“Fifteen thousand quid,” O’Malley whistled softly. “The devil he did.”
“She was to receive only the interest on the sum, which amounted to about five hundred pounds a year, paid quarterly. The principal reverts to the estate as the legatee is now deceased.”
“You knew about Margot Miller’s death,” Tennant said.
“From the newspapers.”
“And you had no intention of telling me about the bequest until I dragged it out of you.”
Eastlake cleared his throat. “Well, I—”
“By God, Mister Eastlake, I have a mind to charge you with obstructing a police investigation.”
“I had a duty to—”
“You are a court officer,” Tennant snapped. “And a servant of the queen. Your duty lies there, sir. What was Mrs. Allingham’s reaction at the reading of the will?”
“Well . . .” The lawyer shifted uneasily. “I merely summarized the contents. Mrs. Allingham never asked me to name the persons or sums in question.”
“That is highly unusual, is it not, Mister Eastlake?”
“The implications were painfully obvious, Inspector. I wanted to spare Louisa the knowledge of her husband’s infidelity.”
“Quarterly payments, is it?” O’Malley said. “That’s a hundred and twenty-five quid four times a year. You’d not be handing it to her over your desk.”
“Miss Miller gave me her banking particulars. The first quarterly deposit was made two weeks ago.”
O’Malley waved his notebook. “You’ll be giving us that information as well.”
Eastlake opened an address book and scribbled on a slip of paper.
Tennant asked, “Did Margot Miller leave a will?”
“Our firm did not prepare one for her.” He handed Tennant the address of the West London Bank on Sloane Square in Chelsea.
“Thank you.” The inspector passed the information to O’Malley and stood.
Eastlake, scowling, rang the bell for his clerk.
Tennant eyed him for a moment. “You take a lot onyourself, Mister Eastlake. Mrs. Allingham is a grown woman, not a child.” He nodded curtly. “Good day to you.”
On the pavement, O’Malley said, “So, little Annie O’Neill was right. Charles Allingham was keeping Margot Miller.”
“Let’s head to the coffeehouse,” Tennant said. “High time we ran the elusive Mister Rawlings to ground.”
But the Chapter House clerk told them Rawlings had checked out four days before. The clerk provided one piece of pertinent news: Rawlings had received letters from the publishers Allingham and Allen.
Outside the coffeehouse, O’Malley said, “The fella is writing letters to Allingham and Allen and then he scarpers.”
“I’ll have another chat with Mister Sidney Allen.” The inspector pulled out his watch. “It’s nearly three. We’ve missed the Chelsea bank manager. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Banker’s hours,” O’Malley grumbled, raising his arm for a cab. “Nice for some.”
* * *
Without a court order, an inquiry about a depositor’s account ordinarily elicited a starchy refusal to cooperate. But a murder investigation had wilted the Chelsea bank manager’s resistance. Tennant returned to the Yard in the morning with the banking information he’d sought.
O’Malley looked up from the copy of Margot’s account and blew out his cheeks. “Mother of God, nearly five thousand quid?”
