“Strange?” Theodore repeated. He laughed. “I hadn’t thought about it but now you mention it, I suppose so. But we only went into the kitchens, and we’ll hardly see those today.”
“We might not see anything. He could still be too ill to receive us.”
“This is not a social call,” he reminded her. “He will see us.”
The crowds thinned out as they reached the residential street. They rang the bell and it was answered very promptly by a young maid who had the dark skin and eyes of some far-off land, but the accent and confidence of a Cockney lass who had lived her whole life in the maze of the English capital. She bobbed them a curtsey and led them into a small reception room which appeared to double as a day sitting room and possibly even the drawing room if Wiseman ever held dinners. They had introduced themselves as “investigators, here on urgent business”.
They waited for a long time. No one came back to offer them refreshments of any kind. Adelia sat down and made herself comfortable while Theodore prowled around and tried to draw conclusions about Wiseman’s character from the way he had hung his pictures.
Eventually the door opened and a very poorly-looking man inched his way in. He was dressed in a plain dark-brown suit and had taken pains with his hair and whiskers but there was no disguising the fact that he was still unwell, his white skin flushed in an unnatural way. He stopped when he saw them, and remained poised in the doorway, his hand gripping the handle.
“Who the devil are you? She said it was the police.”
“We are not quite the police, but it is true that we are investigators. Private investigators, of a generally discreet sort. Lord Calaway at your service. May I introduce my wife, Lady Calaway? Please, come in and sit down before you fall down. Might I inquire as to your health? It is certainly heartening to see you are out of hospital. I take it, therefore, that you are out of danger?” Theodore ran on and on, and Adelia had to step slightly in front of him to cut him off. He got the message, and stopped talking.
William Wiseman looked dazed, as well he might as the target of Theodore’s onslaught of words. He blinked, and shook his head.
“No, I really don’t think I am ready to talk with you. Please do excuse me.”
“Sir,” said Adelia, going forward. “Please do come in and sit down. We believe a dreadful crime has been committed and we are intent upon justice.” She watched him carefully.
If he were guilty, he gave no sign of it. He didn’t flee though he probably didn’t have the energy to do so. He sighed heavily, his breath almost whistling in his chest, and reluctantly came into the room to take a seat. “A crime?” he said. “The police have closed the case. We were struck by bad meat or fruit that was rotten or some such calamity. I am lucky to be recovering and they expect that I shall have no long lasting effects. As for Nettles, however...”
“Mr Nettles interests us,” Adelia said. “Forgive my plain speaking, but you and he were not known to be on good terms. Can you tell us a little about why you were dining with him that night?”
Wiseman pursed his lips, making his jowls wobble and the greying whiskers ripple on his cheeks.
“We are engaged in a similar business and it is natural that we be both rivals and colleagues,” he replied after a moment’s thought.
“Indeed so, but to dine together is rather more than a passing nod of acknowledgment at a gallery. Did you send a note to him asking for a meeting?” Adelia asked.
“Did I – what? What have the police said to you?”
“They have said nothing to us.”
“What note?”
“There might have been a note sent to Mr Nettles. If there was, it might have come from you. However it might also have been only apparently from you. Did you also receive a note, perhaps?”
“I? No! I had no note. And I sent no note,” he added. His face had flushed even more deeply. Adelia decided that he had definitely sent the note or at least knew of it. But she remembered Theodore’s new insistence that only physical evidence had any value now, and that mere hunches were to be disregarded. She supposed they would have to obtain some sample of his handwriting, then, and make a more detailed analysis.
While she was thinking, Theodore had stepped in. He said, “What did you both eat that night?”
The change of topic was seized upon gratefully. “The usual,” Wiseman said in a rush. “A nice roast dinner. We started off with soup and we both had seconds of that. I didn’t have much bread. Then the meat course and plenty of well-cooked vegetables. I started to feel a little unwell and then Nettles was taken violently ill – I’ll say no more on that matter. It is not a sight that I care to relive.”
“You both ate the meat?” Adelia asked. “And had gravy?”
“Oh, he had plenty of gravy but I don’t care for it
