“Did you chance to read it?”
“No, but I was there on Wednesday when Stephen opened it,” she said, handing the cup to him. “He went quite pale. I saw the letter in his hand and surmised it was the cause of his disquiet.”
“Did you happen to notice whom it was from?”
“I never saw the envelope. He folded it along with the letter and tucked it into his vest pocket. A little later he asked me what I would do if someone were attempting to blackmail me. Naturally I thought of the letter, but he refused to give me specifics, even when I pressed him for more information.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I said that I would hope not to stoop to gratify a blackmailer, but that I supposed there were circumstances where I might have no choice.”
“And that seemed to satisfy him?”
“For the time being, I suppose, though he still appeared greatly troubled. And then he was dead.”
“Did your uncle know of this letter?”
“He was there when it arrived, but he had no idea of its contents, which Stephen expressly forbade me to mention to him. Oh, Detective Hamilton,” she said, twisting the silver ring upon her right hand, “do you think there’s a connection?”
“I believe it’s quite possible, Miss Harley.”
Several cups of tea and three tea cakes later, Ian had gleaned all the information he could from Eugene Harley’s niece. He resolved to return to the Harley residence to interview the ever-attentive Bernadette, but first he had someone else to see. After thanking Catherine Harley profusely, he stepped forth into a dull gray morning to pay another visit to Wycherly’s former landlady.
He could add another chapter to the story of the law clerk’s death, but there were pieces missing. Stephen Wycherly was being blackmailed by someone—but by whom, and why? At some point, the plot lines of his death and Bobby Tierney’s intersected, but Ian still couldn’t see the thread connecting them. He had glimpsed the beginning of Wycherly’s story, and he knew the sad end, but the middle remained a mystery.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When he rang the doorbell at 22 Leith Walk, Stephen Wycherly’s landlady recognized Ian immediately, giving him a broad smile. Mrs. Sutherland was the kind of woman who gave the impression of never having been truly young, and who would never be truly old. She seemed to exist in an eternal state of vigorous middle age. Her mouse-colored hair was streaked with tinted blond strands, her sturdy figure thick around the middle, solid as the trunk of an oak. The backs of her hands were spotted with freckles and old scars, but her lively hazel eyes and rosy cheeks gave her an air of vitality reinforced by her quick, youthful manner.
“Why, hello to you, Detective Hamilton,” she said, opening the door to admit him inside. Before closing it, she gave the dust mop she carried a quick shake into the street, releasing a billow of cat hair into the wintry air. She closed the door and ushered him down the hall and into the sitting room next to the kitchen. “Now then,” she said, tucking the mop into a closet, “what can I do for you?”
“I have a few more questions in the matter of Stephen Wycherly’s death, if you don’t mind,” Ian replied as an enormous black-and-white cat sauntered into the room and settled its bulk upon a low-lying hassock. He doubted the cat was capable of defying gravity enough to jump up onto the sofa.
“Scat, Bacchus—go away!” Mrs. Sutherland said, waving at the cat, which ignored her. Curling comfortably into a ball, Bacchus closed his eyes and purred loudly. The landlady sighed. “Whatever you want him to do, he does the opposite,” she said, settling herself on the sofa.
“I know some people like that.”
She laughed, revealing strong, even teeth. “Please, sit down,” she said, indicating an overstuffed armchair across from her.
He did, and almost immediately the softness of the cushions and the warmth of the room made him drowsy.
“Cup of tea?” she offered, perhaps seeing his drooping eyelids.
“Thank you, no,” he replied, yawning. “I’ve drunk quarts of it already.”
“Bad night?” she asked.
“I did sleep rather poorly.” The previous night had brought disquieting dreams; the investigation was taking its toll on him.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here; then you can go home and have a lovely nap,” she suggested in a soothing voice, absently petting the disobedient Bacchus, who responded by purring louder. Something about Mrs. Sutherland reminded Ian of his aunt Lillian, though his aunt was keener, her edges less rounded.
Ian stretched and rubbed his eyes. “I was wondering if Mr. Wycherly ever mentioned a letter he received shortly before his death.”
Mrs. Sutherland cocked her head to one side. “What sort of letter?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what was in it.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Does it relate to his death somehow?”
“It may have contained some reference to blackmail.”
“Goodness!” she said, straightening up in her chair.
“Did you notice any particular agitation in the days leading up to his death?”
“Not especially—though I saw little of him the last couple of days. He took most of his meals out and came home late.”
“Was that unusual?”
“If there was much work at the law office, he was likely to come home at all hours. I naturally assumed he was busy at work, until—” She broke off as two fat tears slid down her cheeks. “Forgive me,” she said, wiping them with her apron. “He was so young, so like my own Michael.”
“Your son?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes. He’s at university in London, studying to be a lawyer, bless him.”
“You must be very proud.”
“If only his father could be here to see it, God rest his soul.” She wiped away another tear and returned to petting Bacchus, who rolled over onto his broad back, nearly tipping off the hassock.
“So Mr. Wycherly never referred to a letter of any kind?”
“No. Did he receive it here?”
“It was sent to him at Mr. Harley’s chambers.”
“I see.” She studied her hands, which were broad and strong, the nails cracked and jagged. “The papers said he was strangled. Is that true?”
“You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers. Did any of his acquaintances strike you as odd?”
“Several of them were—different, you might say, but none looked violent.”
“Different in what way?”
She bit her lip. “Others may disagree, but I believe a young man has a right to his privacy.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Sutherland—anything you tell me will be kept quite confidential.”
“Mr. Wycherly’s friends were . . . Well, let’s just say that he never entertained young ladies.” She gave Ian a meaningful look. “If you take my meaning.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“There’s some who believe it’s wicked, but God made us all, and if there’s some he made a little different, I daresay he had a reason for it.”