“Can anyone verify that?”
“Well, I imagine one of the staff saw me go upstairs. And Mr. George would have seen me had I returned again to room three.”
“And I suppose you engaged this Mr. George?”
“It was Oliver’s idea, but I ... I was glad of his presence. He was there to keep out distractions and keep Oliver writing.”
“How unusual.”
Edgecombe’s eyes glinted. “If you say that, you clearly don’t know any writers, nor ever struggled to write a book yourself. Plenty of authors long for seclusion to create, away from distractions and interruptions.”
“Ah. Well, any other questions, men?”
The jurors shook their heads.
Mr. Smith added, “Please do stay on here, Mr. Edgecombe. In case other questions arise before the inquest concludes.”
“If I must.” The publisher rose and took a seat midway back.
Mr. Smith next deposed Mr. George.
After he was sworn in, Smith said, “State your full name and place of residence, please.”
“Jack George. Originally from London, but have resided in Birmingham for the last ten years.”
“And how do you know the deceased?”
“I had a shooting gallery, where men could practice rifle shooting, fencing, boxing, and the like. Mr. Oliver came for a few months to train in self-defense.”
“I had a shooting gallery”echoed in Frederick’s mind. Past tense. He noted it.
“Did Mr. Edgecombe pay you to guard the author?”
George shook his head. “With respect, sir, he thought it a colossal waste of time and money.”
“Yet he agreed to pay the bill, apparently.”
“The hotel bill, yes. But Oliver engaged me himself. Made me promise not to let him out except for dinner, nor let anyone in.”
“Why, exactly? I can understand keeping others out for privacy’s sake, but why did you need to keep him in?”
George grimaced. “He had a gambling problem. Always drawn to whatever club he might find or game he might join. It’s how he lost all the money he made from his writing. He also trifled with women.
“He had the best of intentions to stay in his room and work, but he knew himself well enough to know he’d be tempted to slip out and find a friendly game or a friendly female. I was there to dissuade him. He was that desperate.”
“Why desperate? Was his publisher pressuring him unduly?”
George shrugged. “Mr. Edgecombe needled and wheedled, bribed and threatened. But no. That’s not why he was desperate.”
“Then why?”
“He owed money to the wrong people—that’s why. Impatient, dangerous people. No new novel, no more money to pay off his debts.”
“Are you suggesting some ... moneylender or bookmaker might have killed him?”
“It’s possible. Two nights ago, Mr. Oliver pointed out someone as we left the dining room. He thought it might be Isaac King, a man he’d once borrowed money from. He’d heard Mr. King had moved to Italy, so he hoped he was mistaken. Told me to alert him if I saw the man anywhere near his room.”
“Did Mr. King approach his room?”
