“I kept her schedule.”
God, Davies was a monster of ego. “Yes, I know. This is in her handwriting—she jotted it down and carried it with her so she wouldn’t forget. A reminder note, that sort of thing. I assume you gave a copy of her last week’s schedule to Scotland Yard?”
“I didn’t have any bloody choice, did I? One of those toffs could be the one who killed her.”
“Yes, I know. I agree. The thing is—Davies, in Gloria’s own schedule, she’s crossed out one of the appointments and written something else in. Something I can’t decode.”
The line went very quiet.
“Davies?” I said.
Her voice was low, almost hurt. “She wouldn’t have done that. Gloria wouldn’t have.”
“Maybe something important came up,” I said.
“If it was important, it would have gone through me.”
For a second I felt for her; Gloria’s schedule had been Davies’s entire life, her reason for existence. But this was Davies, after all, and my sympathy was short-lived. “Maybe you know what this means. It says—”
“Stop! Don’t say it.” Davies’s voice lowered. “I won’t discuss it over the telephone. It could be secret. You never know who is listening in on these things.”
“Oh, please. That’s ridiculous.”
“No. It was Gloria’s own policy—never discuss business on the telephone. Meet me at Marlatt’s Café at six o’clock, and I’ll look at this code, whatever it is.”
“Davies, I don’t have time for this. It’s really a very simple question.”
“Are you thick? That’s my offer, Goldilocks.”
I gritted my teeth. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Make sure of it,” she said, and hung up.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I telephoned my daily woman—to say she was shocked to hear from me would be an understatement—and explained, omitting the supernatural elements, what had happened to Mr. Bagwell and his dog. She agreed to come by and check on Pickwick, let him out in the garden, and walk him if he needed it. I wanted to warn her that the dog was dejected, but it seemed a strange thing to discuss. She’d see for herself soon enough.
I found some tinned meat and put it down for him. He glanced at it from his spot under the kitchen table, then put his head on the floor again. “I’m going out,” I told him, running my hand over his head. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but you won’t be alone. You should eat something.” He made no reply.
I put on my coat and hat and was just tying the belt at the waist of my coat when someone knocked at my front door.
I thought it might be Mrs. Campbell or one of my other neighbors, come to check on the dog. But I opened the door to an unfamiliar man, tall and dark, his overcoat hanging ominously from his broad shoulders. He removed his hat and I saw a handsome face, its features serious and intelligent. “Miss Winter,” he said. “I’ve found you at last.”
I stared at him as the cool September breeze snaked past me through the doorway and a child on a bicycle pedaled by on the street behind him.
The man reached into his breast pocket and handed me a card. “I’m Inspector Merriken, from Scotland Yard. May we speak?”
I took the card in fingers gone numb. “I’m on my way out to meet someone.”
His gaze traveled over me, missing nothing. “Anyone I know?”
“No,” I lied.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “Still, I’m certain you can take a few minutes.”
“I can’t.” I looked past him, but his large frame with its wide shoulders and long dark coat blocked the door. “I have somewhere to be.”
“In London?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perfect,” the inspector said smoothly. “I happen to have a motorcar here. We can talk at the Yard, and then I’ll drop you wherever you like.”
At the Yard? Panic squeezed me. I rubbed my throat, as if massaging the air through it. I’d never been to Scotland Yard before—I’d never had any reason to. What did it mean that he wanted to take me there now?
Inspector Merriken read my face like a book. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice as smooth as cold water over river stones. “I’m not in the habit of eating women alive at the Yard, only questioning them. Especially women who pop up all over my murder investigations, then avoid me.”
I stared up at him, my hand still on my throat. “I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, no, you’re not. Persistence is a virtue of mine. Shall we go?”
He didn’t speak to me on the drive to the Yard, and I didn’t speak, either. I sat in the backseat, twisting my hands in my lap. Damn George Sutter. I’d asked him whether the Yard thought me a suspect and he’d neatly avoided the question. If he had access to Inspector Merriken’s files, he must have known. Now I was on my way to Scotland Yard and I had no idea of the situation I was walking into.
I looked out the window at London passing by and tried to plan how I would play my cards. Did Inspector Merriken know that George Sutter somehow had access to his files? Had the man who followed me that morning seen me leave with the inspector? If so, then George Sutter would learn any minute that I was on my way to the Yard. In any case, if it got out that I was somehow aligned with the police, no one I needed would ever talk to me again, and any hope of my finding Gloria’s killer would disappear.
Scotland Yard was smaller than I’d imagined, an intimate warren smelling of ink and smoke, half the desks empty. “It’s getting late,” Inspector Merriken said to me as he led me down a corridor, though I hadn’t voiced a question. “Most of the others are either out on an investigation or have gone home.”