The silent treatment wasn’t the best way to restore harmony between us. Of that I was certain. So I did the opposite. I talked about the case without pause. By the time we reached the footman’s flat, Harry knew all the gossip I’d heard at the ball and afterwards. He also knew everyone’s movements on that night, as far as I could remember them. He was most interested in the sighting of Ambrose McDonald studying the painting, who he studied it with, and why Lady Bunbury was so keen to speak to them.
“The most likely answer is that she didn’t want them staring at it too long,” I said. “She was worried they’d discover it was fake—like so many other things in their house, including the library painting.”
Harry shook his head sadly. “I don’t understand why the Bunburys are so determined to maintain a façade of wealth. If they sold the London townhouse, they could still live a very comfortable life on their country estate.”
“Unless they’re heavily mortgaged.”
“Even more reason to sell up here and live within their means instead of hosting lavish parties. Maintaining the façade sounds exhausting to me.”
“To me too, but we’ve never had what they have. We can’t know what it’s like to lose it. Their identities are so tightly entwined with their wealth that it’s impossible for them to imagine what their lives would be like if they were as ordinary as us.”
His lips tilted in that familiar way that I liked so much. I was very glad to see it return. It meant the tension had finally eased between us. “We’re far from ordinary, Cleo.”
I smiled, as much from relief that he was being friendly as from the sentiment itself.
Harry’s knock on the boarding house door was answered by a matronly woman wearing an apron dusted with flour. She introduced herself as the landlady and housekeeper, in charge of five bedrooms in the old house, all of which were currently let to lodgers. The smells of baking wafted from the service area at the back and, despite the house’s state of disrepair, it was filled with homely furnishings. If I were a single man in London, I’d want to live under her roof. I suspected this pink-cheeked woman took better care of her lodgers than their own mothers.
Her smile turned sad when we introduced ourselves and told her our reason for calling. “The police came this morning and searched Mr. Smith’s room,” she said. “I cannot believe he is a murderer. I simply can’t fathom it. Such a nice man. He has always been kind to me, greeting me of a morning and sometimes even helping me tidy up after supper. I can’t fault his manners. He was a bit of a rascal, mind, in a roguish way.”
“It must have been a shock when the police arrived and informed you,” I said gently.
She withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “It was. I’m convinced there has been a mistake. Is that why you’re here? To do the work the police failed to do?”
“We want to tie up some loose ends.”
“What kind of loose ends?”
“Did the police tell you he stole a painting from the place where he worked last night?” Harry asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh! No, they didn’t.”
“Are you surprised?”
She twisted the handkerchief around one of her fingers. “He never stole from me.”
It wasn’t an answer to Harry’s question, but her avoidance was telling. “He was something of an artist himself, wasn’t he?”
She indicated an oil painting on the parlor wall, hanging in pride of place above the mantelpiece. It showed the house we now sat in from the street. “I’m not an expert, but I liked his work.”
“Did he paint in his room?” I asked.
“Oh no. That’s not allowed. He went to his friend’s studio. Sometimes he’d be so lost in his work that he’d miss curfew and have to stay overnight.”
“Was he there on March thirtieth or did he come home that night?”
“What has that got to do with the murder?”
I merely smiled benignly, waiting for her to respond.
“I can’t recall that specific night, but he did spend several nights at his friend’s studio around that time.”
“A male friend?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Smith referred to him as ‘he’ or ‘him.’ Besides, he’d never compromise a woman by staying overnight. He was a good man.” She pursed her lips, indignant that I would suggest such a thing.
“Do you know the friend’s name?”
“I don’t, but Mr. Smith visited him regularly until a week or so ago.”
“Why did he stop going?”
She shrugged. “I suppose they had a falling out. It’s such a shame. He could do with a friend now.”
“May we see his room?” Harry asked.
She hesitated before rising. “I don’t see why not. The police haven’t said no one can enter.”
She led us up the stairs and unlocked a door using one of the keys hanging at her waist. The door to the next room along the corridor opened a crack and a man peered out.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “May we have a word?”
