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Harry shook his head sadly. “I don’t understand why the Bunburys are so determined to maintain a façade of wealth. If they sold the London townhouse, they could still live a very comfortable life on their country estate.”
“Unless they’re heavily mortgaged.”
“Even more reason to sell up here and live within their means instead of hosting lavish parties. Maintaining the façade sounds exhausting to me.”
“To me too, but we’ve never had what they have. We can’t know what it’s like to lose it. Their identities are so tightly entwined with their wealth that it’s impossible for them to imagine what their lives would be like if they were as ordinary as us.”
His lips tilted in that familiar way that I liked so much. I was very glad to see it return. It meant the tension had finally eased between us. “We’re far from ordinary, Cleo.”
I smiled, as much from relief that he was being friendly as from the sentiment itself.
Harry’s knock on the boarding house door was answered by a matronly woman wearing an apron dusted with flour. She introduced herself as the landlady and housekeeper, in charge of five bedrooms in the old house, all of which were currently let to lodgers. The smells of baking wafted from the service area at the back and, despite the house’s state of disrepair, it was filled with homely furnishings. If I were a single man in London, I’d want to live under her roof. I suspected this pink-cheeked woman took better care of her lodgers than their own mothers.
Her smile turned sad when we introduced ourselves and told her our reason for calling. “The police came this morning and searched Mr. Smith’s room,” she said. “I cannot believe he is a murderer. I simply can’t fathom it. Such a nice man. He has always been kind to me, greeting me of a morning and sometimes even helping me tidy up after supper. I can’t fault his manners. He was a bit of a rascal, mind, in a roguish way.”
“It must have been a shock when the police arrived and informed you,” I said gently.
She withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “It was. I’m convinced there has been a mistake. Is that why you’re here? To do the work the police failed to do?”
“We want to tie up some loose ends.”
“What kind of loose ends?”
“Did the police tell you he stole a painting from the place where he worked last night?” Harry asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh! No, they didn’t.”
“Are you surprised?”
She twisted the handkerchief around one of her fingers. “He never stole from me.”
It wasn’t an answer to Harry’s question, but her avoidance was telling. “He was something of an artist himself, wasn’t he?”
She indicated an oil painting on the parlor wall, hanging in pride of place above the mantelpiece. It showed the house we now sat in from the street. “I’m not an expert, but I liked his work.”
“Did he paint in his room?” I asked.
“Oh no. That’s not allowed. He went to his friend’s studio. Sometimes he’d be so lost in his work that he’d miss curfew and have to stay overnight.”
“Was he there on March thirtieth or did he come home that night?”
“What has that got to do with the murder?”
I merely smiled benignly, waiting for her to respond.
“I can’t recall that specific night, but he did spend several nights at his friend’s studio around that time.”
“A male friend?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Smith referred to him as ‘he’ or ‘him.’ Besides, he’d never compromise a woman by staying overnight. He was a good man.” She pursed her lips, indignant that I would suggest such a thing.
“Do you know the friend’s name?”
“I don’t, but Mr. Smith visited him regularly until a week or so ago.”
“Why did he stop going?”
She shrugged. “I suppose they had a falling out. It’s such a shame. He could do with a friend now.”
