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“May we see his room?” Harry asked.
She hesitated before rising. “I don’t see why not. The police haven’t said no one can enter.”
She led us up the stairs and unlocked a door using one of the keys hanging at her waist. The door to the next room along the corridor opened a crack and a man peered out.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “May we have a word?”
He closed the door then a moment later, opened it wider and stepped out. He was a small man who blinked a lot. I couldn’t tell if it was a sign of nerves or simply a tic he always had. “Are you with the police?”
“We’re assisting with the investigation,” I said. “You know about Mr. Smith’s arrest?”
He nodded.
“Do you know the name of his friend, the one whose studio he painted in?”
The lodger’s gaze darted to the landlady and back to me. “How is that relevant?”
“It may not be, but we’d like to speak to him nevertheless.”
The lodger twisted his ink splattered fingers around each other. “I don’t know him, sorry.”
“Does the name Ambrose McDonald mean anything to either of you?”
They both shook their heads.
Harry had been studying Reggie Smith’s room from the doorway, but now he turned to the lodger. “Did he tell you where he was going before he went out of an evening? Or where he’d been the night before?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about the night of the thirtieth of March. Was he here? Or did he go out and stay overnight with his friend, perhaps?”
The lodger’s lips pinched. “I ask again, how is that relevant?”
Harry merely smiled and disappeared into the room.
“I have a pie in the oven,” the landlady said and bustled off towards the stairs.
Instead of following Harry, I approached the lodger. “One more thing, Mr…?”
“Underwood.”
“Mr. Underwood, I gather from your reactions that there was something going on between Mr. Smith and his friend with the studio.”
Mr. Underwood retreated backwards to his room. “I don’t know what you’re implying. Good day.”
I went after him and put a hand up to stop him closing the door in my face. “We’re trying to save Mr. Smith’s life. If he’s found guilty of murder, he will hang.”
Mr. Underwood swallowed heavily. “What do you want to know?”
“Mr. Smith and the man with the studio were lovers, weren’t they? That’s why he sometimes spent the night there.”
He gave a slight nod. “I think you might be correct.”
“Do you know why they fell out?”
“No.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “About nine or ten days ago, I saw Mr. Smith come home one afternoon. He was very upset. I tried comforting him, but he didn’t want company. He never told me what happened, but after that, he stopped going out unless he had to work.”
“And the night of March thirtieth?”