He closed the door then a moment later, opened it wider and stepped out. He was a small man who blinked a lot. I couldn’t tell if it was a sign of nerves or simply a tic he always had. “Are you with the police?”
“We’re assisting with the investigation,” I said. “You know about Mr. Smith’s arrest?”
He nodded.
“Do you know the name of his friend, the one whose studio he painted in?”
The lodger’s gaze darted to the landlady and back to me. “How is that relevant?”
“It may not be, but we’d like to speak to him nevertheless.”
The lodger twisted his ink splattered fingers around each other. “I don’t know him, sorry.”
“Does the name Ambrose McDonald mean anything to either of you?”
They both shook their heads.
Harry had been studying Reggie Smith’s room from the doorway, but now he turned to the lodger. “Did he tell you where he was going before he went out of an evening? Or where he’d been the night before?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about the night of the thirtieth of March. Was he here? Or did he go out and stay overnight with his friend, perhaps?”
The lodger’s lips pinched. “I ask again, how is that relevant?”
Harry merely smiled and disappeared into the room.
“I have a pie in the oven,” the landlady said and bustled off towards the stairs.
Instead of following Harry, I approached the lodger. “One more thing, Mr…?”
“Underwood.”
“Mr. Underwood, I gather from your reactions that there was something going on between Mr. Smith and his friend with the studio.”
Mr. Underwood retreated backwards to his room. “I don’t know what you’re implying. Good day.”
I went after him and put a hand up to stop him closing the door in my face. “We’re trying to save Mr. Smith’s life. If he’s found guilty of murder, he will hang.”
Mr. Underwood swallowed heavily. “What do you want to know?”
“Mr. Smith and the man with the studio were lovers, weren’t they? That’s why he sometimes spent the night there.”
He gave a slight nod. “I think you might be correct.”
“Do you know why they fell out?”
“No.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “About nine or ten days ago, I saw Mr. Smith come home one afternoon. He was very upset. I tried comforting him, but he didn’t want company. He never told me what happened, but after that, he stopped going out unless he had to work.”
“And the night of March thirtieth?”
“I am sorry, but I truly don’t remember if he was in our out. Is that when the murder occurred? The police told us nothing.”
I decided it couldn’t hurt to give him some specifics. Some of it would be released in the newspapers later today anyway. “A fellow by the name of Ambrose McDonald was murdered last night at the place where Mr. Smith worked. Mr. Smith stole a painting, and the theory is that he was caught in the act by the victim and killed him to keep him quiet.”
He blinked rapidly back at me for a long time, taking it all in. “And on the thirtieth of March?” he asked in a thin voice.
“There was another art theft. We’re trying to establish a link between the two thefts, or lack thereof.”
“I see. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Underwood. If you remember anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact us. My associate has business cards. Wait a moment and I’ll fetch one.” I hurried into Mr. Smith’s room. “A card please, Harry.”
He fished one out of his inside jacket pocket then continued his search under the mattress.
I returned to Mr. Underwood, glad to see he hadn’t disappeared. Indeed, he accepted the card readily and with a curious expression.
“I have thought of something, as it happens.” He withdrew a silver card case from his pocket and added Harry’s card on top of one with a blue dove printed in the center. “The thing is, before he fell out with his…friend, Mr. Smith didn’t work. He didn’t need to. He painted all day. Although he was good, I don’t think he sold very many. Certainly not enough to live on. After he and his friend fell out, he found employment as a footman with a catering firm.”
So Reggie Smith’s lover was most likely also his patron. When their relationship ended, so did the financial support. It would have been a terrible double blow.
“Thank you, Mr. Underwood. You’ve been a great help.”
“I hope so.”
“One more thing. Do you think him capable of theft?”
He went to close the door but paused. “I couldn’t say.”
Couldn’t or wouldn’t? “What about murder?”
He simply shook his head, but I wasn’t sure if that meant he didn’t know or didn’t think him capable.
I returned to help Harry search Mr. Smith’s room. We found nothing of interest. No stolen artworks, no private correspondence, no photographs of a man who could be a lover. As we searched, I told Harry what Mr. Underwood had told me.
