indeed.
“Yes. That’s the way he liked things done,” Rather said firmly.
Witherspoon drummed his fingers against the settee. “Did Mr. Hinchley have enemies?”
“If you’re looking for people who wanted him dead, you’d best try the Hayden Theatre.” Rather laughed nastily. “The last person any of that lot wanted to see in the audience that night was Ogden Hinchley.”
“Took ’im to the Hayden, guv,” the cabbie told Smythe. The big burly man whipped his hat off and wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. “That’s a theatre over on the Strand.”
“What time did ya pick ’im up?” Smythe asked and glanced up the road, keeping a wary eye on the corner. He didn’t want the inspector or Constable Barnes to come barreling round and catch him chatting with a hansom driver. Finding the cabbie that had picked Ogden Hinchley up on Saturday had been a stroke of luck, but Smythe didn’t believe in pushing good fortune too far. He wasn’t one to take advantage of Lady Luck.
The man shrugged.”‘Bout half six, I reckon. Might ’ave been a bit later. I wasn’t watchin’ the time. Why you so interested in this bloke, mate?”
“Doin’ a bit of snoopin’ for a lady,” Smythe gave him a man-to-man grin. “She’s sweet on ’im and she don’t trust ’im much. Wants to make sure he minds himself, if you know what I mean.”
The cabbie’s eyes glittered greedily. “This lady pay good?”
Smythe wiped the smile off his face and replaced it with a scowl.
Unlike Betsy, the driver was immediately cowed. “Don’t get narked, now,” he said quickly. “I was only askin’. Can’t blame a feller fer tryin’ to pick up a bit of coin now and then. I’m round these parts lots. I wouldn’t mind doin’ a bit of watchin’ if the pay was good. That’s all I’m sayin’. Times is tough, you know. Hard to make a decent livin’, what with fares bein’ set by the bloomin’ council and people stealin’ lifts on the back instead of payin’ properly.”
“I’ve already paid ya all you’re going to get,” Smythe snapped. He hated doing this. But sometimes, if you weren’t careful, you’d get fleeced faster than a green boy at a racecourse. “And I’ve paid ya well too.” One thing the coachman didn’t have to worry about was money. He had plenty of it. He felt just a bit guilty that he could buy his information when he needed to, while the others in the household had to dash about all over London to pick up clues. But it weren’t his fault he had more money than he knew what to do with.
“Never said you didn’t,” the cabbie said quickly. “Anyway, I took him to the Hayden and dropped him off. That’s all there was to it. He were just a regular fare.”
“Did you see if he talked to anyone when he got out?”
“Didn’t ’ang about to notice,” the cabbie replied. He began to stroke the horse’s nose. “As soon as we pulled up, another fare got in.”
Witherspoon and Barnes walked slowly down the center aisle of the Hayden Theatre. The auditorium was horseshoe shaped. Boxes, stalls and galleries, each of them catering to a different class and different price level, layered themselves toward the large stage.
“What’s that?” Barnes asked, pointing to the gilt-framed moulding flush with the front of the stage. “It looks like a giant picture frame.”
“I think it’s called a proscenium,” Witherspoon replied. “I believe it’s used to help stage the play. I say, do you think there’s anyone about?”
He peered down toward the stage, but saw nothing in the poor light. However, he could see that the backing on the seats in this part of the theatre was aged and fading. On the boxes to his left, he noticed the paint was chipping.
“Can I help you gents?” someone called. Just then a head popped up from one of the front rows.
Witherspoon was so startled by the man’s sudden appearance he didn’t answer for a moment. “Uh, could we see someone in charge, please?”
“You coppers?”
“Yes, I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”
“I’ll get Mr. Swinton for you,” the man said. “He’s the guv.”
“Odd sort of place, isn’t it, sir?” Barnes commented as they waited. “For some reason, it makes you want to whisper. Like church.”
A bald man with a huge mustache appeared at the front of the stage. He squinted at the two policemen. “I’m Willard Swinton. You want to see me?”
“If we could have a word, please,” Witherspoon shouted. Swinton nodded and disappeared behind the proscenium. Witherspoon, alarmed that he’d lost his prey, hurried toward the stage. Constable Barnes was right on his heels.
By the time they reached the front, Willard Swinton had reappeared in front of a door tucked neatly to the left of the stage.
