“Missing.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“It looks like he burned something. Papers, most like.”
“Show me,” Tennant said.
Armstrong crossed the room and squatted. He pulled apencil from his pocket and poked around in the cold fireplace. “There’s quite a pile of fallen ash in the grate.”
O’Malley leaned over for a closer look. As he straightened, he spotted a white triangle between the legs of the fire-iron stand. He drew out a torn scrap of paper with the tip of his boot and picked it up. All that remained was the start of a sentence, written in block capital letters in black ink:DON’T THINK I WON’T TEL
“That partial last letter might be an L,” O’Malley said, handing the fragment to the inspector. “Probably ‘Don’t think I won’t tell.’ Are we looking at blackmail?”
“It’s a possible motive for suicide,” Tennant said.
“The same poison pen who’s been tormenting the lady artists.”
“It’s a theory, Paddy.” Tennant sized up the cabinet, inspecting its lock. “What’s been done to locate the key?”
“We checked Allingham’s pockets and his desk,” Armstrong said. “I asked his valet about it, Rawlings by name. We’ll get nothing out of that bugger. These ‘gentlemen’s gentlemen’ shut their mouths tighter than oysters.”
“I’d like a word with him.”
Armstrong said to the constable at the door, “Bring Rawlings in.”
If the presence of Scotland Yard at a suicide surprised the valet, he didn’t show it. Rawlings didn’t blink when Tennant identified himself.
“Sleek” was the word that came to Tennant’s mind. Rawlings was a trim man of above-average height who had slicked back his dark hair with Macassar oil that gave off the citrusy scent of bergamot. His neat mustache mostly hid a mildly disfiguring harelip. The inspector was an expert at sizing up the cut of a man’s clothing, and Rawlings was an unusually well-tailored servant.
The valet answered Tennant’s queries about his background and the length of his service with the careful diction of someone who’s worked hard to remove any trace of his class or place of origin. Tennant turned his questions to Allingham.
“Did you notice any changes in your employer’s demeanor?”
“He seemed distracted,” Rawlings said. “But nothing to show he was . . .” The man swallowed. “Nothing that made me think he had this on his mind.”
“You were the last to see him alive, so—”
“I beg your pardon, sir. After Doctor Scott and Mister Allen left last evening, Mister Allingham didn’t ring for me.”
“Mister Allen?”
“My employer’s business partner. He returned with Mister Allingham shortly before Doctor Scott arrived, around eight. That was the last I saw of him. I had laid out the master’s night things earlier and turned down his bed.”
“Was that usual? To finish your duties so early in the evening?”
“Mister Allingham often worked late or went out to his club. When he did, and on the evenings that he played chess, he went to bed unassisted.”
“Thank you, Mister Rawlings. That will be all for now.”
After the servant withdrew, Armstrong said, “So Doctor Scott and Allingham’s business partner were the last to see him alive.”
“Possibly,” Tennant said. “What about his wife and sister?”
“Allingham retreated to the study with his guests. The ladies didn’t see him again.”
One by one, Armstrong brought in the servants. All had retired for the evening shortly after Mr. Allingham returned. All except Alfred: only the footman saw his employer later that night.
Charles Allingham had escorted his guests downstairs andlocked the door behind them. Before returning upstairs, he asked Alfred to pour a glass of port from the bottle in the dining room. The footman brought it to him, and Allingham tossed it off and asked for another. Then his employer asked him to check the first-floor windows and wished him good night. Allingham climbed the stairs unsteadily, and Alfred watched him until he turned into the hallway. The footman heard the study door close behind him.