“That explains why Reggie Smith didn’t give the name of his alibi on March thirtieth when my father interviewed him. He wanted to protect his lover.”
I agreed. If his lover was a wealthy man, the scandal would probably make the newspapers. It could destroy him. Love between men was not only scandalous, it was illegal. “It means he did have an alibi for the night of the first theft.”
Harry didn’t want to accept that as fact until we knew for certain. “Speaking of lovers, what if McDonald’s murder has nothing to do with the art heist and everything to do with his relationships? You say he was a known cad. Perhaps he bedded the wrong woman and a jealous husband took revenge.”
“It does sound like a recipe for jealousy to me.” We exited the room and he closed the door behind us. “And jealousy is a powerful motive.”
We both looked to the next door along the corridor through which Mr. Underwood had disappeared.
The second address on our list from D.I. Hobart was for an impressive house on Grosvenor Square in Mayfair, not far from the Bunburys’ townhouse. I started up the steps, but Harry stopped me.
“I’ll go alone,” he said. “The owners might recognize you.”
I angled my hat lower over my forehead. “I doubt it.”
“That won’t fool anyone.”
“We’ll see, shall we?”
The butler answered the door and left us standing in the entrance hall while he checked to see if Lord and Lady Quorne were home for callers. He returned a moment later and led us to the drawing room where a middle-aged lady dressed in cream lace with a hairstyle so voluminous and blonde that it had to be a wig, sat on a sofa upholstered in buttercup yellow. The walls were painted in the same shade, making the room feel like a meadow in summer. She stroked a ginger cat curled up on her lap.
I recognized her immediately. She’d been a guest at the ball. At one time, she’d spoken to my aunt and uncle. I touched the brim of my hat and dipped my head. Hopefully she thought I was doing it in deference and not to hide my face.
Harry introduced me as his associate without naming me. I melted into the background and let him take the stage. It didn’t matter. She’d barely glanced at me from the moment he smiled his charming smile.
“We’re helping the police to investigate the murder of Ambrose McDonald,” Harry said as he sat on the chair nearest her. “He died at the Bunburys’ Ball last night.”
“Yes, I was there.”
“You were?” His tone suggested that if he had eyes in the back of his head, he would be glaring at me.
Lady Quorne’s fingers stilled in the cat’s fur. It raised its head in protest and she resumed patting it. “I wondered when the police would question me. I’ve been waiting all day.”
Harry didn’t inform her that the police thought they had their man. He must think she’d be more co-operative this way. He was probably right. “Did you see anything?”
“I don’t think so. I was in the ballroom when I heard the scream. We all were. Poor Mr. McDonald.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Only in passing. Ruth—Lady Bunbury—only invited him to make up numbers. There’s always a shortage of eligible men at these things so one can’t be too particular.”
“You don’t think he should have been invited?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. He was charming and handsome. The young girls liked him. But that’s also the problem. He was a dreadful flirt and he took the attention away from some of the more worthy gentlemen.”
“Worthy?” Harry echoed.
“From better families. No one knows much about Mr. McDonald. He could be a blacksmith’s son who inherited a little money from a distant relative. That’s the thing. No one knows and so one ought not to entrust one’s daughter or niece to his company. It would be quite a to-do if he trapped her into marriage. But with such a charming manner, it’s impossible to keep the silly girls away. Isn’t that right, Foxy?”
“Foxy?” I blurted out. It was a nickname I’d been given in school.
Lady Quorne looked up from Foxy the cat and studied me properly for the first time. “Don’t I know you?”
I lowered my head further and shook it.
“My apologies,” Harry said. “She has a habit of repeating what people say in a very loud voice. It makes it almost impossible for her to be out in public. I thought in the privacy of a home, it won’t be so embarrassing.”
I was going to throttle him when we got out of here.
Lady Quorne bestowed a smile on Harry. “It’s very good of you to take her out. She’s fortunate to have a friend like you.”
“Thank you. It can be difficult, but I manage.” How did he keep a straight face? “Since you were at the ball last night, did you hear that a painting was taken from the wall of the library some time before the murder?”
