Page 76 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“Mrs. Bamber, the dead man washed ashore not far from the back of this pub. When bystanders were gathered around and one of your patrons declared that he had seen this man in the pub two nights ago and had spent a solid hour talking to him, you contradicted him and said the victim had never been in your establishment.”
“I did.”
“Are you concerned that if you told the truth, it would lead to trouble?”
“What I told was the truth. I know the regulars who come in. I know the strangers who come in—pay more attention to them, in fact, in case they start a fight or leave me with their tab. Two nights ago a man did speak to Young Boyd for a while. But the dead man? Wasn’t him.”
“Why should I believe you, Mrs. Bamber, given your past occupation?”
The woman stilled, then flicked Treadles a look of contempt. “If you have no intention of believing me, best not waste my time, Inspector. There’s Young Boyd yonder. Take his account. And while you’re at it, ask him to read today’s headlines for you.”
It defeated Treadles whyshewas the one scornful towardhim. Nevertheless, her look made him feel... low, somehow. He thanked her curtly and decamped to where Young Boyd sat, nursing a pint before noon.
“Mr. Boyd, we are interested in your account of the man you met two nights ago.”
Young Boyd seemed to fit the description of an amiable drunk—or at least a harmless one. He offered a shaky hand to the policemen and was full of smiles and eagerness—no doubt in the hope of a free pint. Treadles reluctantly motioned for one.
“Fine fellow he was. Big, fine fellow. Kept buying me rounds. Then he asked me, when we were good and jolly, if I could keep a secret,” said Young Boyd, the man least likely to keep a secret Treadles had ever met.
“I told him, of course! They could torture me in the Tower of London and I won’t say a thing. That’s when he told me he was a killer by profession. That he hired out his services and that it wasn’t a bad living, but not fancy either. But something went wrong for him and he was ’bout to go on the run.
“So I asked him if he was afraid of the police. He laughed and said only namby-pambies were afraid of the police. He was afraid of the people who hired him. They wanted the thing done nice and quiet and the police somehow caught wind of him in Hounslow. And now the people who hired him wanted to get rid of him, to make sure the police couldn’t findthem.”
“Did you ask who they were?”
“He said they were criminals. But not pickpockets. Not evenhired killers like him. They are kings of crime and hardly ever dirty their own hands. The man he killed tried to double-cross them. And they hunted him down. And this fellow, de Lacy he said his name was, he thought his own days were numbered. And gosh if he wasn’t right about that.”
Treadles had been looking askance at Young Boyd, wondering whether he wasn’t simply making things up from what he’d read in the papers—until the name de Lacy dropped from his lips. That, he’d only just learned himself and wasnotpublic information.
“He told you his name?”
“And said that’s just what he was called and not his real name and he wasn’t even the first man to go by that name.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then he left. I never thought to see him again—thought he’d manage to run away and hide somewhere safe. But this morning there he was, dead as a doornail, all bloated and ugly like.”
Treadles tried to glean more information, but Young Boyd began to repeat himself. Treadles signaled for another pint, which only made Young Boyd embroider what he’d already told them.
Sensing that the witness was of no further use, Treadles thanked him and rose.
“By the way, Mr. Boyd,” said MacDonald, “would you mind reading this headline for us? You can read, I assume?”
“Of course I can.” Young Boyd squinted at the big, bold letters and squinted some more, until he muttered and took a pair of bent specs out of his pocket. “‘The Queen heads to Balmoral.’”
Treadles swore inwardly. “Were you wearing your glasses on the night you met this de Lacy?”
“Course not. Never take them out except to read—and I don’t read much. But I can see well enough to find my way here—and I saw his fancy scarf nice and clear.”
“I don’t know why I should have been so surprised that Lady Ingram didn’t tell us everything,” said Mrs. Watson, at last giving voice to the cloudburst of thoughts that had flooded her head since she’d learned of Lady Ingram’s visit to Mr. Gillespie. “Looking back, it’s beyond obvious that she would have held back everything she didn’t need to tell us. She was on an illicit mission, after all.
“And it makes sense that she would first go to a solicitor, rather than a consulting detective. It would be only after she had run out of options that a visit with Sherlock Holmes becomes thinkable. But this, of course, means that the address from Mr. Gillespie will lead nowhere.”
She tightened her hat ribbons with rather unnecessary force. “Anyway, please don’t listen to me blathering on about things you already know, Miss Holmes.”
They were back in Oxfordshire. The most recent address Mr. Gillespie had for Mr. Finch had brought them to a picturesque village. Mrs. Watson, a longtime denizen of London, loved the sight of green, open country and the quintessentially English beauty of a hamlet centered around a modest stone church. She had lived in precisely such a place as an adolescent and had found it difficult to overcome the prejudice of the villagers against outsiders, especially outsiders who entertained thoughts of leaving. But it was not in her nature to think ill of all small country settlements simply because one had proved unpleasant. She much preferred imagining that most such places were as lovely in their residents as they were in their scenery, that the peace and quiet of village life coexisted with a spirit of curiosity and magnanimity.
At the village pub she ordered a plate of sausage and mash—steak and kidney pudding for Miss Holmes. The plain but substantial dishes were washed down with the pub’s own ale, a light,refreshing brew. When the publican’s wife came to inquire whether they wanted anything more, a spirited discussion broke out on whether they ought to have summer trifle because summer was ending or the jam roly-poly in hot custard since neither of them had enjoyed one in a while.
