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He straightened, but still managed to look like he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. “Harmony gave me the addresses of three motor vehicle owners currently in London. I questioned the drivers this morning. One of the vehicles needs repairs and hasn’t been working for a week. The other two went nowhere near the Elms on Saturday.”
Harmony indicated Goliath should give his report next.
He puffed out his chest. “I also checked on three vehicles. Their mechanics confirmed they didn’t collect anyone from the Royal Albert Hall on Saturday and didn’t go anywhere near the polo club, either.”
“Thank you,” I said. “So Rosa Rivera does have an alibi for the time of the murder. She was with her dressmaker until three thirty-five and couldn’t have reached the polo club before four-ten, the latest time when the murder could have occurred.”
“Unless there’s an automobile we don’t know about,” Victor pointed out.
“Yes. There is that.”
He checked the clock then rose. “I have to change for my shift.”
We parted company outside the staff parlor. They headed towards the service corridor while I went in the opposite direction to take the stairs up to the fourth floor. As I passed the lift, John opened the door and Mr. Miller stepped out.
“Miss Fox! What luck. Do you have a moment?”
I attempted a friendly-but-not-too-friendly expression but it felt stiff, unnatural. “A very brief one. I have to meet my cousin.”
His face fell. “I was going to ask you to have lunch with me.”
“Perhaps another time. Excuse me, I really must dash or I’ll be late.” I picked up my skirts and raced up the stairs before he could stop me.
After shopping,Flossy and I had afternoon tea with friends at the hotel, then the entire family attended a dinner party, so I didn’t have time to think about the investigation. My energy lagged in the late evening, but not as much as Aunt Lilian’s. She looked worn out by the time we returned to the hotel at around midnight. She leaned heavily on Uncle Ronald, her eyes mere slits as he steered her towards the lift.
I slept well and felt refreshed the following morning. Mr. Hobart had procured vouchers for the polo, so I slipped invitations under the doors of Flossy and the Hessings, with another to notify my aunt of our plans for the afternoon. I took Harry’s voucher with me and handed it to him, along with his coffee, when I arrived at his office.
He pocketed it and indicated I should leave ahead of him. “Did Sir Ronald say anything to you after you left the mews with him yesterday?” he asked as he locked the door.
“Not a word.”
“I’m worried about Cobbit. Even if he realizes he can’t win, he’s too stubborn and proud to back down. He’ll fight a losing cause all the way to the end.”
I lifted my skirts clear of my feet and headed down the stairs. “It is a losing cause, I fear. Floyd and his friends talk about automobiles the way Flossy and her friends talk about jewelry. They all desperately want one. The hotel’s stables and coach house will have to accommodate them permanently, soon. Lord Dunmere is merely the first guest to bring his, but there will be others, I’m sure of it.”
Harry agreed, but his only solution to solving the stand-off between my uncle and Cobbit was for Cobbit to capitulate, and we both knew he’d never do that.
We took a cab to Marylebone and waited in it for Mrs. Rigg-Lyon to make an appearance. We weren’t sure if she would walk to meet John S at their appointed time, or if she’d need to drive, so we decided to keep the cab for the time being. We’d arrived thirty minutes before the time noted in her diary for the meeting in case she required that long to get there. But fifteen minutes later, I was concerned we hadn’t arrived early enough and she’d already departed.
I was about to suggest that I knock on the door and ask if Mrs. Rigg-Lyon was home, when a carriage pulled up. She exited the house, dressed in mourning black, her face as stark as the moon beneath her hat.
We directed our driver to follow her conveyance. Ten minutes later, I pointed out the street sign to Harry as we turned a corner. Marchmont Street.
“M Mont,” he said with a wry smile. “It’s short for Marchmont—a street, not a mountain or hill. But she wrote R M Mont in her diary. Why the R?”
“Rue. It’s French for street. Marchmont Street isRue de Marchmontin French.”
The buildings were a mix of row houses and shops, located in a good area away from the busier parts of the city. Mrs. Rigg-Lyon’s carriage pulled to a stop, but Harry asked our driver to continue and park a few doors down.
We watched through the rear window of the cabin as she alighted and climbed the front steps. She didn’t knock but went straight in. She must be very familiar with the occupant if she didn’t need to be invited.
We followed, not sure how we would proceed. Knock and ask for John S, or make inquiries at the service entrance?
Neither approach was required in the end. A brass plaque beside the front door answered one of our questions: Dr. Johns, Physician.
“She’s not having a relationship with a man named John S,” I said. “She’s seeing Dr. Johns because she’s ill.”
“Or with child,” Harry suggested.
