“Annie claims she’s not certain, but I think she is,” Tennant said. “But where does it get us? A married man with a strong motive who died before he could kill her.”
O’Malley handed a slip to the inspector. “There’s a note to you from the man’s sister. Her coachman dropped it off late yesterday afternoon.”
Tennant unfolded and read it.Sergeant O’Malley asked about Rawlings. Louisa has no forwarding address, but I thought of something. Charles made small bequests to all the servants, his valet among them. Perhaps Mister Eastlake, our solicitor, knows his whereabouts.
“A promising line of inquiry,” Tennant said. “And Miss Allingham supplied the lawyer’s address on Chancery Lane.”
A cab carried Tennant and O’Malley as far as Lincoln’s Inn gate. They dodged the congested street traffic by paying off the driver and continuing on foot. A choking, gray fog had settled in, so they had to take care as they walked the rest of the way. At the street’s end, they found the offices of Eastlake and Hepburn.
Inside, a balding clerk dressed in sober black inclined his head when they asked for Eastlake. He retreated silently through an inner doorway.
O’Malley said, “His man couldn’t be more buttoned-up if he’d been sewn into that suit.”
The clerk reappeared as noiselessly as he had departed. “This way, gentlemen,” he murmured, ushering them into the inner sanctum.
Cyril Eastlake stood behind a broad mahogany desk in a room that smelled of pipe tobacco and lemon polish. Papers littered much of the leather desk surface. Sets of legal volumes and stacks of black boxes filled the walls, each case fitted with a lock and surname lettered in gold.
The solicitor didn’t offer his hand; instead, he gestured to two chairs whose seats bore wear marks from generations of clients. O’Malley stayed on his feet while Tennant settled into a chair.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mister Eastlake.”
“What is it you want?”
Still smarting over the search of Allingham’s rooms,Tennant thought. “We’re investigating a young woman’s murder and seeking a person of interest. Miss Allingham suggested you might know Herbert Rawlings’s address. He was a beneficiary in Charles Allingham’s will, I believe.”
“That is correct.”
Tennant waited, expecting a question about the murder victim’s identity. None came. “What sum did Mister Allingham leave his valet?”
When Eastlake hesitated, O’Malley said, “Wills are a matter of public record. Will you be forcing the inspector to make the trip to Somerset House to look it up?”
“My sergeant makes a point. Must we do this the hard way?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “The estate paid Herbert Rawlings the sum of fifteen hundred pounds.”
“A sizable bequest,” Tennant said. “Was Mister Allingham as generous with his other servants?”
“A hundred pounds each to the coachman and housekeeper. Fifty pounds to the other servants.”
Tennant said, “You’ve informed Rawlings of his good fortune, I take it? At what address?”
“I corresponded with him at a coffeehouse that lets rooms, although he may be gone by now. He mentioned a desire to emigrate to America.”
O’Malley took out his notebook. “I’m thinking the coffeehouse has a name and address. Making a meal of it, you are . . . sir.”
Eastlake glared at the sergeant. “The Chapter Coffeehouse on Paternoster Row. My clerk can give you the street number on the way out.”
“Paternoster Row?” O’Malley looked up from his pad. “That’ll be just down the road from the offices of Allingham and Allen.”
“Yes.”
The inspector asked, “Did the will include other surprises?”
“Well . . .”
Tennant waited. “You may as well tell me. As Sergeant O’Malley observed, I can find the information I need at Somerset House.”
“Charles left fifteen thousand pounds to Margaret Miller.”
