Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

“Well?” she demanded as soon as he was out of the door and before he was halfway down to the street. “Did you learn anything?”

“I learned a great deal.” He grasped her arm and linked it to his, then half dragged her to walk side by side with him up the pavement, so to a passerby they would look like a respectable couple taking a stroll. There was no point whatever in making a spectacle of oneself. After all, he was a member of the Morton Club and would wish to return one day.

“What?” Charlotte said urgently, threatening to stop.

“Keep walking, my dear lady,” he insisted out of the corner of his mouth. “We do not wish to be observed as out of the ordinary.”

To his surprise the argument seemed to sway her. She fell into step beside him.

“Well?” she whispered.

Glancing at the expression on her face, he decided to be brief.

“Mr. Standish was present that afternoon, and at the appropriate time, but the steward is positive he did not go into the room where Sir Arthur was seated.”

“Are you sure it was Standish?”

“Beyond doubt. Kreisler was also there, but left too early, as did Aylmer.” They were passed by a man in a pinstripe suit and carrying an umbrella, in spite of the pleasantness of the day.

“However,” Eustace went on, “Hathaway was present, but also not in the same room. He was apparently taken ill, and went to the cloakroom, from where he sent for a cab and was helped into it. He never went anywhere near the room where Sir Arthur was either. I am afraid it appears that none of your suspects can be guilty. I’m sorry.” Actually he was sorry, not for her, but because although it was a far more suitable answer, it was also an anticlimax.

“Well someone must be guilty,” she protested, raising her voice against the noise of the traffic.

“Then it cannot be any of them. Who else might it be?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Anyone.” She stopped, and since she was still clinging to his arm, he was pulled to a sudden halt also. A middle-aged lady on the arm of an elderly man looked at them with suspicion and disapproval. From her expression it was obvious she had supposed some domestic quarrel which no dutiful wife would have allowed to happen in public.

“Stop it!” Eustace hissed. “This is most unseemly. You are causing people to look at us.”

With a great effort Charlotte bit back the response that came to her lips.

“I’m sorry.” She proceeded to walk again. “We shall just have to go back and try harder.”

“Try harder to do what?” he said indignantly. “None of the people you mentioned could possibly have passed by Sir Arthur and put laudanum in his brandy. Not one of them was even in the same room.”

“Well where did the brandy come from?” She did not even think of giving up. “Perhaps they passed it on the way.”

“And poisoned it?” His eyes were round and full of disbelief. “How? Passing by and slipping something into it while it was on the steward’s tray? That would be ridiculous. No steward would permit it, and he would certainly remember it afterwards and testify to it. Besides, how would anyone know it was meant for Arthur Desmond?” He straightened his back and lifted his chin a little. “You are not very logical, my dear. It is a feminine weakness, I know. But your ideas are really not practical at all.”

Charlotte was very pink in the face. It did cross his mind to wonder for a moment if it was suppressed temper. Not very attractive in a woman, but not as uncommon a trait as he would have wished.

“No,” she agreed demurely, looking down at the pavement. “I cannot manage without your assistance. But if there is a flaw in the argument, I know you will find it, or a lie in anyone’s testimony, perhaps? You will go back, won’t you? We cannot allow injustice to triumph.”

“I really cannot think what else I could learn,” he protested.

“Exactly what happened, even more exactly than now. I shall be so very grateful.” There was a slight quaver in her voice, as of some intense emotion.

He was not certain what it was, but she really was a very handsome woman. And it would be immensely satisfying to place her in his debt. Then he would be able to face her without the almost intolerable embarrassment he felt now. It would wash out the hideous memory of the scene under the bed!

“Very well,” he conceded graciously. “If you are convinced it would be of service.”

“Oh I am, I am!” she assured him, stopping and turning around, ready to return the way they had come. “I am so obliged to you.”

“At your service, ma’am,” he said with considerable complacency.

Once inside the Morton Club again he had profound misgivings. There was nothing to find out. He began to feel exceedingly foolish as once more he approached Guyler.

“Yes sir?” Guyler said helpfully.

“Forgive me,” Eustace began, feeling the color flush up his cheeks. Really, this was too bad of Charlotte. And he was a fool to have agreed to it. “I fear I am being extremely tedious….”

“Not at all, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Is it not possible that Mr. Standish could have come through here that afternoon, after all?”

“I can make enquiries for you, sir, if you wish, but I think it most unlikely. Gentlemen don’t usually leave a game of billiards, sir. It is considered bad form to leave one’s opponent standing waiting for one.”

“Yes, yes of course. I know that!” Eustace said hastily. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I should not like Mr. Standish to imagine I thought him discourteous.”

“No sir.”

“And, er …” He could have sworn under his breath and cursed Charlotte, only the steward would have heard him. He could not get out of it now. This was appalling. “Mr., er … Hathaway. You said he was taken ill. That is most unfortunate. When was that? What hour? I don’t think I recall that happening.”

“Oh it did, sir, I remember it quite plainly. Are you sure you have the right day yourself, sir, if you’ll pardon me, sir? Perhaps you were here the day before, or the day after? That would account for a lot.”

“No, no, I have the day right. I recall it because of Sir Arthur’s death, just as you do,” Eustace said hastily. “What was it you said happened to Mr. Hathaway?”

“He was took a bit queer, sir, and went to the cloakroom. Then he must have decided to go home. He’d been there a while, no doubt hoping he’d get to feel better, but seems he didn’t, so he rang for assistance, poor gentleman, and one of the stewards went to him. And when he asked for a cab, the cloakroom attendant called him one, and helped him out into the hall and down the steps into it. He never came back into any of the club rooms at all, sir, that is for certain.”

“I see. Yes, I see. That wasn’t you, by any chance?”

“No sir. Tell you the truth, don’t know who it was. Saw him go, but only out of the corner of my eye, so to speak, and I didn’t recognize him. Might have been Jones; it looked a lot like him, sort of heavyset and with very little hair. Yes, I think it might have been Jones.”

“Thank you, yes I expect it was. Thank you very much.” Eustace wanted to end the pointless conversation. Charlotte would have to unravel the meaning of this, if there was any. There was no more for him to learn. He must escape. This was getting worse by the moment.

“Mr. Hathaway is here this afternoon, sir,” the steward persisted. “If you like I can take you across to him, sir.”

“No … no thank you,” Eustace said vehemently. “I … I think I shall go to the cloakroom myself, if you will excuse me. Yes, yes indeed. Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.” Guyler shrugged and went about his errands.