“I think the day that an Osborne House servant goes missing and then turns up dead would linger in one’s memory. You don’t agree?” When Hackett didn’t answer, Tennant said, “No? Well, let’s consider a more recent day. Last Tuesday, the day her sister, Brigid Dowling, was murdered.”
“I …” Hackett pulled at his collar, and the stud popped and shot across the carpet.
Tennant retrieved it and handed the servant his mother-of-pearl fastener. “Tuesday is a half-day off for you, I believe. Where were you at two o’clock?”
“Walking in Hyde Park.”
“Observed?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone saw me. I was there. That’s all I know.” Then an alert expression flared like a lighted candle wick. He lifted his chin and said, “I’d like to see you prove otherwise.”
Tennant held the man’s gaze, waiting. The manservant’s bravado proved fleeting. He dropped his eyes and grasped shaking hands behind his back. Then the inspector dismissed the valet and scribbled some awkward notes with his injured hand. He left the study looking for the queen’s secretary, General Grey. Tennant passed the household dining room and spotted the valet in agitated conversation with a tall, lean, broad-shouldered man in a dark frock coat.
The inspector found the queen’s private secretary in the library. Tennant described the servant he saw with Hackett and asked his name.
“That sounds like Michael Bolger, the house steward,” General Grey said.
“What are his duties?”
“Bolger hires the house servants and pays their wages. He orders all Osborne’s supplies. That includes everything from furniture and linens, the queen’s writing paper, to the barrels of flour used to bake our daily bread. Bolger superintends the delivery, storage, and dispersal of the lot.”
“An indispensable man,” Tennant said.
“He supplies the claret, brandy, and port that make the long evenings in royal service bearable.” General Grey smiled thinly under his drooping mustache. “Or nearly so.”
“Would he have had dealings with Lizzie Dowling?”
“Only to pay her monthly wages, as he does for the rest of the household staff. Other than that, I doubt it. The housekeeper supervised her work.”
“Thank you, General. I’ll speak to the house steward next.”
During his interview, Michael Bolger was as composed as the valet had been agitated. A line from Shakespeare popped into Tennant’s head. Like Cassius, Bolger had “a lean and hungry look,” gazing back from shrewd and calculating blue eyes.Good-looking chap and knows it,Tennant thought, taking in his square, cleft chin and dark, curly hair.
The inspector asked him a few routine questions about his role at Osborne House. Then Tennant shifted to his movements on the day of Lizzie Dowling’s murder.
Bolger’s shrug was just short of insolent. “Going about my duties, as usual, I expect.”
“You knew Miss Dowling well?”
“She lined up for her monthly wages like the rest, but my duties do not include supervising the female staff.”
“Just now, I saw you in earnest conversation with the prince’s valet.”
“Mister Hackett is a friend of mine,” Bolger said. “He left his interview a little agitated. Being interviewed by the police isn’t an everyday event.”
“That was the only reason for your conversation?”
“That and cigars. Mister Hackett asked me to order the prince’s favorite brand from the Cowes tobacconist. His Royal Highness is smoking through his supply.”
“So soon? And the prince arrived only yesterday. Will Mister Hackett confirm your explanation if I ask him?”
“Certainly, Inspector.” The house steward said, his blue eyes unblinking. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Bolger had a military air about him. He stood before Tennant in a posture of parade ground at ease. “Are you a former army man, Mister Bolger?”
“Sergeant Bolger, sir, back in the day.” His eyes flicked to Tennant’s regimental tie. “Grenadier Guards?”
“That’s right. Brothers-in-arms. Thank you, Mister Bolger. That will be all.”
