Page 8 of Murder on Harley Street
“I suppose it’s not a healthy trait.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“Even so, I won.”
I rolled my eyes.
Harry veered off course and looked both ways to cross the street.
“Mrs. Iverson’s house is this way,” I said before he stepped off the curb.
“I know.”
“Then where are you going?”
“Somewhere private so you can kiss me thoroughly.” He took my hand and led me across the street, flipping a coin to the lad who cleared away the horse muck in our path as we passed him.
I laughed as I held onto my hat. “You’re incorrigible.”
“It’s been two days since I kissed you, Cleo. I need to do this if I want to focus my whole mind on the case, otherwise I’ll be too distracted.”
We entered a quiet lane then, after a glance back toward the lane entrance to check that we were alone, he removed my hat pin, took off my hat, and kissed me. I never ceased to be amazed at the effect his kisses had on me. It was as if a sort of impenetrable bubble enveloped us and we became the only two people in the world. I sank against Harry’s chest, wrapped my arms around his neck, and savored the moment of utter bliss.
When we finally drew apart, he returned my hat to my head and slotted the hat pin back into place. He adjusted its angle then settled his warm gaze on me. “I’ve missed you, Cleo.”
“It’s only been two days.”
“Too long.”
I stood on my toes and pecked him lightly on the mouth before taking his hand and leading him back out of the lane. “Unfortunately, we can’t stay here all day. We have work to do.”
“Cruel employer.”
“You’rethe employer this time. I’m your assistant.”
“Ha!”
I released his hand as we returned to the busier street. The sweeping lad leaned on his broom, watching us with a grin. He knew what we’d been up to. “Are you implying that I’m incapable of following instructions?” I asked Harry.
“Not at all. I’m implying that you’re no one’s assistant. You’ll be the one with all the good theories and I’ll be scrambling to keep up with your quick mind.”
“You are sweet for saying it, but we both know what I said to D.S. Forrester is true. You and I are a team.”
“We are,” he said, his voice matching the tenderness in his gaze. “And a good one.”
“Yet only one half of this team is humble.”
He laughed and I couldn’t help grinning, too.
We headed in the direction of Dr. and Mrs. Iverson’s address, discussing the particulars of the case along the way. By the time we reached the handsome four-level redbrick townhouse, we’d decided that Dr. Iverson was almost certainly innocent. He’d be a fool to tamper with his own device, in his own clinic, and not change it back again to the way it was before the police arrived. He certainly had the opportunity to do so, and it would have given D.S. Forrester reason to believe the machine was faulty. Suspicion would have fallen on the manufacturer, not the doctor.
Being quite sure the doctor who hired Harry was innocent, we felt confident that we were looking for someone who wanted Isabel Kempsey deadandDr. Iverson blamed for her murder. The most obvious culprit was a jealous wife, but I was reluctant to accuse Mrs. Iverson without evidence that her husband was having an affair with the victim.
Harry had no such qualms, but ever the gentleman, he managed to broach the subject delicately. “I’m afraid I have to ask you some sensitive questions, for your husband’s sake. Firstly, was he a particularly attentive doctor?”
Margaret Iverson folded one bare hand over the other in her lap and leveled her gaze with his. She was just as she appeared in the photograph on her husband’s desk. She was extraordinarily tall, but slender to the point of angular. She had strikingly chiseled cheekbones and jaw, and chestnut brown hair without a hint of gray. She was aged about forty, making her considerably younger than her husband. Framed photographs of a son at varying stages of his life, and no other children, would suggest they were a family of three. In one photograph, he was a young man standing in front of King’s College Chapel at Cambridge University, a building I knew well as my father had taught mathematics on campus and I’d grown up nearby. Mrs. Iverson must have been quite young when her son was born.
“It’s all right, Mr. Armitage. You can be direct with me. I appreciate candor, particularly now. I believe candor will get my husband out of this situation and help you find the killer of poor Mrs. Kempsey as quickly as possible.” Her tone was direct but not unfriendly. She seemed keen to get on with it and resolve this situation. “You want to know if my husband and Mrs. Kempsey were having an affair, is that correct?”
