“Your landlord can vouch for that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone. I was asleep.”
“You were ill from drinking?” said Giles.
“I suppose,” said Harrison with a shrug.
“And you went straight home to your bed after you had your argument with Mr Barnes?”
“Yes.”
“You did not stop anywhere to drown your sorrows, after your quarrel? You were still angry. You lodge, I think, in Malthouse Lane? There are a number of places there that you might have stopped on the way.”
“I did not. I went straight home.”
“Anyone see you come in? One of your fellow lodgers? Your landlord?”
“No idea,” said Harrison. “I didn’t speak to anyone, certainly. She may have heard me come in. You ask her.”
“I shall,” said Giles. “One last question for the present, Mr Harrison. Have you ever had any of the Minster keys in your possession?”
“No,” said Harrison. “Why should I?”
Chapter Thirteen
Harrison’s lodgings were in Malthouse Lane, one of a network of narrow streets that lay in the shadow of the Minster Precincts, known locally as the Lanes. The houses were ancient and many-storied, and had it been a little closer to the river it might have descended into a rookery. Yet it preserved its respectability, for many of the older, better shops remained there, patronised by those within the Precincts and in the new square at Martinsmount.
Harrison’s lodgings were in a slip of a house, half-timbered, neatly painted and well kept up. The landlady, Mrs Marling, opened the door to Giles. A young widow, she was in her apron and looked flustered when he explained his business.
“Why do you want to talk to me about Mr Harrison?” she asked, showing him quickly into the front parlour, and closing the street door. “What’s he done?”
“Do you think he’s done something?”
She did not answer.
“Mrs Marling?” he prompted her.
“I must just check on my little boy. He’s not been well. He’s asleep in the kitchen.”
And she ran out of the room.
He seemed to wait a long time, so he followed her, and found her on her knees by a small truckle bed by a roaring fire, dabbing a cloth on the forehead of a sleepy but obviously miserable child.
“I’m sorry, sir, he just woke up and he’s burning up again, and...” She looked up at him, helplessly.
“Why don’t you move him into the front parlour – a cooler room might help him?”
“Oh, do you think, sir?”
“I’ll move the bed for you if you like.”
She nodded, so Giles carried the little bed through, put it down, and took off a couple of coverlets.
“Can you tell me when Mr Harrison came home on Monday night? Did you hear him come in?”
“Oh yes, I did. He was so noisy he woke Tom,” she said with a frown. “And I would have gone out and had words with him, but I was in my night gown by then and I thought I would leave it until the morning. And this little one was so sickly that night and I was tired, too tired to deal with anything else. I told myself it could wait. But then I clean forgot about it, because of the bother with Tommy – he had the most awful cough all night, and I didn’t like to leave him, so I hardly got a wink, and then I fell asleep with him, and when we woke up it was halfway through the morning already.”
“So, did you have words with him?”
“Well, no, because I didn’t get a chance. He went out before I could. Yesterday morning, that is. I heard the door banging again – he does bang it so. I’ve told him enough times about it, but he never seems to remember. He bangs it hard enough to shake the house.”
“And is that what happened yesterday morning?” Giles said. “Do you know what time he went out?”
“I can’t be sure, because I went straight back to sleep. But the next thing I heard was the Minster bell striking ten. Not that I usually lie in my bed so late, sir, you understand, it was just because my little boy had been so ill. You understand, sir, I’m sure?”
“Of course. And I think he’s looking better already.”
“So he is,” she said, going and pressing her hand to his forehead. “Maybe that’s the end of it coming on... the Lord be thanked!”
“Tell me about Mr Harrison,” said Giles. “How long has he been staying with you?”
“Almost a year. It was just after Tommy’s second birthday,” she said, pulling up a stool to the child’s bedside.
“And he has a key to come and go as he pleases?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What time does he usually leave for work?”
“Just before eight, properly, I suppose. But he never is one for getting to work on time. That Mr Carr should have put him out on his ear long ago – that’s what my mother says. She thinks I should put him out as well, of course.”
“Does she not approve of him?”
