Maisie’s first stop was Scotland Yard. As she exited the Tube at Charing Cross, it began to rain, with thundery clouds lumbering overhead, and a clammy warmth to the air. Caldwell was in his office waiting for her—Sergeant Able had once again been sent to bring her up to what was now Caldwell’s fiefdom.
“Close the door behind you, if you’re able, Able,” said Caldwell, as he gestured Maisie to take a seat on the opposite side of the desk.
“I think you’ve given that name of his quite a run for the money, don’t you?” said Maisie.
“All in jest, Miss Dobbs, all in jest. Now then, let’s have a share and share alike, shall we?”
“I wish I had something to give you in return for whatever you can give me, Inspector. You’re right, this one seems cold from the time the perpetrator left the scene.”
Caldwell shook his head. “My boys are checking a few avenues of inquiry now, but as yet there’s no meat on the bone.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk towards Maisie. “You know this already, I daresay—Durant was a widower, lived alone in Maida Vale, very ordinary life. Went to work, came home again, and not a lot in the way of outside interests or vices. And I do like to find a vice or two—uncover a vice, and nine times out of ten, you beat a path to the murderer.”
Maisie picked up the notes. “It says here he and his wife liked walking, that on Saturdays they were known to take a train out to Reigate and then walk the Downs, usually having tea in a village somewhere. That’s what I’d call an interest—did he continue after his wife died? After all, he was still a relatively young man at thirty-eight.”
“Oh, I don’t know that his walking habits are much to go on. Murderers don’t usually hang around among the cream buns and pots of Darjeeling, do they?”
Maisie began to write in her notebook while continuing to speak. “And the weapon is the same—the examiner says it was a Ruby—the Browning copycat.”
Caldwell nodded. He was distracted by a letter he had just opened, the contents of which caused him to smile. He put the letter to one side and cast his attention back to Maisie.
“Sorry about that—yes, a Browning. Or what was it you said it could be? A Ruby? I spoke to our weapons man about it, and he said it was a possibility it could be either one, because there were more Rubys around than Brownings on this side of the Atlantic, not that it makes any difference. A gun is a gun, and we just have to find the man who’s been using it.”
Maisie tapped the paper. “All right, I have the address and I know where he worked. If I find out anything you might be interested in, I’ll let you know—but as I said, I have my client to consider.”
“I think I have a right to know about that client. Your client might be the killer, Miss Dobbs—thought of that, have you?”
Maisie nodded and came to her feet. “Yes, Inspector, I have thought of the possibility—it’s one of the first things to cross my mind in a case such as this. But I have no fear in that regard.”
“And why’s that? Pray tell, Miss Dobbs.”
She smiled. “Because if my client had been the killer, no one would ever have found the body.”
Color drained from Caldwell’s face. “I think that’s it for now, don’t you, Miss Dobbs? I’ll get Able to see you out.”
Maisie had reached the door when Caldwell called to her. “Oh, Miss Dobbs—that letter I just received.” He waved it in the air, as if he were a child taunting another. “Informal note from one of my mates in another division. Thought you would be interested in what it said. It’s about Richard Stratton. Remember him? I was his sergeant for a few years, and was given my promotion when he moved on. He went to Special Branch, then threw in the towel to be a teacher of mathematics and physics at a boys’ school down in Wiltshire somewhere, because he wanted to see more of his son, who was getting a free education into the bargain. And our friend Stratton was given a house in the grounds, so no rent to pay—jammy, eh? Mind you, being a widower and with it being just him on his own with his boy—who could blame him? This job’s not for a man with domestic responsibilities, is it?” The grin borne of sarcasm spread wider. “Anyway, turns out he’s been lured back—special job for the government. Security. So he’s on the force again, in a manner of speaking. All very hush-hush, apparently—well, I say that, but these things get around, don’t they? Anyway, better get along now—you probably don’t even remember him.”
“It was a few years ago, Inspector,” said Maisie. “I’ll be in touch.”