The widow who considers with seriousness whether she will best express her sense of loss by a Marie Stuart cap or an Alsatian Bow of tarlatan, is already half consoled, and will return in a month for another which will express “mitigated” grief by various lightsome pleatings. The black dress will soon require a dainty frilled fichu of tulle to make it endurable. She will, ere long, bestring herself with jet beads that will take the place of the tears that have ceased to flow, and the day when grey, and violet, are permissible, is one characterized by a sober but genuine joy.
The Gentlewoman’s Book of Dress, 1890 Mrs. F. Douglas
Leaving a note to let Mrs. Hardaway know that they would not require breakfast (and thereby once again thwarting the delivery of Kate’s letter), Charles and Bradford left Hardaway House well before seven on Wednesday morning, to have breakfast at the Stag Hotel with Jack Murray. Over poached eggs, broiled sheep’s kidneys, mutton chops, toast and marmalade, fresh strawberries, and coffee, they discussed the plan for the day’s investigations.
Jack Murray had not yet got a lead to Eddie Baggs, so he would continue working in that direction by questioning some of Baggs’s known associates, including both of the men in whose company he had been seen at the Great Horse on Monday night: Pinkie Duncan and Jesse Clark. Charles was not anxious to intrude on the grief of the widowed Mrs. Day, but felt it necessary to discover whether there might be anything helpful in Alfred Day’s safe. He also thought it would be useful to have a conversation with Owen North. Bradford, meanwhile, would drive to Exning for a visit with Dr. Septimus Polter. If possible, they would meet back at the Stag sometime around one o’clock and decide what directions should be pursued next.
The Alfred Day family resided at Number 32 Oxford Street, in one of a row of dignified two- story brick houses set close to the street, behind a low iron fence and a pocket garden with an ornate multi-tiered fountain in the center. The house was obviously in mourning, for straw had been laid on the street so that the family’s grief should not be disturbed by passing carts and the brass door knocker was muffled by a black wrapping and adorned with a large crape bow.
The door was opened by a shy parlor maid in a black dress and black apron, who took Charles’s hat and his card and ushered him into the sitting room. Like that in the Hogsworth home, it was crowded with furnishings, but Mrs. Day’s taste in decor ran more to family snapshots, African violets, and lace curtains than to red velvet, tiger-skin rugs, and exotic Indian souvenirs. A state photograph of the long-dead Prince Consort hung on one wall, on another two gold-rimmed plates bearing the images of the Prince and Princess of Wales, and opposite, a large photograph of the Queen in an oval frame, taken on her Jubilee. The photographs and plates were dressed in swags and bows of black crape, as were the lampshades, the potted plants, the chair backs, and the fireplace mantel. Centered on the mantel, between two black candles in gold candlesticks, stood the black-draped photograph of a prosperous-looking man, slightly above middle age, posed in front of Number 29 St. James Street, the words “Alfred Day, Racing Commissions” visible on the plate-glass window of the building behind him. He wore a gray frock coat with a pale gray top hat and an unsuitably mirthful smile on his round face. The deceased Alfred Day looked like a man who was proud of his accomplishments.
Charles was studying the photograph when he heard the rustle of skirts and turned, bowing to the woman who had just entered the room. She was petite and slender, with an attractive face and pale blond hair, and seemed considerably younger than her husband. She was dressed entirely in black, with a full skirt banded in crape, a pleated bodice, and a tulle fichu at her throat, also of black. On her gleaming hair, she wore a becoming Marie Stuart cap with black lace veil behind, and jet earrings on her ears. She carried a black lace handkerchief in one hand and Charles’s card in the other.
“Mrs. Day,” Charles murmured, with another bow. “Please accept my deepest condolences upon the death of your husband. I am sure it is a very great loss.”
“Thank you, Lord Sheridan,” the widow sighed, sinking into a black-dressed chair. “You were an acquaintance of my dearest Alfred?” Her glance went from Charles’s card to the photograph on the mantel. Her pretty blue eyes brimmed with tears.
“I fear I had not the honor of knowing him,” Charles said regretfully. On the way to Oxford Street, he had considered various pretexts and ruses, but none seemed to quite fit the sad circumstances. In default of a plausible lie, he had determined upon the truth, although he hoped to tell as little of it as possible. “I am deeply sorry to intrude upon your grief at this time, Mrs. Day, but I fear it is necessary. I have been asked to undertake a private investigation of your husband’s death. I understand that he kept a safe here, and hoped…” He paused, knowing that what he was asking must seem unforgivably presumptuous to the grief-stricken widow. He took a breath and plunged on. “I hoped you might permit me to take a look into it, to see if I might find anything there that could lead me to his killer.”
The widow regarded him thoughtfully, and an expression of something very like shrewdness came into her eyes. She did not ask upon whose authority he had come or precisely what he was seeking-questions she should certainly have felt entitled to ask. Instead, she said, in a low, calm voice: “I should not object to your looking into the safe, Lord Charles, but I very much regret that it is impossible. I myself have desired to do so. Unfortunately, I do not have a key.” She produced the black handkerchief and touched it to one eye. “My darling Alfred kept it always with him, but it was not with his effects when they were returned to me. I very much fear that his assailant took it from him.”
“Ah,” Charles said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the key he had found in Alfred Day’s trousers. “I wonder if this might be what you have been looking for.” He held it out, adding apologetically, “I examined your husband’s belongings yesterday in the surgeon’s office. I felt the key might be material to the investigation, so I retained it.”
The widow leaned forward and snatched the key from him. “Yes!” she exclaimed, with evident relief. “This is the very key! Lord Sheridan, I do thank you!”
“You are most welcome.” Charles bowed deferentially. “Would you mind-That is, do you think-?”
The widow did not wait to hear his request repeated. She stood with alacrity. “Come with me to the library, your lordship,” she commanded, sweeping purposefully out of the room, Charles following in some surprise. He had not expected quite so eager a compliance with a request that he considered rude and peremptory.
The library was devoid of books, containing only a desk, a leather sofa, and two wooden chairs. One of the chairs was placed in front of a window. On it sat an elderly manservant holding an ancient percussion cap shotgun across his knees.
“Thank you, Fisher,” the widow said. “You may end your watch now. I have the key.”
“Very good, ma’am,” the old man mumbled, and shuffled out of the room, carrying the gun.
Mrs. Day apparently felt that some explanation was necessary. “I feared,” she remarked, “that if my husband’s assailant had taken the key, he might attempt to enter this room and open the safe. I asked Fisher to station himself here as a guard.”
“Very prudent, I’m sure,” Charles murmured.
Mrs. Day went to the opposite wall, took down a gilt-framed print of a Constable landscape, and exposed a metal safe concealed in the wall. Charles watched as she deftly inserted the key into the lock and swung open the door. Swiftly, before he could move, she had reached inside and seized a large packet of bank notes, thrusting it into the recesses of her full-skirted dress. Leaving the safe door open, she retrieved the key from the lock and turned with great dignity.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, inclining her head. “It was a great kindness to bring me the key to my dearest Alfred’s safe. I am sure that I shall be forever grateful.”
And with that, she turned and swept from the room, leaving a bemused Charles to explore the remaining contents of the safe at his leisure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
