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“I am sorry, but I truly don’t remember if he was in our out. Is that when the murder occurred? The police told us nothing.”
I decided it couldn’t hurt to give him some specifics. Some of it would be released in the newspapers later today anyway. “A fellow by the name of Ambrose McDonald was murdered last night at the place where Mr. Smith worked. Mr. Smith stole a painting, and the theory is that he was caught in the act by the victim and killed him to keep him quiet.”
He blinked rapidly back at me for a long time, taking it all in. “And on the thirtieth of March?” he asked in a thin voice.
“There was another art theft. We’re trying to establish a link between the two thefts, or lack thereof.”
“I see. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Underwood. If you remember anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact us. My associate has business cards. Wait a moment and I’ll fetch one.” I hurried into Mr. Smith’s room. “A card please, Harry.”
He fished one out of his inside jacket pocket then continued his search under the mattress.
I returned to Mr. Underwood, glad to see he hadn’t disappeared. Indeed, he accepted the card readily and with a curious expression.
“I have thought of something, as it happens.” He withdrew a silver card case from his pocket and added Harry’s card on top of one with a blue dove printed in the center. “The thing is, before he fell out with his…friend, Mr. Smith didn’t work. He didn’t need to. He painted all day. Although he was good, I don’t think he sold very many. Certainly not enough to live on. After he and his friend fell out, he found employment as a footman with a catering firm.”
So Reggie Smith’s lover was most likely also his patron. When their relationship ended, so did the financial support. It would have been a terrible double blow.
“Thank you, Mr. Underwood. You’ve been a great help.”
“I hope so.”
“One more thing. Do you think him capable of theft?”
He went to close the door but paused. “I couldn’t say.”
Couldn’t or wouldn’t? “What about murder?”
He simply shook his head, but I wasn’t sure if that meant he didn’t know or didn’t think him capable.
I returned to help Harry search Mr. Smith’s room. We found nothing of interest. No stolen artworks, no private correspondence, no photographs of a man who could be a lover. As we searched, I told Harry what Mr. Underwood had told me.
“That explains why Reggie Smith didn’t give the name of his alibi on March thirtieth when my father interviewed him. He wanted to protect his lover.”
I agreed. If his lover was a wealthy man, the scandal would probably make the newspapers. It could destroy him. Love between men was not only scandalous, it was illegal. “It means hedidhave an alibi for the night of the first theft.”
Harry didn’t want to accept that as fact until we knew for certain. “Speaking of lovers, what if McDonald’s murder has nothing to do with the art heist and everything to do with his relationships? You say he was a known cad. Perhaps he bedded the wrong woman and a jealous husband took revenge.”
“It does sound like a recipe for jealousy to me.” We exited the room and he closed the door behind us. “And jealousy is a powerful motive.”
We both looked to the next door along the corridor through which Mr. Underwood had disappeared.
The second addresson our list from D.I. Hobart was for an impressive house on Grosvenor Square in Mayfair, not far from the Bunburys’ townhouse. I started up the steps, but Harry stopped me.
“I’ll go alone,” he said. “The owners might recognize you.”
I angled my hat lower over my forehead. “I doubt it.”
“That won’t fool anyone.”
“We’ll see, shall we?”
The butler answered the door and left us standing in the entrance hall while he checked to see if Lord and Lady Quorne were home for callers. He returned a moment later and led us to the drawing room where a middle-aged lady dressed in cream lace with a hairstyle so voluminous and blonde that it had to be a wig, sat on a sofa upholstered in buttercup yellow. The walls were painted in the same shade, making the room feel like a meadow in summer. She stroked a ginger cat curled up on her lap.
I recognized her immediately. She’d been a guest at the ball. At one time, she’d spoken to my aunt and uncle. I touched the brim of my hat and dipped my head. Hopefully she thought I was doing it in deference and not to hide my face.
Harry introduced me as his associate without naming me. I melted into the background and let him take the stage. It didn’t matter. She’d barely glanced at me from the moment he smiled his charming smile.
