‘Thank you.’
The inspector said he was bound to point out, Mr Rourke and Mr Doyle, that he would want to talk to them again. ‘There was that rumour of a man with an Irish accent seen near the scene of an earlier crime. And a very similar method of death, that was.’
‘You don’t really think we had anything to do with this murder?’ demanded Colm incredulously. ‘Because as God’s our witness, we never knew the lady until this last few days.’
‘I suspect everyone until I know to the contrary,’ said the inspector. ‘But you say you were together when you heard the cry, so for the moment I’m believing you. And if either of you killed Mrs Totteridge, I can’t for the life of me see why. You hadn’t met her until a few days ago and there doesn’t seem any motive for you to butcher the poor soul. Quite the reverse if she was giving you free board and lodging. And whoever did this is a madman – and you both seem perfectly sane to me.’
‘Oh, most of the Irish are half-mad, didn’t you know that?’ said Colm.
‘Is that so, sir? For the moment, I’ll ask you to remain here at the house. I’ll get the shipping company to confirm when you arrived in London.’
‘We came on the night ferry from Dublin to Liverpool,’ said Colm. ‘We can give you the date.’
‘We worked our way to London,’ put in Declan. ‘We can probably tell you the towns we came through.’
‘That would be helpful.’ The inspector made suitable notes, then said, ‘I’d have to say it’s in your favour that you’re still here. Most murderers, once they finish their work, make sure to be miles away. But you stayed.’
‘Why wouldn’t we stay?’ said Colm.
‘We have nothing to hide,’ put in Declan.
‘I think we’re safe, don’t you?’ said Colm, later that night.
Declan mumbled a vague reply. He was finding it difficult to speak to Colm and he was finding it difficult even to look at Colm. He had no idea what to do, and he had no idea how he felt. He knew, deep within his bones and nerves and blood, that Colm had killed Flossie and also Harold Bullfinch – the latter out of anger and pain at Romilly’s death – the former possibly from a different kind of anger, because she had turned Romilly from the house when she got pregnant.
But he was trying to ignore this feeling, and he was clinging to Cerise’s words about opium. He did not know very much about opium-smoking, but he knew it gave people strong delusions. If Colm had committed murder from within some opium-drenched nightmare, he could not be regarded as having been in his right mind.
The next morning they discussed how long they would have to stay at Holly Lodge. Declan tentatively suggested they leave without anyone knowing – they could simply vanish into London’s anonymity, he said – but Colm strongly disagreed.
‘The inspector asked us to stay,’ he said. ‘It’d look very damning if we didn’t, and anyway they might track us down, and then we’d be in real trouble.’
Declan had started to ask if the police were still in the house, when from outside their door, Cerise’s voice said, ‘Can I come in? I want to talk to you.’
She was wearing a loosely fitting wrapper, and she sat on the edge of the bed and said, ‘I ain’t going to pretend or beat about the bush. When Floss, poor old cow, was killed, I was looking out of the window of my room.’
‘I thought you were with the Walrus Moustache,’ said Colm.
‘I was, but ’e takes a long time to get up a head of steam, if you follow me. He ain’t as manly as some. So we were trying it up against the wall – he thought it might help him, and blimey, we seemed to be there hours. But my window overlooks the drive and that jutting bit that’s the window of Floss’s sitting room as well, so I could see it clear as clear, all the time Arthur was puffing and sweating away. And,’ said Cerise, looking at them both very intently, ‘no one came next or nigh Floss’s window, and no one came down the drive to the house. I’d swear to that in a court of law if they asked me.’
‘I still don’t understand . . .’ began Declan.
‘No one came into the house,’ said Cerise, ‘because no one needed to. The killer was already inside.’ She sat back. ‘Now do you understand?’
There was a silence, then Colm said, ‘That’s an extraordinary idea.’
‘Extraordinary or not, I got to thinking,’ said Cerise, ‘that it could mean there’d be someone in this house who’d be very grateful to me for not sayin’ anything about what I saw.’
‘About what you didn’t see, you mean.’
‘Secrets have an annoying way of getting out, don’t they? Of getting told to people.’
‘But if you know anything, you should tell the police,’ said Colm.
‘Huh, catch me tellin’ that lot anything,’ said Cerise at once. ‘No, I was thinking more of the gentlemen who come to this ’ouse. My friend who was here at the time, for instance—’
‘Arthur of the walrus moustache and the tardy manliness?’
‘Don’t you mock ’im. He’s in a very good way of business. Tea importers down Canonbury Road. And he’s likely to be made an alderman or some such. He’s setting a lot of store by that. He might not want ’is wife nor his ma-in-law knowin’ what he gets up to here, but it’s Lombard Street to a china orange that if he thought he could ’elp the police lay a murderer by the heels, he’d do it. If I told him I believed the murderer had been inside this ’ouse all the time – maybe was still here – I think he’d feel he had to tell the rozzers. Citizen’s duty, ’e’d call it.’