“He is a bit wild,” she said. “Coming back in his cups often enough. I didn’t tell my mother that, because she’d have had a fit. But he pays when he should and I like to hear him singing about the place. He’s got such a lovely voice. My mother was worried that I was getting ideas about him. She thinks I want to marry him. As if I would be so daft!” She gave a nervous laugh.
“But you always get your rent?”
“Always. Never been a problem with that. And he can be as charming as you like.”
“Did you meet his friend Mr Barnes by any chance?”
“Oh yes, a few times. They came and drank tea with me once, when my mother was visiting. A nice young man, and he seems to put Mr Harrison on his best behaviour. Very fond of each other they are, I’d say. Almost like sweethearts – if it isn’t silly to say that about two lads, sir, but that was how it strikes me.”
“Not silly at all, Mrs Marling,” said Giles. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’m glad to see you at last,” said Carswell. “You need to call on Mrs Morgan. There’s been a most unpleasant development. Someone left a dead bird on Mrs Morgan’s bed last night. A linnet – with a scarlet ribbon tied about its neck.”
“Just that?”
“Hardly ‘just’!”
“There was no letter or anything else with it?”
“No. Just the bird.”
“I suppose we had better call in after we have seen Mr Geoffrey.”
“Not before?”
Giles repressed a smile at his eagerness.
“Before then – it makes no difference, I suppose.”
“I think we should question that maid,” said Felix. “The door was left open. Anyone could have gone in.”
“And you spoke to Eakins?”
“Yes, and he saw no-one go in or out. Nothing suspicious.”
“He’s a reliable man,” Giles said.
“Yes, yes, of course, but we are obviously dealing with...”
“We don’t know what we are dealing with,” said Giles. “So how did Mrs Morgan react?”
“Magnificently,” said Carswell. “It was Mrs Ridolfi who was hysterical. She almost burnt the house down.”
***
Giles sensed that Mr Carswell was disappointed that Mrs Morgan was absent. Instead, they found Mrs Ridolfi at home. She was sitting at her work, close to the fire, wrapped in several shawls.
“My sister-in-law is out walking with Harry,” she said.
“You seem to be suffering in this cold snap,” Giles observed, as she pulled her shawls about her more tightly.
“I should not complain, but this house has not a warm corner in it,” said Mrs Ridolfi. “It seems to catch the wind in two directions. I knew it was a bad idea to accept Lord Rothborough’s offer of this house. I did try and tell Mrs Morgan that it would be more trouble than it was worth, but she is...” she paused for a moment. “I do consider her friendship with him unwise,” she said softly. “No matter how innocent it may be, people will draw the worst conclusions. They always do, and by staying here she does not help her case.”
“Your husband no doubt thinks the same. I understand he is her manager?”
“Yes, he is, but sometimes, well, she is unmanageable. Sometimes there is no telling her. She does not see it. She just sees a charming gentleman who admires and understands her work. She does not see... well, I think you know what I mean, Major Vernon.”
He nodded and asked, “So who is in the household here? Which of the servants came with you from town?”
“Berthe, our maid, and Hannah, who is Harry’s nurse.”
“And they have been in your service how long?”
“Hannah has been with Harry since he was born and Berthe has been with Mrs Morgan before she married, I think. She used to be her dresser at the theatre.”
“And who came with the house?”
“There is a cook and and a kitchen maid, two housemaids and an outdoor man who is a queer sort of fellow, but he does keep the garden well. But they are difficult to deal with, I must confess.”
“In what way?”
“They look down on us. It is really obvious. And I think they are used to a lavish way of living, and will expect outrageous tips, no doubt. I would not put it past them to have put that horrible thing there.” She gave a shudder. “I think you had better question them all, Major Vernon. I think you should soon get the truth out of them.”
“I shall question them, certainly. But first, Mrs Ridolfi, you could explain everything that happened that night. You dined alone?”
“I ate with Harry and then put him to bed.”
“You don’t recall asking one of the servants to go in there and make up the fire? Or warm the bed?”
“No,” she said. “I did not order a fire for the bedroom. We are not so extravagant.”
