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“Oh, I don’t think it’s a—”
The door opens, a young man bursting in, panting slightly, and I make a mental note not to push the circus connection. That doesn’t mean I’m dropping it, though, I will get an answer to this… eventually.
McCreadie rises. “Samuel…?”
The young man—not much more than a boy—grips the back of his chair as he catches his breath. “I went to speak to that fellow. The clerk who bought the new office.”
“Cyrus Morris, yes. What—?” McCreadie stops, his face paling. “Is he all right?”
“Y-yes, sir. I mean, he is in good health. Cyrus Morris, that is. He is in fine health.”
“All right…”
“But he does not know anything about a visit to Mr. Ware’s office this morning.”
McCreadie frowns. “He claims not to have been there?”
“Hewasnot there, sir. He said he did not know what I meant about an urgent signing of the rental, as it was already signed and delivered yesterday. He was most confused, and also very distraught to learn that Mr. Ware has passed.”
“Would you describe Mr. Morris?” I ask.
The young constable looks from me to McCreadie.
“Please, Samuel,” McCreadie says. “Miss Mitchell was the one who met him at the office while she was going through Mr. Ware’s papers.”
Samuel nods and glances my way before his gaze settles on my forehead. “Yes, miss. He was about thirty, with brown hair.”
“Sideburns?” I quickly amend to, “Whiskers?”
“I did not notice any.”
“And his size, his build?”
“He was somewhat portly, miss.”
I look at McCreadie. “That wasn’t the man who came to the office.”
THIRTY-TWO
So the guy who came to Ware’s office was an imposter. An imposter who knew the name of one of Ware’s clients and happened to know that same person was closing a deal for an office rental. That’s going to seriously limit the suspects, and McCreadie and I have a few ideas. One is that the fake Mr. Morris knows the real one. McCreadie is going to follow up on that by returning with Samuel. Meanwhile, Gray and I will chase down another possibility.
We walk to Ware’s house. News of his death hasn’t hit the papers yet. Which means his town house is quiet save for a neighboring staff member with the housekeeper, Mrs. Hamilton, who is in the parlor, sitting there, staring into nothing.
“Mrs. Hamilton?” the neighbor says. “The police would like to speak to you.”
She braces, then looks up and sees us. I won’t say she seems relieved, but she pulls herself together briskly as she rises.
“Come in, Dr. Gray,” she says. She glances over our shoulders.
“It is only us,” Gray says. “We told your neighbor we worked with the police, and she misconstrued. We are, however, here on a police matter.”
“Of course.” She waves us toward the chairs. “May I bring tea?”
“No need,” Gray says. “We are only stopping in briefly.”
She settles into a chair.
“As you may recall, my assistant here, Miss Mitchell, was assisting the police by conducting the search of Mr. Ware’s rooms.”
