Page 62 of Murder on Harley Street
Her long, bony fingers clasped together in her lap. It wasn’t the softening I’d hoped for, but she remained silent, which I took to mean we were right.
“You received the letter along with the regular mail,” I went on. “You placed it with your husband’s other correspondence, knowing it was from a would-be lover.”
“That’s absurd. Why would I want him to meet a lover?”
“Because you have no interest in your husband.”
She studied her interlocked fingers a moment before lifting her gaze to mine. “You’re right, Miss Fox. My husband and I are merely friends now. Intimacy ended when we realized we couldn’t have more children after our son was born.” She lifted her chin, challenging. “I’m not jealous of his lovers, so why would I murder one, if that’s what you’re suggesting? Let’s assume I did want to murder Isabel Kempsey for some reason, why would I do it in my husband’s clinic? His success is my success. Ruining his reputation and business would be an utterly stupid thing to do. Come now, Miss Fox. You’re better than this.”
Her rebuke stung, but I hadn’t played my trump card yet. “Perhaps you wanted to murder Mrs. Kempsey because she discovered your nature and planned to expose you.”
“My what?”
“Was she blackmailing you?”
“Of course not. Why would she?”
“You like women, in the sapphic sense.”
The knuckles on her interlaced fingers turned white.
“Don’t bother denying it. My instincts tell me it’s true and apparently my instincts are very good. Also, the journalist who was just here told us you flirted with her.”
The muscles in Mrs. Iverson’s jaw bunched with the clenching of her back teeth. She remained silent, however, so I continued.
“As to the point about punishing your husband, I’m presuming you don’t care what happens to him. If the police arrested him for the crime, it was of no consequence to you.”
“How dare you! I may not love him, but we are married. I made a vow. That means something to me.” It was telling that she responded to that accusation, but not the one about being sapphic.
“The murder of Isabel Kempsey was deliberate. Until now, we’d been assuming the location was also deliberately chosen, to cause Dr. Iverson problems and perhaps even damage his reputation. But perhaps the location was merely chosen for convenience because the killer had easy access to the consulting room and the Electro Therapy Machine. Perhaps it wasn’t a personal attack on your husband at all.”
Mrs. Iverson leaned forward to get her next point across. “I didn’t kill her, Miss Fox.” She sat back and unclasped her fingers. “As for my sapphic nature, I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t acted on it, nor do I intend to. I have a reputation as the wife of an eminent physician to uphold.”
“Isabel Kempsey may have guessed. We did.” It was a lie, but I wasn’t going to admit that I’d failed to detect her interest in me. “Was she blackmailing you, Mrs. Iverson?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. Her former composure was nowhere in sight.
“Regarding the anonymous letter,” Harry prompted. “Do you remember the envelope it came in and whether there was a postmark.”
She suddenly stopped rubbing and stared directly ahead at the wall. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “It wasn’t for him.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve just realized… It may not have been intended for my husband at all. I simplyassumedit was for him, since it was clearly from someone making a rendezvous with a love interest, and he has had numerous lovers over the years.” Her face had gone pale when I made my accusation, but it flushed with color again as she became more animated. “Not only was the letter unsigned, but it wasn’t addressed to anyone, and it didn’t come in an envelope.”
“No envelope?” I echoed.
“It was just a piece of folded paper among the other mail.”
“Where did the other mail come from?” Harry asked. “Did you place it on his desk after the postman handed it to you?”
“I did. It sat there for at least an hour before I was able to sort through it. I saw the note, read it, and added it to the mail that my husband needed to attend to personally.” She turned to me. “How is the letter tied in with Mrs. Kempsey’s murder?”
“It may not be,” I said. “But we won’t know for certain until we find out who authored it, who it was meant for, and whether the rendezvous was innocent or not.”
“I see.” She rose, signaling time for us to leave. “If that letter wasn’t intended for my husband, after all, then it seems you’ll have to look elsewhere for your suspects. Poor Mrs. Kempsey didn’t die by my hand, or his.”
We saw ourselves out and didn’t get far before we began to speak over each other. Harry stopped to let me continue first.
