“You what?” Ngaio blurts out.
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at his father, who nods his permission. “My family has a fish-and-chips shop just round the corner, and when I was cleaning up for the night, I found it on the floor. I delivered it to the cops straightaway.”
“Would you be willing to tell us more about it?” Agatha asks.
“The police told us we weren’t supposed to. Ordered us to keep our traps shut about it, which we have until now. But me and my dad were curious, so we stopped by the precinct,” he answers, his eyes sliding toward his father again.
That is neither a yes nor a no,I think. It’s an invitation.
“We understand you are taking a risk. As are we. The confession you discovered is a key piece of evidence,” Emma says with calm assurance. “But we would compensate you for your risk.”
“How much?” he asks.
“Twenty pounds.”
I suppress a little gasp. Twenty pounds is a small fortune forsome, particularly in these tough economic times. After all, I recently read that the average income is £150 a year.
“Forty.”
“Let’s settle on thirty pounds, shall we?”
He nods but doesn’t speak. It seems that the actual pound notes must be in his sweaty palm before he will unseal his lips. Emma hands them to him.
“The piece of paper was crumpled and torn in half. When I smoothed it and fit the two pieces together, the writing was clear as day.”
“What did it say?”
“I killed Nurse May Daniels.”
“Those exact words?” I ask, astonished. I’d expected something far less definitive.
“Those exact words.”
It’s Margery’s turn. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I committed the words to my mind. ‘I certify that I killed Nurse May Daniels near the Napoleon column, Boulogne.’ There was a scribble underneath, which I took to be a signature.”
My heart is racing. Could this actually lead us to May’s killer? And what could this confession have to do with May’s secret relationship? Perhaps nothing.
Or could the note be a red herring or a dead end? Its appearance is awfully convenient.
“Was the signature legible?” I ask.
“You mean, could I read it?” he asks.
“Exactly.”
“No.”
“Do you know who left the piece of paper behind?”
“I believe I do. There was a foreign-looking gentleman at that table just before we closed up. He’d been writing away on a little pad with the stubby end of a pencil.”
“Can you describe him to us?”
“Dark hair, dark eyes—even his skin had that dark bronze shade. As if he’d been out in the sun. But it’s not as if I studied the fellow. I had other tables to tend.” He pauses, then adds, “There is one thing I noticed, though.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
