Page 14 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Won’t be hard.”
“I’ll start with Loxley.”
“Ask Marlowe about him. He might know him from his club.”
I arched a brow, unconvinced. “Long shot, surely.”
“You never know.” He set down his glass with a quiet clink. “And talk to Richard about Professor Whitford. If he taught antiquities, Richard is bound to know of him.”
I hid a smile behind my cup. “You are determined to draw others into our investigation.”
He grinned at me. “I know how much you enjoy bossing us around.”
I gave him a look of mock severity. “You are a devious, cunning man, Inspector.”
He laughed and leaned across to pluck my spoon. “I aim to please.” And then, in the next instant, he stole the last bite of my crème brûlée.
The beast.
CHAPTER 7
A WARNING OF DANGER
As it turned out, Marlowe was not familiar with Loxley, but Richard did indeed know Professor Whitford, a highly respected former Oxford professor with a wealth of knowledge about medieval manuscripts. My brother not only shared his telephone number and address but provided an introduction to Professor Whitford who agreed to see me that same day.
I wasn’t quite sure what I’d expected of his residence—perhaps stacks of old newspapers, the scent of forgotten ink, or a looming suit of armor from an archaeological misadventure—but the house on Bedford Square was, in fact, rather ordinary. Respectable. Impeccably maintained, with not a speck of dust or disorder in sight.
As soon as I gave my name to the butler who opened the door, he offered a polite but perfunctory bow. Just enough courtesy for a gentlewoman, but not a whisper more.Understandable. I’d made the appointment under my maiden name and not my title.
“Miss Worthington,” he said, stepping aside. “The professor is expecting you. If you would follow me?”
I was led down a paneled hallway where the electric lights were lit low against the afternoon gloom and shown into a drawing room lined with bookcases. The air was warm and dry, scented faintly with old vellum and something faintly medicinal. A tea service waited on the sideboard, untouched.
Professor Whitford rose from his chair as I entered. He was a tall man with a thatch of snow-white hair and—if Richard’s description was to be trusted—a mind as sharp as a scalpel. While his dark suit bore an ink stain near the cuff, his spectacles glinted as if he’d just polished them.
“Miss Worthington. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Professor Whitford.”
“Not at all. I rather expected someone might call.”
That gave me pause. “About Mister Merton? Or about the manuscript?” We had already discussed the purpose of my visit, but not my specific reason for seeinghim.
“Both. But let’s do it over a cup of tea. Won’t you take a seat?” He gestured toward the armchair opposite his own, then poured tea with a steadiness that belied his age. “I find tea helps lubricate a discussion. Don’t you agree?”
“I do.” I accepted the cup with a polite smile, though I had no intention of drinking just yet.
It was clear he didn’t mean to leap directly into the heart of things. He was one of those gentlemen who believed in conversational foreplay—mild observations, a little weather talk, and perhaps a remark on the state of scholarship before any real business was broached.
I let my gaze wander as he settled back into his chair. The drawing room was lined floor to ceiling with well-tended bookcases, their shelves packed tight with spines cracked, probably by use and not neglect. A small globe stood near the fireplace, beside a faded armchair that bore the faint impress of many thoughtful hours. The only real ornamentation was a brass astrolabe perched on the mantel, its curves catching the low gleam of the electric sconces. A man of intellect, clearly. And discipline.
It was the sort of room one might expect to smell faintly of pipe smoke and chalk dust. Instead, it carried only the warm, clean scent of polished wood and faintly medicinal tea.
We sat for a moment in companionable quiet, the clink of porcelain the only sound between us. Professor Whitford added a lump of sugar to his cup with precise fingers, then stirred once, clockwise. I took a tentative sip of my own, the liquid pleasantly hot but faintly bitter. Certainly stronger than I preferred, though I didn’t complain.
He sipped as well, eyes fixed on the steam curling above his cup, as though gathering his thoughts with the methodical patience of a man accustomed to long silences.
I waited. He’d earned the right to lead.
