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“It depends on the outcome of his uncle’s business here.”
“So you could be seeing a lot of him.”
“We might bump into each other around the hotel.”
Was Harry jealous? It was difficult to tell when he wouldn’t meet my gaze. Part of me hoped so. But mostly I thought how we needed to set aside the feelings stirred by our one and only kiss if we were to remain friends and investigation partners.
I didn’t have an opportunity to contemplate it further because he asked me to recount everything I’d seen and heard at the polo club, specifically the parts that involved Mr. Broadman.
“Before the match, I saw Mr. Broadman and Mr. Rigg-Lyon arguing. Indeed, everyone saw. They were too far from us to hear, however. Mr. Liddicoat intervened and they stopped. When asked, Mr. Broadman claimed it was simply a little pre-match tension.” Harry’s faith in my instincts led me to add the next part. “It seemed heated to me so I think it was about something more.”
“And the bloody mallet? Was he really holding it?”
“Yes, but the blood was dry, as was the blood on and near the body.”
“You got close enough to see the body?”
“Of course.”
“What gentleman would allow a lady near such a gruesome sight?”
“The sort of gentleman who was looking the other way and doesn’t know me very well.”
He chuckled.
“Given that the blood was dry, and that the grooms vacated the stables once the horses were settled, I calculated there was a twenty-minute window of opportunity for the murder to occur. Mr. Broadman claims he was in the changing room during that time, and an attendant confirmed it, but the attendant was also absent for a short period.”
“So Broadman doesn’t have a solid alibi,” he said as he wrote on his notepad. “What’s he like as a person?”
“Quite the opposite in character to Mr. Liddicoat. He’s confident and athletic, well-liked by everyone. Both he and the victim are what some call a man’s man. Lesser men seem to idolize them.”
“So he’s physically capable of wielding a polo mallet.”
“They’re not heavy. You’ve never seen one?”
“Polo wasn’t a popular sport where I grew up,” he said wryly.
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the girls’ school where he lived while his birth mother taught there, the boys’ orphanage where he lived after she died, the slums where he lived after he ran away, or in Ealing, where his adoptive parents still resided. It was probably all of them. Polo, like automobile driving, was an activity for the wealthy.
“Yesterday was my first match,” I said. “The mallets the players use have a surprisingly small head at the end of a long stick. Even a child could have wielded it. He was hit from behind.” I indicated the spot on the back of my head, at the very top of my spine and the base of the skull.
“A direct hit there doesn’t have to be very hard to be fatal, it just has to be accurate. We can’t rule out a woman.”
“Speaking of women, the rumors are that Vernon Rigg-Lyon was something of a philanderer. Floyd says he had a mistress.”
“Does the wife know?”
“Floyd suggested everyone knew.”
“Sometimes the spouse is the last to find out.”
“True, but surely she would suspect.”
Harry wrote down Mrs. Rigg-Lyon’s name underneath Rufus Broadman’s. “Did Floyd tell you who the mistress was?”
“Drat. I forgot to ask.”
Harry tapped his pencil on the notepad as he thought. “Stand up, Cleo.” He indicated I should join him on the other side of the desk. He grasped my shoulders and squared up to me. “They must have met, argued…” He turned me around. “Then Rigg-Lyon faced away. The murderer picked up the mallet and struck him.” His cool fingers lightly touched the nape of my neck above my lace collar.
