Page 54 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“Mrs. Hammer didn’t report the incident to the police.”
Ainsley began to shake his head, thought the better of it, and shrugged instead. “I told her she ought to. But she said she had no evidence that it wasn’t Hayward himself who tossed the place. You know how it is—she doesn’t want anybody to think anything untoward has happened here. I couldn’t force her to. But when there was still no hair or hide of Hayward forty-eight hours later, I thought something had to be done. Happened to walk by the police station and decided to do my duty.”
“Is it possible to see the place?”
“Sure, but I had Temple tidy it up. Paid for the week’s rent for Hayward, too—in case he fell into an opium den. Wouldn’t be nice to come home and find all his belongings already carted off and someone else living there, would it?”
Treadles frowned. “Does he have an opium habit?”
“Not that I know of, but who hasn’t lost a week here and there to a lark?” said Ainsley with the sympathetic understanding of one who most certainlyhadlost a week here and there to such larks.
Treadles gave Ainsley a minute to consume a slice of toast. Then he said, “Sergeant MacDonald and I are here not because we routinely investigate missing persons, but because the description you gave of Mr. Hayward matches closely to that of an unidentified murder victim.”
Ainsley choked on his coffee. “What?”
“We would like you to come with us and see whether you can identify the body.”
Ainsley stared at Treadles, then MacDonald, then Treadles again. “Jesus.I mean, pardon my language, but—but surely you aren’t serious?”
They convinced him that they were dead serious. A disoriented Ainsley went off to shave and dress—“Mustn’t go see him, if that is him, looking like this, you see.” Treadles and MacDonald used thekey Ainsley had of Hayward’s apartment—“Got Mrs. Hammer to give me a key. Samson should be in his own place. It’s where he’s most comfortable.”
Temple had done the best he could, making the place presentable again. But he was no furniture restorer and had piled the damaged chairs in a small room equipped with only a set of shelves and a cot—the valet’s room, if Hayward had one.
Clearly someone had been looking for something of value, something small enough to be stowed in a hollowed chair leg—except the ones that he sawed off all happened to be perfectly solid.
MacDonald was by the window, reaching through the bars of the guinea pig’s cage to scratch the creature between the ears. “If only you could talk, Samson.”
They spent another ten minutes looking through the rooms. And then, with a clean-shaven, soberly dressed Ainsley in tow, they departed for the morgue.
Mrs. Watson had formed the habit of checking for the post at 18 Upper Baker Street in the morning. The first two letters to ever come through the slot had been stepped on as Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes arrived for their appointments. They were still more likely to get circulars and pamphlets, but thank-you notes and packages from clients had become increasingly common.
Two days ago, they had received a pair of opera tickets, which they had gifted to the de Blois ladies. And three days before that, an excellent bottle of whisky. No one had thought to gift Miss Holmes a plum cake yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.
This morning’s post at Upper Baker Street, however, did not please Mrs. Watson as much. It took some self-restraint not to slam it down on the breakfast table when she reached home.
Miss Holmes, already dressed for going out, took a look at thetyped address on the envelope and sighed. She finished the poached egg on her plate, wiped her fingers with her napkin, and reached for the letter.
Mrs. Watson knew what it said:
Dear Miss Holmes,
I cede you the moral high ground. I accept your admonishment that seeking the whereabouts of a man who has demonstrated his lack of interest in me is both an insult to my intelligence and a black mark upon my conduct as a married woman.
Nevertheless, I do not care anymore about either my own opinion of myself or anyone else’s. I need to speak to Mr. Finch and that is that.
Please, I beg you, give me his address.
Yours,
Mrs. Finch
Miss Holmes rose. “I would have liked to have another muffin before leaving this table, but then again, I always feel the same no matter how many muffins I eat.”
They removed to the drawing room, where Mrs. Watson wrote down the contents of a brief note, as dictated by Miss Holmes.
Dear Mrs. Finch,
Mr. Finch is away from London for a fortnight. When he returns, I will make inquiries on your behalf.
