“Sweet Jesus,” O’Malley muttered. “’Tis a match for the onewe found around Franny. Glittery green with moths stitched into it.”
“Franny?” Eastlake said. “Who’s Franny? Who in blazes are you talking about?”
“The murder victim in our investigation,” Tennant said. “Last week, someone dumped Frances Riley near Lambeth Bridge. And today, I found her pictures in Charles Allingham’s ‘art’ collection. The green dressing gown is identical to the one we found wrapped around Miss Riley’s body.”
“And there’s this, sir.” O’Malley handed the inspector an unsealed envelope.
Tennant unfolded a sheet of creamy writing paper. “It’s a list of letters and numbers. AG: 10, RJK: 10, WQ . . .” Tennant looked up. “WQ—does that pair ring a bell, Paddy?”
“The initials on the sketch of Franny we had off Mrs. Murphy.”
Sergeant Armstrong scratched his head. “What do you reckon? Lists of initials and payments?”
“Highly speculative,” Eastlake said. “I see nothing to interest the police.”
“Highly suggestive.” Tennant folded the paper. “And I find I’m interested all the same.”
The lawyer drew himself up. “I don’t see on what basis—”
“This is an active police inquiry, Mister Eastlake. It involves murder, poison-pen letters, possible extortion, and now a suicide.”
Eastlake opened his mouth and then closed it again.
“Gather up the folders, Sergeant O’Malley,” Tennant said.
Eastlake sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll say to the ladies of the household.”
“That’s for you to decide . . . for the moment.”
Eastlake’s eyes popped. “Surely, you’ll leave them out of this!”
“I have no desire to cause unnecessary distress,” Tennantsaid. “But investigations often uncover secrets that cannot stay hidden. Even from the ladies of a house.”
“But . . .”
Tennant nodded to O’Malley. They left Eastlake in the study, struggling to formulate a reply.
* * *
While Sergeant O’Malley headed to Doctor Scott’s Harley Street office, Inspector Tennant sought out Sidney Allen, Charles Allingham’s business partner.
The cabbie dropped Tennant at Amen Corner at the end of Paternoster Row, the heart of London’s publishing industry. The row curved like a narrow canyon, fronted by soot-stained, three-story buildings turned dusky from the coal smoke belching from neighborhood chimneys. Tennant spotted a familiar figure on the crowded pavement: Charles Allingham’s manservant. Rawlings closed the street door of an office building and strode rapidly away, weaving around walkers, turning left at the first corner.
Tennant followed, passing a door with a discreet brass plate announcing the offices of Allingham and Allen. The inspector trailed Rawlings through Queen’s Head Passage and stopped. Just ahead, the man had halted under the sign for Dolly’s Chop and Ale House, stepping aside for a departing patron. Then Rawlings ducked through the door.
Tennant passed the pub, keeping some pedestrians between him and the window. He glanced inside. Allingham’s manservant stood at the bar, chatting with the man who pulled a pint for him.
The inspector circled back to the offices of Allingham and Allen. A secretary in the outer office greeted Tennant pleasantly and politely. When the inspector gave his name and rank and asked to see the company director, the man stiffened, and his gaze darted to an inner door. He disappeared into an office and returned a minute later.
“Mister Allen will see you, sir.” He stepped aside to let the inspector pass.
Allen was a ruddy-faced, middle-aged man of average height, solidly built but running to fat. Pale blue eyes peered from under dark, spiky brows, and wispy, gray-flecked hair receded from his forehead.
“You’re here about Charles Allingham,” Allen said with a pronounced north-of-England accent. “A terrible business. Inexplicable.”
“Mister Rawlings brought you the news?”
Allen’s eyes flickered. “Aye. That’s right.”
