me, sir? Perhaps you were here the day before, or the day after? That would account for a lot.”
“No, no, I have the day right. I recall it because of Sir Arthur’s death, just as you do,” Eustace said hastily. “What was it you said happened to Mr. Hathaway?”
“He was took a bit queer, sir, and went to the cloakroom. Then he must have decided to go home. He’d been there a while, no doubt hoping he’d get to feel better, but seems he didn’t, so he rang for assistance, poor gentleman, and one of the stewards went to him. And when he asked for a cab, the cloakroom attendant called him one, and helped him out into the hall and down the steps into it. He never came back into any of the club rooms at all, sir, that is for certain.”
“I see. Yes, I see. That wasn’t you, by any chance?”
“No sir. Tell you the truth, don’t know who it was. Saw him go, but only out of the corner of my eye, so to speak, and I didn’t recognize him. Might have been Jones; it looked a lot like him, sort of heavyset and with very little hair. Yes, I think it might have been Jones.”
“Thank you, yes I expect it was. Thank you very much.” Eustace wanted to end the pointless conversation. Charlotte would have to unravel the meaning of this, if there was any. There was no more for him to learn. He must escape. This was getting worse by the moment.
“Mr. Hathaway is here this afternoon, sir,” the steward persisted. “If you like I can take you across to him, sir.”
“No … no thank you,” Eustace said vehemently. “I … I think I shall go to the cloakroom myself, if you will excuse me. Yes, yes indeed. Thank you.”
“Not at all, sir.” Guyler shrugged and went about his errands.
Eustace made his escape and fled to the cloakroom. It was really a very agreeable place, suitably masculine, set out with all the comforts: washbasins with plenty of hot water, clean towels, mirrors, spare razors and strops, shaving soap in two or three different brands, lotions, Macassar oil for the hair, fresh cloths for buffing one’s boots, and polish, brushes for its application and removal, and overall a pleasant aroma like sandalwood.
He had no requirement for the water closet, and instead sat down on one of the wooden bench seats that were rather like well-shaped pews. He had had occasion to come here only twice before, but it still seemed pleasantly familiar. Hathaway must have sat here, feeling ill and wondering if he would be able to get home without assistance. Eustace glanced around. There was an ornate bell pull near the door. Nothing was written on it or under it, but its purpose was obvious. Without premeditation he stood up, crossed the couple of steps to it and pulled.
Almost immediately it was answered by an elderly man in a uniform which was less than livery but more than merely a steward.
“Yes sir?” he said quietly. “Is there something I can do for you?” Eustace was taken aback. There really was nothing at all. He thought of Hathaway.
“Are you a steward? You wear a different … uniform.”
“Yes sir,” the man agreed. “I’m the cloakroom attendant. If you wish for a steward I can send for one, but perhaps I can help you, sir. It would be more regular. Stewards attend to gentlemen in the drawing rooms and reading rooms, and so on.”
Eustace was confused.
“Doesn’t this bell ring on the steward’s board in the pantry?”
“No sir, only in my room, which is quite separate, sir. Can’t I be of assistance? Are you not feeling well, sir?”
“What? Oh, yes, yes I am perfectly well, thank you. Always well.” Eustace’s brain raced. Was it possible he was on the brink of discovery? “It is just that a friend of mine, more of an acquaintance, told me that he had been taken unwell here in the cloakroom and had summoned a steward from the drawing room who had called him a hansom.” He waited, almost holding his breath.
“No sir,” the attendant said patiently. “That is not possible, sir. The bell here doesn’t ring in the steward’s pantry. It only leads to my board, sir, nowhere else.”
“Then he was lying!” Eustace said in triumph.
The attendant looked at him with as much amazement as his duty and position allowed, not at the conclusion-which was unavoidable-but at Eustace’s delight in it.
“That seems a harsh judgment, sir. But he was certainly mistaken.”
“It was Hathaway,” Eustace said, plunging in where only moments before he would not have dared to be so blunt. “The day Sir Arthur Desmond died. Didn’t you call him a hansom?”
“Yes sir. One of the temporary stewards told me he was unwell, but I don’t know how he knew that.”
“You mean one of the attendants? Someone junior to yourself,” Eustace said.
“No sir, I mean a temporary steward, from one of the main rooms. Though, come to think of it, I don’t know how he knew, if Mr. Hathaway was in here!” He shook his head in denial of the impossible.
“Thank you, thank you! I am most obliged to you!” Eustace fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. It was excessive; still, it would look so paltry to put it back and hand over a threepenny bit instead, and he was feeling in a highly generous mood. He gave it unstintingly.
“Thank you, sir.” The attendant masked his surprise and took it before Eustace could change his mind. “If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.”
“Yes, yes of course.” Eustace only glanced at him, then strode out into the foyer and down the front steps to the street.
Charlotte was a few paces away; apparently she had been walking back and forth, maybe in her impatience, perhaps to make her waiting less obvious. She saw the expression of jubilation on his face and ran towards him.
“Yes? What have you found?” she demanded.
“Something quite extraordinary,” he said, his excitement fighting his normal manner and the condescension he considered appropriate when speaking to women. “The cloakroom bell does not connect with the steward’s pantry or any part of the rest of the club!”
She was confused. “Should it?”
“Don’t you see?” He caught her by the arm and began walking. “Hathaway said he called the steward from the cloakroom to fetch him a cab when he was taken ill. The drawing room steward told me that. He saw the steward go. But he couldn’t have, because the bell doesn’t ring there.” He was still gripping her arm firmly as he paced the pavement. “The cloakroom attendant said a steward from the drawing room told him that Hathaway was ill and wanted a cab. Hathaway lied!” Quite unconsciously he shook her gently. “Don’t you see? He said he did not come back into the main rooms. At least the steward said he didn’t … but he must have, if he called one of the ordinary stewards to get his cab!” He stopped abruptly, the satisfaction fading a little in his eyes. “Although I’m not quite sure what that proves….”
“What if …” Charlotte said, then stopped.
A lady with a parasol passed by, pretending not to look at them, a smile on her face.
“Yes?” Eustace urged.
“I don’t know … let me think. And please don’t grip me quite so hard. You’re hurting my arm.”
“Oh! Oh … I’m sorry.” He blushed and let go of her.
“An extra steward …” she began thoughtfully.
“That’s right. It seems they hire one or two now and then, I suppose if someone is ill or otherwise absent.”
“And there was one that day? Are you sure?”
“Yes. The steward I spoke to said he saw one.”
“What like?” She ignored two women carrying pretty boxes of millinery and chatting to each other.
“What like?” Eustace repeated.
“Yes! What did he look like?” Her voice was rising with urgency.
“Er … elderly, squarish, very little hair … why?”
“Hathaway!” she shouted.
“What?” He ignored the man passing by them who looked at Charlotte in alarm and disapproval, and increased his pace.
“Hathaway!” she said, grasping him in turn. “What if the extra steward was Hathaway? What a perfect way