“This way, gentlemen,” he called, waving them over. “We’d be more comfortable in my office.” He led them through the door, down a long corridor and into a small room at the very end. Gaudy playbills decorated the walls. There was a huge rolltop desk in the center, a gas fire in the hearth and several overstuffed chairs. “Have a seat,” Swinton invited, sitting down behind his desk. “Now, what can I do for her Majesty’s boys in blue?”
It took a moment for Witherspoon to understand he meant the police. “Ah, we’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. About Saturday evening.”
“Great night it was, sir.” Swinton beamed proudly. Belvedere’s Burden was an absolute smash! We’re sold out for the next three weeks.”
“I take it that’s the name of the current production?” Witherspoon asked.
“That’s right. Saturday night was our opening. The house was sold out.” Impossibly enough, Swinton’s smile broadened even further.
Witherspoon asked, “Do you know a gentleman named Ogden Hinchley?”
Swinton’s smile evaporated. “I know him,” he sneered. “He was here Saturday night, sitting right in the third row.”
“Did you speak to him?” Barnes asked.
“Not bloody likely,” Swinton snapped. “I haven’t spoken to that man for two years. The only reason I didn’t throw him out when I spotted him was because I didn’t want to create a fuss in front of the audience.”
“I take it you didn’t like Mr. Hinchley?” Witherspoon said.
Swinton’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s this all about, then?”
Witherspoon realized he didn’t have to break the news gently to the man. “Mr. Hinchley’s dead. His body was found in the Regents Canal. We’ve reason to believe the death wasn’t an accident.”
Swinton’s jaw gaped. “Dead? Hinchley? That explains it then. We wondered why his review wasn’t in the paper.”
The door flew open and a tall, fair-haired man came charging in. “For God’s sake, Willard,” he cried, “you promised you’d take care of those wretchedly old limelights…” He broke off as he saw the two men, his deep-set eyes widening when he noticed Constable Barnes’s uniform. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize anyone else was here. Do forgive me for intruding.” He started backing toward the door.
“Don’t go, Edmund,” Swinton said. “These gentlemen are police. They’ve just given me the most shocking news. Ogden Hinchley’s been murdered.”
He stopped. “Murdered? My God, you are joking?”
Swinton shook his head.
Witherspoon quickly introduced himself and Barnes. “And who are you, sir?”
“Sorry, Inspector.” Swinton belatedly remembered his manners and introduced the newcomer. “This is Edmund Delaney, the author of the play.”
“Did you know Mr. Hinchley, sir?” Barnes asked quickly.
Delaney didn’t speak for a moment. “Yes,” he finally replied so softly that Witherspoon had to strain to catch what he was saying. “I knew him. Everybody in the theatre knew him.”
“Why don’t you sit down, sir?” Witherspoon invited. He usually liked to interview people alone, but it might be interesting to try it a bit differently this time.
Delany sat down in a chair next to Swinton’s desk. He clasped his hands together. “How was he killed?”
“He was drowned,” Witherspoon said. It wouldn’t do to give too much information away. From the reactions of both these men, it was obvious they had strong feelings about the victim. “And he was last seen alive right here at this theatre on Saturday night.”
“What do you mean by that?” Swinton blustered. “Are you trying to imply this theatre had something to do with Hinchley’s death?”
“I’m implying nothing, Mr. Swinton,” Witherspoon replied calmly. He directed his attention to Delaney, noticing that the man’s face had gone pale. “Did you know Mr. Hinchley well?”
“He was a professional acquaintance,” Delaney muttered.
“Did you like him?” Barnes asked.
Delaney appeared surprised by the question, but he recovered quickly. “No one in the theatre liked him. He was a critic. Quite a nasty one too. Hinchley ruined a number of careers both here and in America.” He laughed harshly. “I understand Americans are quite a violent people. Perhaps Hinchley’s vitriolic pen didn’t sit well with the New York theatre crowd. Maybe one of them followed him back and killed him.”
Surprised by such a silly statement, Witherspoon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you suggesting he was murdered by an American?” he asked incredulously.
“Not really.” Delaney smiled apologetically. “This is a bit of a shock, Inspector. I’m just babbling nonsense.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Hinchley wasn’t loved by any of us here in England, but he had been gone for rather a long time. None of us even knew he was back.”
“Mr. Swinton did,” Barnes said.
