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It took me longer than it took Harry and Victor to pick a lock, but I managed to get it open and slip into the office without Philip seeing me.Thank you for the lessons, Victor.
I pocketed the lock picking tools and removed the candle stub and match box I’d brought with me. I struck a match and lit the candle then went in search of clues.
The room was crowded with two desks crammed into it instead of the usual one. Mr. Chapman’s desk was on the left. The desk surface was neat with everything in its place. The inkwell and inkstand were pushed towards the back, a notepad set to one side, the pencil lying diagonally across it. Blank stationary with the hotel’s emblem of an M inside a circle at the top formed a small stack beside a ledger listing his department’s expenses. The only personal items on the desk were an Egyptian pyramid paperweight in alabaster and a small metal globe. On closer inspection, the globe turned out to be a clever little traveling flask containing brandy.
The filing cabinet held employee records but none of the names were associated with our case. Old, completed ledgers occupied one shelf of the bookcase while Mrs. Short’s books on housekeeping filled another. The top drawer of Mr. Chapman’s desk contained letters from guests, thanking him for making their dining experience pleasurable. Once again, none were written by names associated with the case.
In the second drawer I found more stationary and a small diary. Daily entries listed meetings with suppliers, staff, and other names I didn’t recognize. I skimmed the last few weeks then returned it. Most of Mr. Chapman’s personal items must be at the residence hall. If only the renovations hadn’t forced him to leave his private room here and move in there.
I closed the second drawer and opened the third and final one at the bottom. It was a mess and contained a lot of odds and ends. Broken pens, cleaning cloths, folded handkerchiefs, unfolded handkerchiefs, rulers, a measuring tape, shopping lists and, to my surprise, a painting of a man I recognized.
Reggie Smith.
It was a small painting, not quite a miniature, but no larger than my hand. It showed Reggie sitting on a chair. He didn’t smile and his hair looked a little shorter than in the photograph we’d taken from his flat, but it was definitely him. What’s more, the hands folded on his lap were poorly rendered. It must be a self-portrait. I couldn’t read the small signature in the bottom right corner, but I suspected close scrutiny under a magnifying glass would show it was done by the sitter himself.
Had Reggie Smith given this to Mr. Chapman as a token of affection?
And was this the connection I needed between Mr. Chapman and Ambrose McDonald? Reggie clearly knew both men.
I was pondering what the painting meant when the door suddenly opened.
I froze.
“Miss Fox?” Mr. Chapman thundered. “What are you doing in here?”
I needed to think of something logical, and quickly. Unfortunately, my mind froze too and words failed me. There was no reasonable explanation for what I was doing in his locked office at night with the self-portrait of the main suspect of a murder in my hand.
Chapter11
Mr. Chapman strode across the floor and snatched the picture out of my clutches. “Your uncle will hear about this.” He dropped the portrait into the bottom drawer and kicked the drawer closed, all while glaring at me.
I felt the ice of it through to my bones. He would follow through with his threat. He would tell Uncle Ronald and then I’d have to explain myself and admit that I was investigating. He would probably guess that I worked with Harry.
“If you do that, I will be forced to tell him why I am in here. Is that what you want, Mr. Chapman? For my uncle to find out you met Reggie Smith, a man accused of murder, at the Portland Club?”
A ripple of shock passed over him. Perhaps he didn’t think I was capable of resorting to dirty tactics, or perhaps the thought of losing his position here scared him. While I didn’t like resorting to blackmail, I saw no other way out.
“Of course, my uncle may surprise us both and consider what you do in your own time is your own business. But do you want to find out?”
I wasn’t sure what I’d do if he called my bluff. Fortunately, he didn’t. He swallowed heavily, but that haughtily out-thrust chin remained firm. “What do you want?”
“I want to know about your relationship with Reggie Smith.”
Mr. Chapman hadn’t turned on the light when he entered, and the shadows cast by the candle’s flame made him look like he hadn’t slept in days. “I don’t think I need to spell it out to you.”
“I thought he was with Mr. McDonald.”
“He was. And he was with me.”
“Do you think he killed Mr. McDonald?”
“No! I know he didn’t. He’s a good person.”
“But a painting taken from the Bunburys’ library was found in his possession on the night of the murder. He admitted taking it.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I haven’t had an opportunity to see him since…” He blinked rapidly and looked away.
“Did he paint it?”