Lady Quorne’s fingers stilled in Foxy’s fur. She glanced at the wall behind Harry. “Good lord. No, I didn’t.”
Harry followed her gaze to a picture of a stream with willows dipping into the water and a stone bridge crossing it. “Is that the painting that was stolen from you? It’s been found?”
“No. It’s a replacement. The stolen one was of Paris in the evening. Is there a connection between the Bunburys’ stolen painting and mine? Was the same thief responsible?” She gasped. “Did the thief murder Mr. McDonald?”
“That’s what we’re trying to discover.”
“I do hope this is the breakthrough the police need to retrieve our Grandjean.” She sighed. “My husband and I had lost hope of it ever being found. I didn’t think the police had a suspect, but now…well, this is marvelous news. Perhaps it won’t be long before it’s recovered.”
“Our focus is on solving the murder.”
Her eyes had begun to dance brightly, but now they dimmed. “Of course, but there might be a link between the thefts and the murder. In fact, there must be. It’s too great a coincidence.”
“It’s possible, which is why we want to find a connection between your painting and the Bunburys’.”
“They are great art lovers. They have some fine pieces.” If she knew or suspected their paintings were fakes, she hid it well.
“Tell us how yours came to be stolen.”
She frowned. “I’ve already told the detective in charge of the investigation.”
“If you would be so kind as to repeat it for us. We just want to make sure there have been no misunderstandings.”
She accepted his explanation with a nod. “Someone entered in the night and took it off the wall.”
“How did they get into the house?”
“No one knows. There were no signs of forced entry, so the police said. They think one of the staff left a latch off the hook, but the housekeeper and butler deny it.”
“You had a ball here just days before the theft.”
“It was a party, not a ball.”
“Did you do the catering yourself or hire a firm?”
“I used Searcys. They do much of the cooking and provide the extra staff.” She gasped. “You don’t think one of their employees did it, do you?”
“It’s too early to say. Do you have a guest list?”
“Good thinking, Mr. Armitage. One of my friends may have noticed a staff member acting suspiciously.” She stood and handed the cat to Harry.
Foxy looked annoyed at being disturbed until he stroked her head and back, then Foxy started kneading his thighs with her claws. After a moment, she closed her eyes and settled down, curling into a ball as he continued to pat.
Lady Quorne closed the drawer of the escritoire and waved a piece of paper in triumph. She handed it to Harry. “Foxy likes you.”
“She dug her claws into me.”
“That’s just her way of showing affection. You must be special. She’s friendly enough to most people but will only settle with a few.”
Foxy purred loudly in agreement then protested with a low growl when Harry returned the cat to her owner. Lady Quorne rang for the butler.
“One more thing,” Harry said. “Where can we find Searcys, the catering firm?”
Lady Quorne didn’t know so asked her butler. “Their office is above a teashop on the corner of Oxford and Holles Streets, sir,” he intoned.
Once safely outside and on the pavement, I raised the brim of my hat to reveal my entire face. “I told you I wouldn’t be recognized.”
“You seem to forget that she did.”
“But she couldn’t place me. As far as she’s concerned, I’m a maid she once hired for a party.”
“It was a close call. If we have to see her again, you shouldn’t come.”
I chose not to remind him that it wasn’t his decision to make. “I won’t do anything to jeopardize my situation, Harry. You have my word.”
He merely grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “See if you recognize any names on Lady Quorne’s guest list.” He handed me the paper with the names. There were two per line and twelve lines in total.
“I recognize six couples. They were also at the ball last night. I don’t know the others.” I tucked the list into my bag. “I’ll see what I can find out about all of them when I return to the hotel.”
“We should go to Searcys now.” He pulled out his watch by its chain and checked the time. “Do you have to be somewhere this afternoon?”
“My presence isn’t required until this evening. There’s a dinner I’m being dragged to with my family. Flossy is probably already getting ready now, but I only need a few minutes.” The sun hadn’t sunk behind the buildings yet. We should catch someone in the Searcys office before they went home for the day. I suddenly had a thought. “Wouldn’t it be fortuitous if Searcys is the caterer for tonight’s dinner?”
