Of course he was likely to have. “So he was bending over to put his ear to the keyhole,” I said, “or the crack in the door, and someone approached from behind and hit him. Any one of us could have done that.”
Tom arched a brow, and I added, “Well, not Christopher or Crispin. We were in the other room together. But any of the others. Hutchison was a touch taller than Montrose, I’d say. Blanton and Ogilvie were approximately the same height as him, and Rivers was perhaps an inch shorter. Gladys is rather small. Which wouldn’t matter if he was leaning over. But I’m not sure she’d be strong enough to hit him hard enough to crack his skull. He was wearing a bobbed wig on top of his own hair, and whoever hit him, hit hard enough to break his skull through both.”
“What happened to the wig?” Tom wanted to know, and I shook my head helplessly. I didn’t know what had happened to anything other than the body, and only because we’d been responsible for it. But what the others had done to the butler’s pantry after we had left with Montrose’s body, I couldn’t say.
“We have no idea,” Christopher said. “The others were going to clean up. We could have asked Gladys, except Crispin’s father was there this morning, and it didn’t seem like a good idea. I suppose Crispin might have asked while they were alone in the car. That was likely why she wanted him alone in the first place. So she could ask him about what we did last night. Hopefully he had the sense to ask questions back.”
“If he found out,” Tom said, “he didn’t come back to your flat to report it.”
“He might not have had time to return before we left for Mayfair,” I pointed out. “Or he might still be with her, and he’s planning to stop in again before he sets out for Wiltshire.”
Or he’d send us a note, although by the time he posted it, it might take a day or two to reach us.
A part of me would be relieved to find him still with Gladys. At least I could stop worrying about him then. Even if there admittedly was another part of me that was busy thinking up snide remarks about men who spent inordinate amounts of time wooing the opposite sex.
“There was no point asking Blanton,” Christopher added, “since he said he doesn’t remember anything that happened last night. If the wig had been in his flat, surely he would have made mention of it, at least.”
“One of the others likely disposed of it elsewhere,” Tom said, “on their way home.” He pulled the Crossley up to the side of the street. “This looks like a good place to park. Eaton Row and Eaton Mews are that way, Ebury Mews over there.”
He pointed to the left and right.
“Blanton said she’s in a first-floor flat with a green door and a green stable door and the number 13,” I said. “Although between you and me, I don’t know how reliable he is.”
Or whether he’d even told the truth. He might have lied, just to ensure that we wouldn’t find Gladys.
“Let’s start looking, then.” Tom led the way across the street and into the maw of the mews.
Christopher and I followed. And then we trudged along, looking left and right, with me hanging on Christopher’s arm so the uneven cobblestones wouldn’t turn my ankle if I stepped wrong.
“There’s number 13,” Tom said after a minute or two. “The door’s black.”
It was. The rest of the building was whitewashed, and there were cheerful gingham curtains in the upstairs windows. I had a hard time reconciling the Gladys Long I had met last night and this morning with gingham fabric, but I suppose she might have had a more domestic side that she didn’t let out often.
“So do we think Ronnie made a mistake,” Christopher asked, eyeing it, “or do we think Ronnie lied, or is this a different mews than the one Gladys lives in?”
“I vote for a different mews,” I said. “I don’t think he was in any condition to lie, although it’s quite possible he misremembered. But he also wasn’t certain about the mews, so I think it’s a different one.”
“We could knock?” We both looked at Tom, who had the official credentials to do that sort of thing.
He shook his head. “I’m not on an official visit here. I think it’s better if we draw the least possible attention to ourselves. If we fall short in the other mews, as well, we can always come back.”
He headed for the mouth of the mews with us behind.
“I haven’t seen the H6 anywhere,” Christopher commented a few minutes later, as we entered the second mews on our list. “If Crispin’s still here, it ought to be parked somewhere in sight. The mews itself is too narrow to park a motorcar in.”
It was. And no, I hadn’t seen the blue Hispano-Suiza either. It’s a fairly distinctive car, not easy to overlook, so if it had been anywhere around, we’d have noticed it.
“Perhaps he simply dropped her off and went on his way,” Tom said as we trudged forward, keeping our eyes peeled for number 13. This surface was a bit easier to navigate than the previous, the cobblestones flatter and less uneven, so I was managing under my own steam.
“Or he might have put the motorcar elsewhere while he went inside her flat,” Christopher added. “There must be car parks nearby, where he could leave it. Out of sight.”
There must be. And the suggestion was logical. I wanted to believe it, but…
“Or if something’s wrong,” I said, “he’s lying in the backseat with his head in Gladys’s lap right now, while Hutchison or Ogilvie or even Rivers drives the car and the body somewhere where they can leave what’s left of him.”
There was a pause. Christopher and Tom exchanged a glance.
“You know,” Christopher said, “Crispin’s right. You do have a vile imagination.”
