“Bonded commercial cleaners come in every Monday,” said Elaine Albee as they watched a technician fill small glass vials with samples of a brown sticky substance he’d scraped from the joints between the tiles. “According to the woman who found the body, the cleaners bring their own equipment and part of their routine is to wax and buff the floors down here.”
A mop, still damp, had been found in the scullery, she told Sigrid. It, too, would be taken to the lab for analysis.
“And the blood on the stairs themselves?” Sigrid asked, referring to those chalk circles.
“Couple of small splashes up on the tenth and eleventh treads; a bigger one down here on the third,” said Bernie Peters. “Nothing on the upper landing and, from the shape of the drops, he was moving down at the time.”
It was consistent with what Cohen had told them. Until they uncovered data to disprove it, their working theory would be that Shambley had started down the basement steps when he was struck a tremendous blow on the head from behind. He had fallen here, bled copiously, then his body had been hauled up to the third floor soon afterwards.
“Why not leave him here in the basement where he fell?” Sigrid wondered aloud.
“The perpetrator wanted him found quickly?” speculated Lowry.
“Maybe he
“Or maybe it was an individual that just didn’t want us taking too close a look at the basement,” suggested Peters.
“In which case,” said Sigrid.
The others tried not to groan as they looked across the crowded Victorian kitchen to the warren of storage rooms beyond.
“There’s still a bunch of uniforms wandering around upstairs,” Mick Cluett reminded her.
“Might as well put them to use,” Sigrid agreed. “And start a canvass of the square, anyone seen entering or leaving these premises last night. In the meantime, Lowry, you and I will begin with the staff.”
They commandeered the stately, book-lined library for questioning their witnesses and lunchtime came and went before the two police detectives had heard all that the Breul House staff were prepared to tell them.
With commendable initiative, the secretary, Hope Ruffton, had typed up a guest list from the previous evening, complete with addresses, which helped them track departures. Sigrid knew that the three trustees and their respective spouses had left shortly after eight, and that she and Nauman left at 8:20. After that, as best the others could reconstruct, the curator, Elliott Buntrock, said good-night at 8:30, followed soon by Soren Thorvaldsen and Lady Francesca Leeds, Hope Ruffton, Hester Kohn and Jacob Munson, in that order.
Hope Ruffton had been collected by three friends for a musical comedy playing up in Harlem and she supplied the detectives with a separate list of her friends’ names and addresses.
Benjamin Peake declared that he’d planned to wait until the caterer’s men had gone, but Mrs. Beardsley, the senior docent, had volunteered to stay in the director’s place since she had only to walk across the square after she’d locked up.
“Mr. Peake left about eight-forty,” Mrs. Beardsley told them. “The caterers were finished shortly before nine; then I double-checked to make sure no candles were still burning, turned out the lights, and went home shortly after nine.”
“All the lights?” Sigrid asked. “What about Dr. Shambley?”
“I refer, of course, to the main lights,” Mrs. Beardsley replied, sitting so erectly in the maroon leather wing chair that Sigrid was reminded of one of Grandmother Lattimore’s favorite dicta: a lady’s spine never touches the back of her chair. “The security lights are on an automatic timer and they provide enough illumination for finding one’s way through the house.”
“And you didn’t see Dr. Shambley after the party last night?”
“No. Dr. Shambley often worked late,” said the docent with a slight air of disapproval.
“What about the janitor?”
“Pascal Grant had permission to attend a movie. I assume he hadn’t yet returned by the time I left.”
“Permission?”
“When you speak to Pascal, Lieutenant Harald, I think it will be evident why we give him more guidance and direction than an ordinary worker. This is his first job since he left the shelter and I do hope you’ll be patient with him. He’s really quite
“So as for as you know, Dr.Shambley was alone in the house when you left?”
“Y-es,” she said, but something unspoken lingered indecisively on her face.
Pressed, Mrs. Beardsley described how she’d awakened at midnight and seen Mr. Thorvaldsen descending the front steps of the Breul House.
Sigrid went to the library window and asked Mrs. Beardsley to point out her house across the square. It was a windy gray day and the reporters who crowded around below to question the police guard outside had bright pink cheeks and blown hair. “You’re positive it was Thorvaldsen?”
“Absolutely,” the lady said firmly. “He’s quite tall and when he passed under a streetlight at the corner, I saw his fair hair.”
On his identity, Mrs. Beardsley could not be budged, although she was quick to admit that she hadn’t actually seen the Dane exit from the house. “I thought perhaps he might have returned for something he lost or else forgot and left behind.”
“Who has keys to this place?” asked Lowry from his place at the end of a polished wooden library table.
“All the trustees have keys.” Mrs. Beardsley patted her purse with a proprietary air. “I, too, of course, as senior docent.”
Seated across the table from her, Sigrid looked at the growing list of names on her notepad. “Thorvaldsen, as well?”
“Oh, no, he’s not a trustee. But Lady Francesca might since she’s going to be in and out a lot if Mr. Nauman’s retrospective takes place.” She gave Sigrid a friendly social smile and began to describe how surprised everyone was to discover that last night’s Miss Harald was today’s Lieutenant Harald.
Jim Lowry was diverted by these clues to the lieutenant’s off-duty life. Odd to be taking down her testimony as background for a case. Oscar Nauman’s name rang a vague bell, but he couldn’t quite recall why. Besides, wasn’t she supposed to be living with an oddball writer named Roman Tramegra? Maybe Lainey would know.
The lieutenant’s cold gaze fell on him and he started guiltily. “Um-
“Oh yes. Not to the main door, but to an outside door in the basement.” The gray-haired woman hesitated. “And Miss Ruffton and Dr. Peake, of course.”
“Of course.”
Miss Ruffton shared with them her impression that Dr. Shambley had been up to something besides pure disinterested research, but did not suggest what that something might be.
Dr. Peake grew defensive, mistook their questions for innuendoes, and wound up revealing more animosity toward Dr. Shambley than he’d intended.
“A busybody and a snoop,” declared Peake. “With delusions of mental superiority and the reverse snobbism of the proletariat.”
“Really?” Sigrid asked, not having heard that epithet since her college days.
“Proletarian roots compounded by his shortness,” Peake theorized. “He always insulted his superiors.”
Sigrid thought of last night. “At the party, he was rude to Mr. Reinicke, Mr. Thorvaldsen, and Professor Nauman.”
“Well, there you are. ” Peake nodded. “They’re all much taller.”
When it was his turn to be questioned, Pascal Grant sat in one of the heavy library chairs with his ankles crossed like a schoolboy and kept his head down when spoken to. The janitor was so uncommunicative that Sigrid