He stopped and rounded on me. “Do not investigate. Don’t question anyone, whether they be guests or staff. It’s too much of a risk with your uncle present.”
“I agree, and I wasn’t going to. I will merely observe and listen to gossip.”
According to the staff member on duty in the office, Searcys wasn’t the caterer for the dinner party I was attending that night. They’d been hired for other events, however, and she was run off her feet taking telephone calls from her clients with last minute demands. When she realized we weren’t potential clients, she asked us to return tomorrow morning when it was quieter.
Harry and I parted company on Oxford Street after agreeing to meet at his office in the morning.
I returned home but paused to speak to Frank at the door. He was patrolling the pavement outside the hotel, as he liked to do when he wasn’t greeting guests. He spared a glare for the decorators leaving the construction site next door, tin lunch boxes in hand.
“You can’t possibly be annoyed with them,” I said as the foreman locked up. “Papering walls makes very little noise.”
Frank’s features folded along well-worn lines. “They talk too much, and sing. I can hear one of them every time the door opens. Sings all day, he does. Sounds like a howling dog.”
I’d heard the man singing and thought he was quite good. His co-workers obviously didn’t mind. Frank was the sort of person who found fault in anything. He’d once complained the sky was the wrong shade of blue. It hurt his eyes.
I showed him the names on Lady Quorne’s guest list. “Do you know any of these people? Have any stayed here?”
He shook his head. “None look familiar. Are you investigating the murder of that gentleman from last night’s ball?”
“Yes, but keep it between us.”
“If I help, will I get paid?”
“No one is getting paid. Not even me.”
He screwed up his nose. “Then why are you investigating?”
“I have nothing better to do.”
He scrunched his face even more.
Before he could rattle off a list of things that were more interesting to him than investigating, I added, “If my family ask, tell them I was at a museum today.”
“I don’t like lying to Sir Ronald or Lady Bainbridge.”
“Very well. Tell them you don’t know where I went.”
“Right you are, Miss Fox.”
Inside, Peter told me Harmony was waiting in the staff parlor. He glanced around then leaned closer. “Miss Bainbridge said you were at a museum today, but we wondered if you’d been investigating the murder.”
“I have. In fact, perhaps you can help.” I showed him the list. “Do you recognize any of these names?”
He pointed to a couple, lower down. “They came to the New Year’s Eve ball one year.”
“What are they like? Is there any gossip about them?”
“I just know the name. Sorry. Ask Mr. Hobart. You should catch him now before he leaves for the day.”
I headed to the senior staff offices, passing the post desk where Terence was sorting newspapers into piles. They must be the evening editions, just arrived. Mr. Chapman stood to one side, reading an article on the front page of The Evening News. I picked up another copy. “Footman arrested for murder at society ball,” the headline read. I skimmed the article, but it contained nothing I didn’t already know, and returned it to Terence.
I found Mr. Hobart locking the top drawer of his desk as he prepared to leave for the evening. He looked up at my entry and smiled.
“There you are, Miss Fox. How did your meeting go with my brother and Harry?”
“Very well, thank you. D.I. Hobart wants us to investigate the murder. He’s worried due process wasn’t followed and the wrong fellow was arrested.”
“Does he think Lord Bunbury is exerting some influence over the situation to avoid scandal, as he did last time?”
“He does. Mr. Hobart, do you know any of these people?” I handed him the list. “They were guests at Lady Quorne’s dinner only a few days before her painting was stolen.”
He scanned the list. “You think one of them may have been involved in both art thefts?”
“It’s a possibility. The arrested footman admitted to stealing the Bunburys’ painting, but your brother is quite sure he has an alibi for the night the Quornes’ Grandjean was taken, although he’s being rather secretive about who he was with.”
“Perhaps someone encouraged him to take the Bunburys’ painting last night. The same someone who’d already stolen the Quornes’ picture.”
It was something I’d considered too. Mr. Smith may not have decided to steal the Bunburys’ painting on his own. He could have been encouraged by another, someone who made sure to have a watertight alibi for themselves for the night of the second theft. If so, then that meant they also had an alibi for the murder. And if they had an alibi for the murder, we were back at square one.