“Here now, what are you saying?” Swinton snapped. “I wasn’t the only one who knew he was back. Half of London saw him sitting big as a ruddy toad. And I wasn’t the only one in the theatre who’d seen him either. Remington and Parks were both peeking out at the audience that night. They could’ve seen him too.”
“Please, Mr. Swinton, don’t excite yourself.” Gracious, the man’s face had gone so red, Witherspoon was afraid he might burst something. “We’re merely trying to ascertain Mr. Hinchley’s movements on Saturday evening.”
Swinton seemed to calm down. “His movements have nothing to do with us. As far as I know, he watched the play and then left.”
“I see,” the inspector replied. “And what time did the play end?”
“Around eleven o’clock.”
“It’s three hours long?” Barnes exclaimed. Blimey, he thought, that would flatten your backside.
“Of course not,” Delaney said. “But it was late starting and we had quite a long intermission.” He tossed a quick frown at Swinton. “We had a bit of trouble with some of the limelights and that delayed us a good fifteen minutes.”
“So the play ended at approximately eleven,” Witherspoon said.
“Closer to ten-fifty than eleven,” Swinton interrupted.
“All right,” the inspector said patiently, “ten-fifty. What did you gentlemen do after the play was over?”
Both men appeared surprised by the question. Delaney answered first. “I went for a walk, Inspector. By the Thames.”
“How long did you walk?”
“I’m not sure,” Delaney replied. “An hour, maybe more. Try and understand, Inspector, I was quite excited. This is my first play. I guess I was in a bit of a state. I knew I wouldn’t sleep so I went down to the river and walked. Then I went home.”
“And you, Mr. Swinton?” Barnes asked.
“I came in and counted the receipts,” Swinton replied. “Good take that night.”
“What time did you leave your office?” Witherspoon glanced over to make sure the constable was getting this down in his notebook.
Swinton stroked his mustache. “I wasn’t watching the clock. It took a couple of hours to count out and do the books. By then it was late, so I went home.”
“Did anyone see you leave?” Witherspoon asked.
“No. The place was empty when I locked up.”
The inspector turned to Delaney. “Did anyone see you by the river?”
“Lots of people saw me, Inspector,” Delaney replied sarcastically. “But unfortunately, I doubt any of them knew who I was.”
Mrs. Jeffries spotted Dr. Bosworth the moment he left St. Thomas’s Hospital through the side door. She darted forward and planted herself directly in front of his path. “Good day, Dr. Bosworth,” she said brightly.
Bosworth stopped and cocked his head to one side. “Why am I not surprised to see you?”
“Because you’re most intelligent.” she smiled confidently. “And you know I’d want to hear every little detail of the postmortem on Ogden Hinchley.” As one of her “secret sources,” Dr. Bosworth had been most helpful on several of the other of the inspector’s cases.
“Of course.” He offered her his arm. “Let’s stroll while we talk, Mrs. Jeffries. To be perfectly frank, I’m very tired. But I think I can manage to stay awake long enough to give you the essentials. Has the inspector got this one, then?”
“It seems so,” she said as they walked toward the bridge. “I understand you don’t think this is a case of accidental drowning.”
“Absolutely not,” Bosworth replied. He repeated everything he had already told Witherspoon. “And when I opened the fellow up, there wasn’t any debris in the lungs.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you.”
Bosworth yawned. “If he’d drowned in the canal, there would have been dirt and filth from the canal in his lungs. Now, there was debris in his mouth, but not in the lungs, if you follow.”
“So if he drowned in his bathtub, then someone would have had to move his body and take it to the canal,” she said thoughtfully. “How big a man was he?”
“Quite small, really,” Bosworth replied. “Very slender, with very poorly developed muscle. But even a small man would be quite difficult to move. Dead weight and all.”
“Was there anything else, Doctor?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Poor Dr. Bosworth did look very tired. She really mustn’t keep him too long. “Anything else that might be useful to us?”
Bosworth thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so, but honestly, I’m so tired I’m not thinking all that clearly. Tell you what—if I remember anything else, I’ll send you a note.”
“What about the time of death?”
Bosworth hesitated. “It’s only an educated guess, but my estimate is late Saturday night or the very early hours of Sunday morning.”
“But someone tried to make it look like he was murdered Saturday night as he walked along the canal?”
“That’s how it appears to me,” Bosworth yawned again. “But I’m only a doctor, Mrs. Jeffries. I leave the real detecting to you.”