“And Mrs Morgan’s maid did not attend you at bedtime?”
“No, Mrs Morgan and I were the only ones still up. I had sent Berthe to bed earlier. She had a headache.”
“When was that?”
“Some time after my sister-in-law left for the rehearsal. I found her frowning over some sewing. It is a sure sign of a migraine so I sent her to bed with a compress. I think she slept. You must ask her.”
“And where is Berthe’s bedroom?”
“Upstairs. We gave her one of the better rooms as she is so dear and useful to us. Mrs Morgan and I decided we would share the large bedchamber down here. I have to confess I do not like to sleep alone and it seemed most convenient that way. And warmer too,” she added. “It is so cold here.”
“Mr Carswell found the front door unlocked. Can you account for that?”
“It should have been locked. My sister-in-law was supposed to lock it when she came in, but she did not. She came straight in and went up to the drawing room. She must have forgotten to bolt it.”
“And you were in the drawing room?”
“No, I sat in here after I had put Harry to bed. The drawing room was too cold for me last night.”
“And so she did not come up to you until it was bedtime?”
“No, she did her piano practice – as she does most evenings.”
“For how long?”
“She usually does two hours. It was about ten when she came up and we began to get ready for bed.”
“And you went first into the bedroom and found the bird there?”
“Yes.”
“And the last time you went into the room it was not there? When was that?”
“Some time in the afternoon. I can’t say when – but I went in to get an extra wrap.”
“And you noticed nothing amiss then?”
She shook her head.
“Thank you for your help, Mrs Ridolfi.”
***
“I did not like her implication about Mrs Morgan and Lord Rothborough,” Carswell said, as they went downstairs again.
“It is perfectly understandable in the circumstances,” Giles said.
“It is hardly loyal.”
“Sisters-in-law do not have to be loyal,” said Giles. He stopped in the hall and looked about him. “So someone could have slipped in, gone upstairs and put that bird there without anyone hearing them, especially if she was playing the piano loudly.”
“Yes.”
“It is all very odd. You say she was not upset by it?” he asked.
“No, it was a great display of courage on her part. It was Mrs Ridolfi who was hysterical,” said Carswell.
“She seems a nervous individual,” Giles said. “No doubt the author of this prank imagines Mrs Morgan will be easily scared. Someone who does not know her, perhaps? My impression of her is someone who has a steady nerve.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Carswell.
“The same with the letters. She has great mastery over herself. Other women would have been reduced to terror after such a campaign. Yet a dead bird – a dead bird is a commonplace enough thing. Not in itself terrifying, unless you are Mrs Ridolfi.”
“It
was
a songbird,” Carswell said. “A strangled songbird. Just like Charlie Barnes.”
“There is no evidence that the two events are related,” Giles said.
“But it is curious. Perhaps whoever dispatched Barnes is giving Mrs Morgan a warning? If you don’t watch yourself you will find yourself in the same condition.”
“Not necessarily the killer – but possibly they had knowledge of it. But then, how do we even know that bird was put there to scare Mrs Morgan, who is not afraid of dead birds? There is one person in that house frightened of dead birds – Mrs Ridolfi. You saw it for yourself. Perhaps the person who put it there knew that.”
“But for what possible reason?”
“A servant with a grudge? You noticed she complained about the staff that were in the house. Perhaps she has made one of them angry. That would seem to make a great deal of sense.”
“But it is so specific – a bird with a ribbon ligature.”
“There is probably gossip going around already about the manner of Barnes’ death – this person may be acting on that. Hoping to give one – or both of the occupants of that room a good scare. We cannot say which one in particular.”
“But surely those letters prejudice it in favour of being a warning to Mrs Morgan?”
“It is one thing to write spiteful letters and post them but another to enter a house and leave a dead bird on someone’s pillow. That requires a bit of nerve, something writers of anonymous letters rarely display. I am not convinced these incidents are related. The person who left the bird knows all about the routine and the composition of the household – which points to an insider. But the letters may be from anyone. The dead bird will be a far easier nut to crack, so to speak, than those wretched letters.”
“So how will you do it?”