“The circumstances surrounding Brigid Dowling’s murder in London suggest foreknowledge of her movements. Lady Styles discussed the girl’s arrival in front of you and others at the Marlborough House ball.”
“Someone may have followed her from Ireland. Or a London rough might have set out to rob her.”
“Overlooking the cabbie’s pocket, stuffed with half crowns and shillings?”
Montgomery shrugged. “It’s certainly a conundrum, Inspector. But sorting mysteries is your stock in trade, not mine.”
“Were you in London on Tuesday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Just to confirm … You were here on the Isle of Wight last July as well as in October. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. Readying my boat for the summer races. Here again in the autumn.”
“One last question. Did you see Major FitzGerald, Sir Lionel Dermott, and Frederick Locock here during those months?”
“Yes, Inspector. All of us, on the spot.” Montgomery grinned. “In both meanings of the phrase.” He ambled to the door with his hands in his pockets and stopped. “Bit of bad luck for Freddie Locock.”
“Meaning?”
“He wasn’t meant to be here in October. Just back from his wedding trip. Called down to see his father over something or other. Pity, or old Freddie would have been in the clear.”
Tennant wondered: was Montgomery’s nonchalance a careful pose or the sign of a clear conscience? The captain’s self-possession and air of amused boredom contrasted with his next and final interview at Osborne House.
Major Peter FitzGerald’s answers were terse, and his voice clipped. He’d confined his ride on the afternoon of Lizzie’s murder to the estate grounds, he said, making his final inspection of Osborne Park before leaving for Balmoral. His account tallied with the recollections of the head groom, but no one had seen FitzGerald riding around the estate.
“Major, as the queen’s equerry, you usually travel with her. Yet, you were here in July and again in October rather than at Balmoral.”
“I remained to begin the renovations of the queen’s stables and returned for a final inspection.”
“Can you tell me anything about Lizzie Dowling that might aid my investigation?”
FitzGerald raised an eyebrow. “I take little notice of the comings and goings of the female servants. Is that all, Inspector?”
“For the moment. Thank you, Major.”
He’s not as cool as he pretends,Tennant thought. The pink scar on his left cheek had turned a darker shade of rose by the end of their conversation.
Tennant’s notes didn’t take long.No witnesses and all the suspects were in the wind.Tennant had murder sites in London and on the Isle of Wight, eighty miles apart. And at any time, the royals could pack up and leave for one of their estates in a distant corner of the country, taking his chief suspects with them.
The thing’s impossible,Tennant thought, closing the study door behind him.
An hour later in Cowes, Tennant scanned the map of the Isle of Wight on Chief Constable Phillips’s wall. The inspector asked him, “How far is the murder site from Osborne House?”
“Quarr Abbey is four miles along two main roads. Lizzie Dowling traveled there by omnibus.”
“And if you went by horseback, wanting to avoid detection?”
“Well …” The burly chief smoothed his walrus mustache with his index finger and thumb. “I’d skirt the bridge over Wooten Creek and go cross-country.”
“Where is the Royal Victoria Yacht Club located?”
“Here.” Phillips pointed. “Just north of the bridge on the Fishbourne side of Wooten Creek. What’s your interest in the Royal Victoria?”
“It’s Sir Lionel Dermott’s club. He sailed from there on the day of Lizzie’s murder and lodged at the nearby Fishbourne Inn.”
“It’s an easy walk to Quarr Abbey,” Phillips said, tracing the line with his forefinger.
