A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Tea sounded tempting. Treadles had abandoned his own breakfast when MacDonald had banged on his door, all excited to have come across a missing-person report, filed the evening before, that matched the description of their murder victim exactly. “Yes, thank you. Much obliged.”

They followed the valet to a small sitting room dominated by a painting of an African elephant. Temple brought not only tea but buttered toast, muffins, marmalade, and a bowl of strawberries and grapes before running off to wrangle his master again.

“I wouldn’t mind having someone to ‘do’ for me,” said MacDonald, helping himself to a muffin.

Treadles couldn’t complain. He might not have a valet, but since his wedding, he had never had to worry about how his meals got on the table or whether his clothes were overdue for laundering.

From farther inside the apartment came Temple’s muffled entreaties. “Mr. Ainsley, you said you’d be up when I came back. Come now. You’ve got to get up now. You can’t keep a police inspector waiting. What are they here for? I told you. About Mr. Hayward.”

“Hayward?” came a sleepy voice. “Wait! You didn’t tell me it was about Hayward.”

The voice had become much less sleepy.

“I did, sir.”

“No, you didn’t. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t open the curtains—the light hurts my eyes. Let me put on some clothes. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?”

“It’s already in the percolator. Shall I shave you now?”

“I thought we mustn’t keep the coppers waiting.”

“But you can’t receive anyone looking like this!”

“Trust me, plenty of people have seen me like this and the sun still never sets on the British Empire.”

A minute later, a young man with bloodshot eyes, sandy stubble, and the beginning of a paunch came padding out, clad in a heavily embroidered black dressing gown. He shook hands weakly with the policemen and sat down opposite.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen? Oh, thank you, Temple, you’re an angel.”

“You reported a missing person last night, a Mr. Richard Hayward,” Treadles stated, “whose address, according to the report, is the same as yours.”

His first swallow of coffee had a marked effect on Ainsley. Already he was more alert, his speech sharper. “Yes, Hayward has the rooms at the end of the hall. Didn’t know the police were this efficient. Will you be able to find him soon? He needs to at least come back and take his poor guinea pig.”

“Guinea pig?”

“Yes, he has one, which he has almost killed with neglect.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sweet little fellow—Samson’s his name, though between you and me, he could be a Delilah, for all we know. But anyway, Hayward and I had plans to dine at this new place last Thursday. He was supposed to come by and have a drink here before we headed out. I waited and waited and he never came. Knocked on his door and no one answered. I figured he must have forgotten and was probably out having fun with other people, so I went to dinner on my own.

“When I came back, I knocked and still nobody answered. Left him a note under the door and told him what an ass he was. Expected him to come by and apologize—or at least explain. He didn’t. But what can you do? Some fellows are like that.

“But then Saturday the landlady came and asked if I’d seen Hayward. Said he didn’t come by to settle his bills for the week. That’s when I remembered I still hadn’t seen him since before Thursday. We got a little worried. She opened his door. And wouldn’t you know it, the place had been turned inside out. Temple had to go fetch some smelling salts for Mrs. Hammer. And it was only when we were leaving that I saw Samson’s cage on the floor, the little fellow starving to death inside. Took Temple the rest of the day to coax him back to life. Excellent nursemaid, Temple. Absolutely first rate.”

“Mrs. Hammer didn’t report the incident to the police.”

Ainsley began to shake his head, thought the better of it, and shrugged instead. “I told her she ought to. But she said she had no evidence that it wasn’t Hayward himself who tossed the place. You know how it is—she doesn’t want anybody to think anything untoward has happened here. I couldn’t force her to. But when there was still no hair or hide of Hayward forty-eight hours later, I thought something had to be done. Happened to walk by the police station and decided to do my duty.”

“Is it possible to see the place?”

“Sure, but I had Temple tidy it up. Paid for the week’s rent for Hayward, too—in case he fell into an opium den. Wouldn’t be nice to come home and find all his belongings already carted off and someone else living there, would it?”

Treadles frowned. “Does he have an opium habit?”

“Not that I know of, but who hasn’t lost a week here and there to a lark?” said Ainsley with the sympathetic understanding of one who most certainly had lost a week here and there to such larks.

Treadles gave Ainsley a minute to consume a slice of toast. Then he said, “Sergeant MacDonald and I are here not because we routinely investigate missing persons, but because the description you gave of Mr. Hayward matches closely to that of an unidentified murder victim.”

Ainsley choked on his coffee. “What?”

“We would like you to come with us and see whether you can identify the body.”

Ainsley stared at Treadles, then MacDonald, then Treadles again. “Jesus. I mean, pardon my language, but—but surely you aren’t serious?”

They convinced him that they were dead serious. A disoriented Ainsley went off to shave and dress—“Mustn’t go see him, if that is him, looking like this, you see.” Treadles and MacDonald used the key Ainsley had of Hayward’s apartment—“Got Mrs. Hammer to give me a key. Samson should be in his own place. It’s where he’s most comfortable.”

Temple had done the best he could, making the place presentable again. But he was no furniture restorer and had piled the damaged chairs in a small room equipped with only a set of shelves and a cot—the valet’s room, if Hayward had one.

Clearly someone had been looking for something of value, something small enough to be stowed in a hollowed chair leg—except the ones that he sawed off all happened to be perfectly solid.

MacDonald was by the window, reaching through the bars of the guinea pig’s cage to scratch the creature between the ears. “If only you could talk, Samson.”

They spent another ten minutes looking through the rooms. And then, with a clean-shaven, soberly dressed Ainsley in tow, they departed for the morgue.



Mrs. Watson had formed the habit of checking for the post at 18 Upper Baker Street in the morning. The first two letters to ever come through the slot had been stepped on as Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes arrived for their appointments. They were still more likely to get circulars and pamphlets, but thank-you notes and packages from clients had become increasingly common.

Two days ago, they had received a pair of opera tickets, which they had gifted to the de Blois ladies. And three days before that, an excellent bottle of whisky. No one had thought to gift Miss Holmes a plum cake yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.