Page 15 of Death of a Courtesan
‘Nothing the least bit suspicious, give or take a vicious looking whip or two,’ Soames said, grinning.
‘That’s not what I wanted to hear,’ Riley complained.
‘Except this.’ Soames produced a red carnation, the sort that a gentleman normally wore in his buttonhole. ‘It was just under the bed, like it had fallen there.’
‘Doubt whether it belonged to the murderer though,’ Salter said. ‘Can’t imagine he’d come dressed for the opera.’
‘Stranger things have been known to happen,’ Riley said.
‘That window was locked shut,’ Carter added. ‘Even if someone had the means to climb up to it, they never would have got in through it. Would be more likely to break their neck attempting it in this rain.’
‘Right. Go and ask the ladies if they remember anyone wearing a red carnation last night,’ Riley said. ‘They are all still in the small salon. When you’ve done that, join Salter and me on the top floor. I want to take a look in all the rooms before we let the residents loose again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The accommodation on the top floor proved to be as sparse as Riley had imagined would be the case—the equivalent of the servants’ quarters, with the exception of Mrs Sinclair’s two rooms, which were elegant and comfortably furnished. Adelaide’s room was surprisingly tidy. There was no indication that the neatly-made bed had been touched since, presumably, Lily had made it the previous day. The closet contained an array of clothing suited to Adelaide’s profession, and as much again for everyday use. The garments that fell into the latter category were surprisingly sedate and of good quality. There was a pile of books on the table beside the bed. Mostly novels, but a few heavy tomes of a geographical nature.
‘Perhaps she was thinking about travelling,’ Salter suggested, flipping through one of them.
‘We are looking for letters, anything that will give us a clue as to her background or to links beyond this place.’
‘This?’ Salter produced a tatty rag doll from the back of the closet.
‘She obviously loved it at one stage,’ Riley said, feeling disproportionately saddened by the reminder of lost innocence.
They searched methodically. There were no diaries, of course, nothing that told them anything more about Adelaide’s ambitions, her mysterious past or her plans for the future. On the point of giving up, Riley noticed an especially well-thumbed copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’sSonnets from the Portuguese.
‘She had a romantic nature after all,’ he said, picking the book up and flipping through it. ‘These are love sonnets.’ He glanced at the flyleaf and saw that Adelaide had inscribed the book with her name, “This book belongs to Mary Huxton”. Her hand was that of a child still, round and precise. Its date meant that Adelaide would have received it when she was fourteen and liked it sufficiently to bring it with her. Adelaide had obligingly written her address beneath her name.
‘It looks as though we will be taking a trip to Ware in order to break the sad news, Salter.’
Salter, in the throes of searching a valise, merely nodded.
Satisfied that they were unlikely to find anything else, they consulted with Carter and Soames, who had found nothing incriminating in any of the other rooms.
‘Unless you count some of the clothing they wear,’ Carter said. ‘Oh, and none of the ladies recall a gentleman wearing a carnation,’ he added.
‘Then perhaps our killer did drop it. Either that or someone gave it to Adelaide as a gift,’ Riley mused as he led the way downstairs, the book of sonnets tucked beneath is arm.
‘Tell them that they can leave that room now, Carter, but this establishment does not open its door for business again until I give them leave. I want that clearly understood. And I want you, Peterson, to remain here for the time being. I will have someone relieve you later.’
‘Yes, sir. Er, what am I to do?’
‘Keep your eyes and ears open and report anything suspicious to me immediately. The girls and the staff will likely relax now that the shock’s worn off and we’ve gone, so they might say something of interest.’ Riley rubbed his chin. ‘One of them knows something, even if they are not yet aware of it.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Are we for the yard and Danforth?’ Salter asked, a gleam in his eye.
‘Oh yes. I think we’ve kept him waiting quite long enough. Don’t you?’
