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I collected the cups and my bag and followed him out.
“What will you do?” Harry asked as we descended the steps. “Get ready for another ball?”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but I do have one tonight, as it happens. I’ve got hours before I need to get ready. I might as well come to Scotland Yard with you.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“True, but you’ll enjoy my company nevertheless.”
He gave me a rueful smile and didn’t disagree.
D.I. Hobart informedus that Reggie Smith’s trial was set for two days hence. We took a cab to the Old Bailey where he was being held in a cell beneath the courtrooms until his trial. We waited outside while D.I. Hobart spoke to him.
I imaged the Newgate Prison and Old Bailey courthouse buildings once towered over the surrounding streets with all the grim authority of a judge, but modern developments had diminished its stature. It wasn’t surprising there was talk of it being demolished and replaced by something befitting the grand status of London’s Central Criminal Court, but there was no sign of that happening soon. According to Harry, it could be years away.
To fill in time while we waited, he told me all about the building’s history. He talked about the building itself, from its humble beginnings as a wooden Medieval structure before the Great Fire right up to when the neighboring Newgate Prison was closed to long-term prisoners a few decades ago. It was only used now as a temporary lockup for those prisoners awaiting trial.
When he reached the present day in his retelling, he suddenly stopped. “Sorry. I’m boring you. I tend to go on about buildings a little too much.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from an enthusiast of architecture and engineering. But perhaps you’ll want to learn some stories about the prisoners themselves for dinner party conversation.”
“Your dinner parties must be macabre affairs if that’s what you talk about.”
“What can I say? I’m an enthusiast of murder mysteries.”
He chuckled.
I couldn’t help smiling at his profile as he watched the Old Bailey’s main entrance. I liked making him laugh.
“Speaking of dinner parties and balls,” he went on, “where are you going tonight?”
“Our hosts are the Druitt-Poores. Do you know them?”
“I’ve met Mrs. Druitt-Poore. She often came to the hotel to have afternoon tea with Lady Bainbridge. They have daughters, if I recall correctly.”
“You do. There are no sons.”
“They’ll be needing as many gentlemen there as they can muster. Floyd will be in attendance, I assume. And his friends.”
“I suppose.”
“Is Hartly going?”
“Jonathon? I have no idea.”
He leaned against the lamp post and folded his arms over his chest. There was no evidence of his good humor anymore. He’d turned broody.
D.I. Hobart emerged from the Old Bailey and joined us on the pavement. He indicated we should climb into the waiting cab then directed the coachman to return to Scotland Yard before settling into the seat opposite Harry and me with a groan.
He rubbed his left knee as he gave an account of his meeting. “Smith finally admitted he was in a relationship with McDonald, but it ended ten days before the murder. This overlapped with a relationship he had with Chapman.” He nodded at me. “He says the affair with Chapman was more casual in nature than that which he had with McDonald. His feelings for the murdered man ran deeper. Even so, he was worried about getting Chapman into difficulty so he wanted to keep his name out of it, hence he never told me his alibi for the night of the Quorne heist. I assured him there would be no repercussions for Chapman, as long as he doesn’t turn out to be the murderer.”
“You let Smith believe you think him innocent?” Harry asked. “Is that fair?”
“I do think him innocent. Even more so, now. We had a good conversation. An honest one. I believe every word he told me. Let me finish,” he added when Harry opened his mouth to protest. “Smith admits to being jealous when he learned McDonald had other lovers. They fought and McDonald ended it with him.”
“He’s not innocent,” Harry said. “He killed McDonald when McDonald blackmailed him after he learned Smith painted the forgeries. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“He claims he didn’t paint them.”
