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“I think it’s a possibility but unlikely. What are the chances there are two forgers embroiled in this case?”
“Highly unlikely, I agree. And yet…instinct is telling me Underwood is somehow involved.”
“And your instincts are rarely wrong, too.” I smiled at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. “Very well, we’ll both keep an open mind. Perhaps we’ll learn more about Mr. Underwood at the Portland that will help shed light on his character.”
Most of Portland Place was lit up as bright as day. The streetlamps were spaced close together and none were broken. Lights blazed in the windows of the mansions and private clubs, and welcoming lanterns brightened porches. Footmen greeted guests with lanterns held aloft. Most guests were gentlemen, but some had ladies accompanying them. Going by the amount of makeup they wore, the ladies were not their wives.
The Portland Club was different. The front porch was only illuminated by a single lantern and all the curtains were closed so that it seemed as if no one was inside. But men entered the building. No women, just men. We watched for almost an hour, but no females graced its colonnaded porch.
“What do we do now?” I asked. “I can’t get in and you’re not…that way inclined.”
Harry was unperturbed, however. “Wait here.” He moved away before I could stop him.
I watched as he handed the footman something then spoke to him for a few minutes. The footman disappeared inside and Harry returned to me.
“Why the surprised face?” he asked. “Did you expect me to go in?”
“Well…yes. Did you bribe him?”
He nodded. “I asked him about Underwood. Apparently he works here.”
I was about to ask what work he performed but decided against it. I could guess. “And why has the footman gone inside?”
“To fetch him, of course. We need to speak to him.”
I eyed the closed door. “He won’t come.”
Harry leaned back against the fence railing and crossed his arms. “He will.”
A few minutes later, the door opened and the footman emerged. He was alone.
“I should have put a wager on it,” I said.
“I didn’t say he’d come straight away. But he will.”
Fifteen minutes later, a person climbed the external stairs from the basement and approached us. If it wasn’t for the man’s hat, worn low to cover the eyes, and the man’s coat with the collar flipped up to hide the lower half of his face, I’d have thought it was a woman. His walk was feminine, but that could have been because he wore heeled shoes and what appeared to be a woman’s skirt going by the crimson hem peeking below the coat.
“What do you want?” The voice was Mr. Underwood’s.
“We just want to ask some questions,” Harry said. “Answer them truthfully or I’ll follow through on my threat.”
Mr. Underwood glared at Harry from beneath eyelids painted pale blue and lashes daubed with charcoal. There was no sign of the affable man who’d helped us on the day we’d first searched Reggie Smith’s room. Before us was a man who spoke in angry, defensive tones, but whose hunched stance told me he was embarrassed to be caught wearing makeup and women’s clothes.
“We want to know if you painted the forgeries,” Harry said.
The fingers gripping Mr. Underwood’s coat at his chest tightened. “I don’t know what you’re referring to. I paint to amuse myself. The days are long, otherwise.”
“Did you meet Ambrose McDonald here at the Portland Club?”
Mr. Underwood hesitated before nodding. “He was a patron.”
“Did you have a relationship with him outside of the club?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”
“What kind was it?” Harry asked.
“Purely business.”
