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“Thank you. Now, our next problem is, where will we find Mr. Hardwick on a Monday morning?”
Harry had been given Hardwick’s address by Detective Forrester, who’d taken a peek in the official file, so we began there. The landlady at the lodging house where he kept rooms said we’d find him at the bank, where he worked as an assistant to the deputy governor.
We traveled into the city and, after a long wait staring at the wooden wall paneling in an antechamber, were shown into a reception room with more seating, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a desk. I recognized Mr. Hardwick. A woman hovered at his side, a stack of papers in her arms. Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited for him to finish speaking into the telephone. When he looked up and saw us, he raised a finger to invite us to wait.
When he finally hung up the receiver, he accepted the stack of papers from the woman, spoke to her about the contents, and rose. He knocked on the door beside his desk and entered when a voice on the other side gave permission. A few minutes later he returned without the papers, closed the door softly, and resumed his seat.
“You wish to see me, not Sir Ian?” He jerked a thumb at the door.
Harry handed him a business card and introduced us. “We’re investigating the murder of Vernon Rigg-Lyon.”
Mr. Hardwick scrubbed a hand over his mouth and jaw. “At least someone is. I have no faith in the police.” He wasn’t as handsome as either Rigg-Lyon or Broadman, with his receding hair and sunken chin, nor did he exude their level of confidence. “Who hired you?”
“That’s confidential,” Harry said.
Mr. Hardwick indicated we should sit. “I’m very busy, but I can spare you a few minutes, although if you have any follow-up questions, you should call on me at home in the evening, when I’ll have more time.”
He shuffled some papers then set them aside on top of a catalog from Tattersalls, the nation’s biggest auction house for horses. There was also a photograph of a horse on his desk and a painting on the wall behind him of a majestic chestnut with a polo player seated in the saddle. The plaque below the painting stated the rider’s name as Walter Hardwick, not Barnaby.
“Your father?” I asked.
He nodded. “He and my mother live on the family estate. I return home every now and again to see them and discuss strategy.”
“Polo strategy?”
“Horses. They breed stock for polo, and I act as agent here in London. It’s just a part-time occupation at the moment, something I squeeze in when I’m not here, but we hope to scale up and make it a thriving concern one day. You look familiar. What did you say your name was?”
“Cleopatra Fox. I was second on the scene in the stables after Mr. Broadman.”
His lips pinched. “That cur. If you want to find the killer, I’d look there first. He hated Vernon.”
“The feeling was mutual, apparently,” Harry said.
“Vernon wasn’t nearly so vehement in his dislike. Broadman was persistent in his accusations of cheating against Vernon. Almost maniacal, you could say.”
“Is that what they argued about before the match on the steps of the clubhouse?”
Mr. Hardwick shifted his weight in the chair. “I don’t know. We didn’t have an opportunity to discuss it.”
It seemed unlikely he didn’t discuss it with his friend before the match, but I didn’t press the point. “Did Mr. Broadman ever present any evidence of Mr. Rigg-Lyon’s cheating?”
“No, because he didn’t have any evidence.”
Harry took over the questioning. We’d agreed that he should be the one to ask about Rigg-Lyon’s affairs. “There has also been a suggestion that they argued over a woman.”
“As I said, I don’t know what their disagreement was about.”
“Mr. Rigg-Lyon was something of a ladies’ man.”
Mr. Hardwick’s lips twitched. “Women were attracted to him.”
“Did his wife know he kept mistresses?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“How serious was his relationship with Rosa Rivera?”
Mr. Hardwick hesitated. “No more serious than any of his other affairs. He wouldn’t leave his wife for her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
