“Detective Inspector Hamilton.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Detective Inspector, is it, then?” Her accent sang of the rolling hills of County Cork.
“I am here on the matter of Stephen Wycherly’s death.”
She rolled her prominent eyes and shook her head tragically, causing the recently fastened hairpin to free itself from her forest of ginger curls and clatter to the floor. “That was a sad affair, so it was,” she said, bending to pick it up. “Miss Catherine was quite prostrate with grief. Such a lovely young man, so well-spoken and polite he was.”
Her monologue was interrupted by the appearance of a waifish young woman upon the central staircase just off the foyer.
“Bernadette? Who’s there?” she called in a thin voice.
“It’s a detective, miss,” she replied, unable to hide the thrill in her voice.
“Show him into the parlor. I will be down presently,” she said, withdrawing into a second-floor bedroom.
The redoubtable Bernadette did as requested, pressing tea and cream cakes upon Ian, watching his reaction as he bit into one.
“It’s me grandma’s secret recipe,” she declared. “Made with real vanilla.”
“It’s very good,” Ian said, and so it was. It wasn’t hard to see how Bernadette had attained her impressive size, if the tea cakes were any indication of her kitchen skills. They were creamy and light, with just a touch of lemon. Ian was contemplating eating a second one as a handsome pair of Siamese cats sauntered into the room. Eyeing him with their cool blue gaze, they leapt gracefully onto the settee, one at each end. Closing their eyes, they appeared to be napping, as cats do, without entirely relaxing into sleep. He supposed they were Eugene Harley’s partners in law, Wickham and Clyde, though they were so much alike, he wondered how anyone could tell which was Wickham and which was Clyde.
The mistress of the house joined him after about ten minutes, floating down the stairs in a flowing white dress. She resembled an apparition in an old-fashioned wedding gown. Catherine Harley was a tremulous young woman, thin and pale, with a vague, distracted manner. Her voice was hollow, as though someone had scooped out its center, her light blue eyes rimmed with lashes pale as wheat. She wore her white-blond hair in an upswept chignon; the only touch of color on her person was a pair of ruby earrings. A simple gold locket dangled from her neck, and a silver signet ring adorned her right hand. Ian couldn’t help thinking that she would have been an attractive girl if she had more vitality. But her hesitant manner and slow, dreamy movements made her seem older than she was.
She refused Bernadette’s offer of cakes, though she did consent to sip languidly at a cup of tea. She gave the impression of one who needed neither food nor drink, as a spirit who walks the earth would have use for neither.
“So,” she said, resting a teacup upon her thin knee, “you’re the detective they’ve sent to investigate Stephen’s death. It says in the papers he was murdered. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders as if trying to dislodge the idea. “But who would want to kill Stephen?”
“I was rather hoping you might help me answer that question.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she said, casting her eyes upon a handsomely framed photograph upon the mantel. “That’s Stephen and me in happier times.” She sighed.
Ian rose and went to the fireplace to inspect the picture. Dressed in plaid knickers, Stephen Wycherly stood leaning on a golf club, a smiling Catherine Harley by his side. Even in the badly focused photograph, her face held a vitality it lacked in the flesh.
“That was on holiday in Perth two years ago. My uncle went to play the course at St. Andrews, and took Stephen and me along.”
Ian tried to imagine the crooked Mr. Harley swinging a golf club, but the thought made his own spine ache. “Your uncle said you were quite fond of Mr. Wycherly.”
“And I like to think he was fond of me.”
Ian cleared his throat. “Were you—”
“Lovers?” she said, surprising him with her frankness.
“Well, I—”
“That is what you were going to ask, isn’t it?” she said, a sad smile playing at her lips. “Whether we were lovers, sweethearts, courting—whatever you wish to call it.”
“Yes.”
She folded the napkin on her lap into a tiny square. “We spent enough time together that had he wished to make an overture—one that a young lady of breeding might accept—well, he must have known I would have been receptive to such a proposal.”
“But he never did?”
She shook her head, dislodging a few wisps of blond hair from her chignon. “He was always a perfect gentleman, polite and affectionate—but not in that way.”
“And yet you say he was fond of you.”
“He gave every indication of it. He often sought my company and, upon occasion, my advice.”
“May I inquire as to what matters in particular he sought your advice upon?”
“If it will help you bring to justice the person or persons responsible for his death.”
“I cannot guarantee it, Miss Harley; I can only say that the most insignificant-seeming detail is often the key to solving a crime.”
She lifted the lid of the teapot and peered inside it. “More tea, Detective?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied, not because he wanted more but because, in his experience, the more time witnesses had to mull over a response, the more salient details they were likely to include.
Catherine Harley picked up a small silver bell from the tea table and rang it, summoning forth the stalwart Bernadette, who appeared so quickly, Ian wondered if she had been listening at the parlor door.
“More tea, please, Bernadette,” said Miss Harley.
“Right away, mum,” the lady replied, seizing the tea tray in her plump hands. “More tea cakes, sir?” she asked Ian.
“Yes, please,” he said. “They are quite excellent.”
Catherine gave another of her wan smiles when Bernadette had gone. “She’s a treasure—she has been in service with my uncle ever since I was a girl. Of course, she’s a terrible gossip, and adores eavesdropping, but she would do anything for us.”
Ian made a mental note to have a chat with Bernadette—servants were often better informed than masters about what went on in their households.
“You said Mr. Wycherly often asked your advice. Was there any conversation in particular—”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. The most recent one was a strange affair indeed. It involved a letter Stephen received.”
Her account was interrupted by the arrival of a beaming Bernadette, who laid the fresh plate of tea cakes upon the table with the flourish of an artist unveiling his latest masterpiece. She stood hovering over them until Ian picked up a cake, took a bite, and nodded his approval. Grinning broadly, Bernadette turned and trundled out of the room.
“You were saying?” Ian prompted.
“It was a letter he received,” Catherine replied, pouring a cup of tea from the steaming pot.