Page 39 of Murder on Harley Street
A short lane led us to the back of the row of shops, including Mr. Hamlin’s. The gate’s lock was broken, but if Mr. Hamlin was inside, he would have heard our arrival thanks to the squeaking hinge. The courtyard was paved with the same red bricks as the building. The door to the outhouse stood ajar, but the door to the workshop was closed. Harry tried it only to discover it, too, was locked. No one answered his knock.
I huffed out a frustrated breath.
Harry merely smiled at me. “Do you want to pick the lock or shall I?”
“I thought you said we’d wait.”
“We will. Inside.” He removed his lockpicking tools from his pocket and got to work on the lock.
At that moment, the door opened from the other side. Upon seeing us, Duncan Hamlin emitted a yelp and tried to shut the door. Harry put his shoulder to it and forced it open.
I entered behind him. “Have something to hide, Mr. Hamlin?”
The inventor backed up until he hit a long desk covered with sketched plans of mechanical devices. Without taking his gaze off Harry, he slipped around the desk to the other side. “I, er, of course not. I simply have too many things to do and I know talking to you both will take up my time.” From the way he eyed Harry carefully, I suspected he thought he needed protecting from him.
Given his concern, it may have been a good plan for Harry to interrogate Mr. Hamlin and use some of that worry to intimidate him. Harry seemed to have a different idea, however, and encouraged me with a nod. Meanwhile, he browsed the workshop, inspecting tools, spare parts, and the drawings. Mr. Hamlin’s watchful gaze tracked him.
I cleared my throat to get his attention. “Why didn’t you tell us you hired a private investigator to find where Dr. Iverson kept his Electro Therapy Machine, so you could break in and sabotage it?”
Mr. Hamlin showed no surprise at my question. Miss Bolton must have telephoned him after we left her, although I couldn’t see a telephone in the workshop and there hadn’t been one in the front office. “I know how it looks, but I assure you I didn’t go through with it. I never sabotaged the device. I’ve never even entered the premises, with or without a key.” He sat heavily on a stool near the door. “I’m a coward.”
“Or sensible.”
He opened a drawer and plucked out a key. “You should take this and give it back. I don’t want it.”
I placed the key in my bag. “Has it been in that drawer the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Does anyone else have access to this workshop?”
“Just me nowadays.”
Harry bent to study a framed photograph on the workbench. “You may not have gone through with it, Mr. Hamlin, but you planned to tamper with the machine in order to kill.”
Mr. Hamlin leapt off the stool. “No! I never wanted to turn the machine into a weapon. I was going to damage it in such a way that it simply failed to work at all. I wanted the doctor to think it was faulty. I certainly wasn’t going to increase the voltage the patient receives.” He pressed his palms together, pleading. “You must believe me, Mr. Armitage.
Harry seemed not to be listening. He was intent on the photograph. “Why did you hire the R. Bolton Detective Agency?”
Mr. Hamlin blinked. “You already know the answer. To find out where the machine was kept and find a way to get into the premises after hours.”
“But why that agency specifically? He’s not local to you.”
Mr. Hamlin studied the floor at his feet, which caused his spectacles to slip down his nose.
“Why did you hire Mr. R. Bolton?” Harry asked again. “Did you use that agency because you wanted to hire Miss Madeline Bolton?”
I wasn’t sure why Harry persisted with that line of questioning, but I knew he must have a reason. Indeed, from the guilty look on Mr. Hamlin’s face, I suspected he not only knew the reason but was also about to give in. A little more stern prompting from Harry had him finally surrendering.
“There is no Madeline Bolton. The R in the agency name stands for Rose. She’s Rose Bolton, and the agency is hers. I hired her because I knew a woman would more easily get an appointment with Dr. Iverson.”
I understood Miss Bolton’s reason for pretending her father owned the agency. It gave it a legitimacy that a young woman would struggle to gain on her own. I’d probably have done the same thing, if I were in her position.
Harry turned the photograph around. It was of the same woman from the photograph in the office we’d seen during our first visit, except this time it wasn’t in black and white. The photographer had meticulously painted it to add color. The woman’s hair was the same shade of red as Rose Bolton’s.
“Is this your late wife?” Harry asked.
Mr. Hamlin snatched the photograph off him and pressed it against his chest. “It is.”
