‘He has concocted some nonsense about my being a dilettante who fancies herself a journalist and who is keen to see how the “professionals” do it.’
‘He’s quite the accomplished fibber, isn’t he.’
‘The cynic in me suggests that it’s a professional requirement in the world of journalism,’ she said. ‘But it’s no worse than the sort of fib we’ve concocted for ourselves on many an occasion in the past, so it seems hypocritical to condemn it.’
‘And what about me?’ I said. ‘How do I fit in to this little scenario?’
‘Oh, I should think a dilettante socialite would never go anywhere without her maid, even to interviews. You’ll blend in splendidly.’
‘I do love to be a stage prop,’ I said, glumly.
‘But such a charming and attractive one, pet. You can melt into the background and keep your eyes and ears open as usual. You do it so well.’
I harrumphed and returned to my pastry which was now slightly too warm and would need some remedial attention.
To my surprise, the meeting with Mr Oswald Craine took place in the very coffee house we had visited the day before. I had expected an oak-panelled boardroom in a grand building in the middle of the city, but we were directed instead to the scene of our first meeting with the young journalist.
Mr Brookfield made the introductions (which naturally did not include me) and the three of them sat together at a table at the back of the shop where they would not be interrupted or overheard by the other customers. I sat at a small table next to them and pretended to busy myself with a book while actually listening carefully to their conversation.
Mr Brookfield kept very much to his cover and asked a tediously long series of sycophantic questions about the coffee business, all intended to give Mr Craine ample opportunity to tell the newspaper’s readers what a marvellous fellow he was. If Lady Hardcastle genuinely had been there to learn the tricks of the journalistic trade she would have come away none the wiser and I would have made significant progress with my new book. As it was, I was obliged to pay attention and I was grateful for the coffee which was helping keep me awake.
Mr Craine was a bore and a boor. He was uncommonly well informed about the cultivation, harvesting, shipping, roasting, distribution and preparation of coffee and willing to share his knowledge without the faintest awareness of just how dull he was being. This wouldn’t have been so bad – enthusiasts can often be charming and fascinating once they warm to their subject – were it not also for his tendency towards the sort of opinionated oafishness that made it fortunate that Mrs Brighting hadn’t yet made the holster hat. His comments about the locals who grew his coffee in Africa and the Americas, his opinions on the poor and needy at home, and most especially his views on women and their role in society would surely have spelt his doom were there a pistol in Lady Hardcastle’s hat, and I was reasonably sure I saw her hand creep towards her bag more than once and wondered if the Derringer were still inside it.
Eventually, she reached breaking point.
‘Mr Craine,’ she said, sweetly. ‘Did you hear about the incident on the trams yesterday?’
‘I did indeed, my dear,’ he said, still as pompous as ever. ‘A tragedy. That poor fellow. Terrible way to go.’
‘Did you know the victim?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘No, I don’t believe so. A city councillor, I was told.’
‘So you didn’t know Nathaniel Morry?’
‘No, I never had the pleasure. Tragic loss.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at her notebook. ‘I must have been misinformed, I’m so sorry.’ She looked up again. ‘I was told he was tupping your wife.’
In the silence that followed I began to be concerned that Craine might be the one to draw a pistol. His face went an entertaining shade of purple – the first genuinely interesting thing he had done all morning – and his knuckles were white as he grasped the edge of the table. ‘This interview is over,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Brookfield, get this bitch out of my shop. I shall be having words with your editor.’
Brookfield stood, but Lady Hardcastle remained seated. ‘So you didn’t have him killed, then?’
‘Out!’ he bellowed, his composure finally deserting him.
Trying not to laugh, I followed her out of the shop, protecting her back lest he decide to lash out. The few other customers looked on in scandalized shock or unabashed curiosity, according to their character, while the staff cowered in the background, clearly worried that the managing director might take out his anger upon them.
Outside on the pavement, Brookfield was equally livid.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ he demanded.
‘Do what, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Blow our cover and ask your damn fool questions.’
‘Oh, pish and fiddlesticks. It was obvious the man had nothing to do with it. He’s a tedious little man obsessed with coffee. He’s all fuss and bluster and he could no more kill a man than flap his arms and fly to the West Indies to check on his precious plantations.’
‘He might have paid someone to do it,’ insisted the reporter angrily.
‘He would wet his breeches if he came within a hundred yards of the sort of man that would kill for money. Oswald Craine is a boor, a bigot and a bully, but he’s not your murderer.’
Brookfield was still simmering. ‘But there was still no need to blurt it out like that. You ruined everything.’
‘I did? How so? You have plenty of fluffy nonsense for an article describing the coffee business and the absolutely splendid role Mr Oswald Craine plays in bringing the delicious beverage to the occasional tables of England, and we know for certain that he is not in any way involved in the killing of Nathaniel Morry. I’d say that my contribution to the enterprise was invaluable: I brought an end to one of the most tedious conversations in the history of human discourse and we nearly made a boorish oaf explode with rage. I think that’s a morning well spent.’
‘If I’d known you were going to behave so childishly I’d never have invited you,’ said Brookfield. ‘I shall think carefully about bringing you along to any further interviews.’
‘It’s entirely up to you, Mr Brookfield. You know how to reach us if you need us,’ she said, and we turned and walked away, leaving him still fuming on the pavement outside the coffee house.
‘Childish, indeed!’ she said as she climbed back into the motor and I set about turning the starting handle. ‘Do you think me childish, Flo?’
I climbed in beside her. ‘Of course, my lady,’ I said. ‘It’s part of your charm.’
She harrumphed and drove off.
‘But not then,’ I said. ‘That was delicious. I would have paid good money to see that oaf discomfited after all the appalling things he said, and you humiliated him beautifully. One of the waitresses heard, so there won’t be anyone in the company who doesn’t know about his wife’s indiscretion before the day’s end.’
We drove home, discussing the many failings of Oswald Craine, but each agreeing that he was not the murderer.