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“I was impulsive yesterday. When I saw Broadman with the murder weapon, I naturally assumed he was guilty, particularly after I heard about their argument.”
Harry handed him a business card. “Do you know what their argument was about?”
“He says it was merely a little pre-match tension, and I have no reason to doubt him.”
“How well did you know Vernon Rigg-Lyon?”
“Reasonably well. The Polo and Gun Club is our closest club, both in terms of distance and competition. He was well-liked, somewhat arrogant but all the good players are. Broadman is the same.” He clasped his hands together on the desk. “Very similar character. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t get along. Two proud, masculine men competing to win at everything won’t like it when the other gets more attention.”
I knew the type, too, although I wouldn’t have called them proud or masculine. Vain and arrogant was more like it.
“There are rumors that Rigg-Lyon kept a mistress,” Harry said.
The major glanced at me. “Steady on, sir. There’s a lady present.”
“I was the one who informed him,” I said. “My cousin told me all about it. He moves in similar circles to Mr. Rigg-Lyon and Mr. Broadman.”
“Then you know more than me, Miss Fox. I have no time or inclination to sit around and exchange idle gossip.” The tone was as sharp as a knife. The look he gave me was even sharper.
“Do you know Mrs. Rigg-Lyon?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“Does your wife know her?” I asked.
“No. Why the interest in her? Is she a suspect?”
“Everyone is a suspect,” Harry said.
“Except for me and my staff, of course.”
“Your staff are not as innocent as you believe. At least one of them is a Peeping Tom. There are holes in each of the shower stalls, at about eye-height.”
The gray hedge that was the major’s moustache took on a life of its own as it moved with his vehement denials. Harry and I simply sat back until the protests lessened and finally stopped.
Major Leavey wiped the spittle off the ends of his moustache with a handkerchief. “Is that all? I have a lot of work to do.”
“One more thing,” I said. “I saw a ribbon on the body when I inspected it, but the police claim they didn’t find one. Do you know what happened to it?”
“No. Why would I? Perhaps you were mistaken, Miss Fox.”
“About a coral-colored ribbon? How could I possibly mistake it for something else?”
“You were overwrought after witnessing such a dreadful sight. Considering your delicate sensibilities—”
“My sensibilities are as robust as any man’s. I know I saw a ribbon in Mr. Rigg-Lyon’s pocket, Major, and I also know the police didn’t find it later when they inspected his clothing.”
He picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkwell. “I see that you’re looking to blame me, but I can assure you I didn’t see it.” He wrote some figures in the ledger. “Perhaps it fell out of the pocket during transportation to the morgue. The police seemed incompetent, so it wouldn’t surprise me.” He lifted his gaze to Harry’s. “That’s why I’m glad Broadman hired you.”
“I didn’t say it was he who hired us,” Harry said.
The major seemed not to believe us, or perhaps he just didn’t care. He returned to writing in his ledger.
We left and closed the office door behind us. “He was lying about the ribbon,” I whispered. “He didn’t meet our gazes when he denied seeing it.”
Harry nodded as he eyed the assistant, Watkins, at the reception desk. “Follow my lead.”
He approached the desk with a professional smile. “The major has given us leave to ask you questions and requests that you answer them truthfully. Were you here in the clubhouse yesterday between three-fifty and four-ten?”
