“Ought to be someone. Or someone who knows someone.”
“Meanwhile, I had it from the constable who walks Captain Locock’s beat that he’s back from the Isle of Wight. I thought of sending him a note at the Colonial Office, but I’ll arrive unannounced.”
“Sure, an interview with the fella is overdue,” O’Malley said.
“I’ll push him hard and see what turns up.”
The Colonial Office was a short walk down Whitehall Road, well within the tolerance of Tennant’s leg. As was true of the world, the Colonial Office building encompassed petty kingdoms and great ones, too. A walk down a long corridor brought the inspector to a distant room. With little space to spare, the door announced its occupant:ASSISTANT TO THE PERMANENT UNDERSECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIES. Smaller letters underneath informed a visitor that “Captain Frederick H. L. Locock” served as “Director of Affairs for the Crown Colony of Malta.” Tennant knocked and entered at the command, “Come.”
A lanky, dark-haired man pushed a pile of newspapers aside and hauled himself out of his leather chair.Six-foot-two, if he’s an inch, Tennant thought. Locock’s Monday copy ofThe Timeslooked pristine, but Tennant spotted the masthead of theSporting Gazettepeeking from under it.
Tennant removed his hat. “Detective Inspector Tennant from the Metropolitan Police. You are Captain Frederick Locock?”
The man’s welcoming smile and outstretched arm froze. Then he blinked and grasped Tennant’s hand as if released bysome hidden spring. “That’s right, Inspector.” Locock gestured to the club chair in front of his desk. “Grab a pew.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Captain Locock said, “I spoke with Oliver Montgomery at Christmas, so I have a general idea of why you’re here.”
“That saves time. I have a pair of Irish sisters murdered in London and on the Isle of Wight. Two nights ago, an Irish police informer burned to death on the grounds of Marlborough House. Physical evidence links that death to the murder of the second girl, Brigid Dowling.”
“Your summary is clear but incredible, Inspector. I cannot fathom the connection.”
“You just returned from the Isle of Wight. I understand that you travel back and forth and were there in July as a guest of the Prince of Wales. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“The lady who was soon to become Mrs. Frederick Locock … she didn’t accompany you on that trip?”
“No.”
“A last fling at bachelorhood?”
“I don’t know what you mean to infer, but it’s damned offensive.”
Tennant shrugged. “How can I offend if my inference isn’t clear? Let me make my meaning plain. A gentleman spends time away with male friends shortly before his nuptials. The … frolics at such gatherings are well-known.”
“Not to me, Inspector.”
“Captain Locock, you were a guest at Osborne House in July when someone impregnated Lizzie Dowling.”
Tennant waited. Locock squirmed but said nothing.
“After your wedding trip, you returned to the Isle of Wight in October. Someone murdered Lizzie Dowling in October. Someone who held her head under the water until she drowned.”
“I know nothing about it. To imply I do is outrageous.”
“You attended the Marlborough House ball in December and were privy to her sister’s travel plans. Captain, you are one of a small fraternity I can place in all three locations at the relevant times.”
Locock stared and blinked rapidly. Then he relaxed his shoulders and spread his hands. “As you say, I amoneof a group of men. But not the right one. You must search for your killer among the others in your ‘fraternity.’ ”
“Describe, if you will, your movements on the afternoon of Lizzie Dowling’s murder. You recall the day, I presume. The murder of a queen’s servant isn’t an everyday affair.”
“I spent the day at my father’s house. He was absent, attending the royal family at Osborne House. I went for a long walk and returned for tea in the late afternoon. I cannot be more precise about time.”
“You saw no one?”
He shrugged. “Some farm workers, bringing in the hay. I doubt they noticed me, either.”
