‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What an unexpected and pleasant surprise to see you.’
‘You too, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Not the most convivial of circumstances, though, I fear.’
‘Not at all, my lady,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s a bad business.’
‘Do you know who the victim is?’ I asked.
‘I’m surprised that you don’t,’ he said. ‘With connections like yours I’d have thought you’d know all the local dignitaries. That’s Nathaniel Morry, a leading light on the city council.’
‘Is it, by crikey?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I confess we’re not as well up on local politics as we ought to be.’
‘What was a city councillor doing up there?’ I asked.
‘Budget cuts, pet,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Times is hard up at the council, he was clearly having to moonlight as an electrician for the tram company to make ends meet.’
‘Very droll, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘Truth is, I don’t know yet. I’d wager it’s nothing good, though.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
The inspector took a second or two to answer, as though he were trying to find the right way to express his reply.
‘I know I can rely utterly on your discretion, my lady,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m afraid this is one time when I’m going to have to respectfully insist that you don’t involve yourself. I strongly suspect that this might be related to another case I’m working on and I’m under a lot of pressure from very high up indeed to keep as tight a lid on this one as I can.’
‘That’s quite all right, Inspector,’ she said, kindly. ‘I quite understand.’
‘Truth is, I should love your help,’ he went on apologetically. ‘The whole business is right up your street. But there’s one or two in the Force who are already a bit put out about what they call your “interference” and I know I’ll get it in the neck if I bring you in on another case.’
‘Think no more about it, Inspector, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve caused you any trouble and we certainly wouldn’t want to cause you any more.’
‘No, indeed,’ I said.
She rummaged in her handbag and produced a calling card and a pencil. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, scribbling on the back of the card and handing it to him, ‘if you ever need anything, even if it’s just a chance to gossip with a couple of silly women, do telephone.’
He laughed. ‘Silly women, indeed,’ he said.
‘I'd wager that’s what your superiors think,’ she said, shrewdly.
‘That and worse, I’m afraid, my lady,’ he said. ‘But thank you. I appreciate your understanding as well as your offer.’
‘Entirely our pleasure, dear,’ she said. ‘Now off you trot, and we’ll look suitably contrite as though you’ve put fleas in both our ears for being interfering busybodies.’
With a smile and a nod of thanks, he went to rejoin his colleagues.
‘I suppose we ought to continue our journey on foot,’ said Lady Hardcastle once he had gone. ‘I shouldn’t imagine there’ll be any more trams along for a while.’
‘On foot, my lady?’ I said. ‘Like a couple of medieval peasants? I’m afraid I shall have to rethink my position if I’m going to be required to walk to places. I'm sure Lady Farley-Stroud’s maid doesn’t have to walk.’
‘It’ll do us good. Come on, pet, best foot forward.’
We set off in the direction of Colston Avenue and the docks.
As we rounded the corner, and the stranded tram and its unfortunate victim disappeared from view, I heard running footsteps behind us. Touching Lady Hardcastle’s arm in warning, I half turned to face whoever it was. It was unlikely to be an attacker in the middle of the city in broad daylight, but habits born of years of professional caution are hard to break.
It was the young man who had caught our attention twice already. He appeared to be in his late-twenties, smartly, though inexpensively dressed, wearing spectacles and a neatly brushed bowler hat. I would have said he was a junior bank clerk if I’d been forced to guess.
He drew alongside us and slowed to match our pace. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Hardcastle, Miss Armstrong,’ he said, breathlessly, as he tipped his hat.
‘You seem to have the advantage of us, Mister…’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said. ‘My name is Christian Brookfield. I’m a reporter for the Bristol News.’
‘How do you do, Mr Brookfield,’ she said. ‘And how may we help you?’
‘I wonder if I might have a word or two,’ he said. ‘I saw you on the top deck of the tram, and when the inspector told me who you are I thought we might be able to help each other.’
‘Help each other how?’ she said, still not entirely warmly.
‘Would you let me treat you both to a coffee,’ he said, indicating a nearby coffee house, ‘and allow me to explain myself?’
Lady Hardcastle regarded him for a moment and then turned to me with her eyebrows raised in mute enquiry. I gave the slightest shrug in reply, intending to indicate that I had no objections and that it was up to her.
‘Very well, then, Mr Brookfield,’ she said. ‘Let us talk.’
Bristol was home to many coffee importers who brought the precious beans from the West Indies and the Americas and roasted them in their warehouses, ready for onward shipment to England’s coffee drinkers. One or two of the importers had opened coffee houses where they not only sold their wares by the pound, but brewed some of the freshest, most delicious coffee available anywhere in the country. It was to one such shop that Mr Brookfield led us.
We sat at a table by the window and Mr Brookfield confidently ordered a pot of Mexican coffee.
‘It’s from Chiapas,’ he explained. ‘These are the sole importers. It’s absolutely delicious. You’ll love it, I promise.’
‘I’m sure we shall,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ he said with the smile of a little boy who’s been praised for his schoolwork.
‘And how is it that you come to know who we are?’ said Lady Hardcastle after the waitress had brought our pot of coffee and set it on the table with cups, sugar and cream.
‘As I said,’ he replied, ‘the inspector told me.’
‘You did say, yes. But I’d wager he told you only our names. Your manner would seem to indicate that you attach some significance to those names.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye your exploits in the newspaper since you solved the Frank Pickering murder last summer. Then there was the murderous mayhem at the circus, and the death at the Farley-Strouds’ place. And then some sort of scandal in London that ended with you being shot. I never did get to the bottom of that one. Government business, was it?’
Lady Hardcastle smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t quite remember. It was a traumatic time.’
He returned her smile. ‘I’m sure it was. But that’s how I came to know your names, and that’s why I was interested in speaking to you.’