“I have a final question about your last meeting. Did Mister Allingham seem unusually despondent?”
Allen looked down at his desk and frowned. “Aye. Like he was carrying a hundredweight on his back.”
Tennant left Allen’s building, walked east along the row, and turned right on Old Change Street, heading toward the river.
As he passed St. Paul’s, the setting sun honeyed the pale stone of the cathedral’s façade, turning it golden. Winter afternoons were short, but Tennant had put in a long day, and his leg ached. He turned toward the river and winced when his boot twisted on the uneven cobbles. On the other side of the Thames, scudding clouds dragged bands of rain in his direction. He’d be caught in a downpour if he waited for an omnibus, so he shifted his weight to ease his leg and flagged a cab.
“Where to, guvnor?”
Tennant nearly told the cabbie to take him home to Bloomsbury. Instead, he clapped the hansom doors closed and told the driver, “Scotland Yard.”
No matter,he thought. Lately, his house on Russell Square, a comfortable chair, and a glass of whiskey by the fireside contented him less. He’d begun to picture Julia there, sipping a sherry, sitting across from him, the flickering firelight gilding her chestnut hair. He pictured her in other rooms and imagined what it would be like to wake and see her hair spread across a pillow. Tennant hadn’t longed for someone so intensely since his broken engagement to Isobel. A lucky escape, he’d come to realize.
But Julia . . .She’s so self-sufficient, damn it.He could dream all he liked, but that was as far as it would go. It didn’t stop his pulse racing at the thought of her in his bed.
The inspector sighed and returned his mind to the case, wondering if he’d wasted his time with Allen.He’s a bit of a rogue. But was he an out-and-out scoundrel involved in a blackmail scheme? Tennant had no reason to think so.
Still, the inspector thought the interview had been revealing. For one thing, there was that difference of opinion over Allingham’s state of mind. The doctor had told Sergeant Armstrong that all had been well with his friend. Yet, Allen saw a despondent Allingham. Tennant thought about things unsaid. A clever man could take great care to monitor his disclosures. But the inspector had learned to listen for the unspoken. Allen hadn’t asked him why a copper from the Met’s detective department was investigating a suicide.
Tennant arrived at the Yard after six. He found two reports and a cable from Canada on his desk and snatched up the long-awaited message. Franny’s friend said a man named “Charles,” who published art books, had asked her to pose for some artists.
Tennant cursed the bad luck of timing. Had the cable arrived two days earlier, Allingham would still have been alive for questioning. He picked up O’Malley’s report. It confirmed Allen’s statement that he and the doctor left Allingham’s study together. And as for the man’s general health, O’Malley quoted Dr. Scott: “Charles Allingham was a superb specimen of British manhood.”
The sergeant had attached a note to the official report:Ticked the old fella off by asking about Allingham’s health. A ship’s surgeon in the Royal Navy, he was, and the man barked at me like I was a common swabby. Not happy that a copper thick as a plank questioned his report.
The second report confirmed the cause of death: the Marsh test found arsenic in Allingham’s stomach and the whiskey decanter.
All the evidence pointed to suicide by arsenic poisoning.
* * *
Julia passed the newspaper across the breakfast table to her grandfather.
The death notice inThe Timesread,Suddenly, at home, Charles Frederick Allingham of Blenheim Lodge, Kensington, survived by his wife, Louisa Alice (née Upton), and his sister, Mary Margaret Allingham. The funeral and interment are private.
Dr. Andrew Lewis lowered the paper. “Tragic.”
“The coroner’s jury is meeting this morning,” Julia said.
“Not much doubt about the verdict.” Her grandfather shook his head sadly. “Death by his hand.”
Julia pushed away her unfinished dish of scrambled eggs. “Charles Allingham was young, well-off, and handsome. He had a beautiful wife and an affectionate sister.”
“Outward blessings don’t always add up to a happy life, my dear.”
“But after Regent’s Park . . . Grandfather, he’d been given asecond chance at life. Others weren’t as lucky.” Julia thought of the young lieutenant she’d pronounced dead at the lake. “It’s such a waste.”
“Doctor Julie?” The housekeeper handed her a letter. “Miss Allingham’s coachman is waiting for an answer.”
Julia unfolded the black-bordered note and read it to her grandfather.
“A confounding anonymous letter arrived in yesterday’s post. In the day’s confusion and distress, we overlooked it until this morning. I’d be most grateful for your advice if you have a free hour before you leave for your clinic.”
“Strange,” her grandfather said. “Have you any patients this morning?”
“Mrs. Oates is bringing Timmy in at ten to have his cast removed. Do you think you could—”
“Of course, my dear.”
