She bit her lip. “We went on a river steamer.”
“At night?”
“It was moored by the bridge. It had fairylights and music and there was dancing. So romantic. He ordered more bubbly and it must have gone to my head. We finally got home about four in the morning. I’d better say that again. I got home about four in the morning. We said goodnight at the door of my lodgings. There was nothing improper, Father. Well, nothing totally improper, if you know what I mean.”
“How was his mood?”
“His mood?”
“Was he happy when he left you?”
“Oh, dear!” she said, her winsome young features creasing in concern again. “I’m afraid he wasn’t. He wanted to come in with me. He offered to take off his shoes and tiptoe upstairs, but I wouldn’t risk upsetting the landlady. I pushed him away and shut the door in his face. Do you think that’s why he killed himself?”
“No, I don’t,” said Father Montgomery. “I don’t believe he killed himself at all.”
“You mean my conscience is clear?”
“I have no way of telling what’s on your conscience, my dear, but I’m sure you did the right thing at the end of the evening.”
Inspector Carew was far from happy at being dragged back to 7, Albert Street by a priest he’d never met, but the mention of murder couldn’t be ignored.
“The wife lied to us both,” Father Montgomery said as they were being driven to Teddington. “She insisted that the shooting was at midnight, but I have a female witness who says Patrick Flanagan was with her in Richmond until four in the morning.”
“So what?” said the inspector. “Emily Flanagan has her pride. She won’t want to admit that her wayward husband preferred to spend the night with some other filly.”
“She wasn’t exactly grieving.”
“True. I noted her demeanour. Maybe she’s not sorry he’s dead. It doesn’t make her a murderess.”
“There’s money behind this,” the priest said. “A man who can splash out on champagne and oysters at the Star and Garter is doing too well for a jobbing actor with a wife and father-in-law to support.”
“We checked the bank account,” the inspector said, pleased to demonstrate how thorough he’d been. “They have a modest income, but two days before his death he withdrew most of what they had, about sixty pounds. And so would I, if I was planning to do myself in. I’d have a binge and a night out with a girl before I pulled the trigger. Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t go out with girls and I wouldn’t pull the trigger,” said Father Montgomery. “Neither is permitted.”
They drew up at the Flanagans’ house in Teddington. Emily Flanagan opened the door, saw them together, and said, “Holy Moses!”
In the kitchen, the brandy bottle was empty. Old Mr Russell was asleep in a rocking chair in front of the stove.
“No need to disturb him,” Inspector Carew said. “This concerns you, ma’am. An apparent discrepancy in what you told me. You said the fatal shot was fired at midnight.”
“Or thereabouts,” said Mrs Flanagan.
“Our latest information places your husband on a river steamer in Richmond at midnight.”
“The heel! What was he doing there?”
“Dancing with an actress until nearly four in the morning.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, failing to appreciate what an admission this was. “Which baggage was it this time?”
“Do you admit you lied to me?”
“How could I have known what he was doing in Richmond?”
“The time. You lied about the time.”
“‘Thereabouts’ is what I said. What difference does an hour or two make to you? I guessed he was entertaining some little trollop on the last night of his life, but the world doesn’t need to know, does it? Allow me some dignity when I walk behind his coffin, Inspector.”
“Did you know he emptied his bank account and treated his actor friends to oysters and champagne?”
“Did he, the rotter?”
“You don’t seem overly concerned.”
“He left no will. As his nearest and dearest I’ll inherit everything he ever owned, including this house.”
“Not if you’re hanged for murder, madam.”
“What?” For the first time in all this sorry business, she looked alarmed.
Father Montgomery raised his hands to urge restraint on both sides. “Before we go any further, Inspector, why don’t I show you what I discovered in the den?”
Emily Flanagan, muttering mild expletives, followed them into the room where the body had been discovered. The priest pointed out the bullet hole in the books and remarked that it was unlikely that the victim had held a gun to his head and missed. “I suggest that someone else was holding the gun, someone who waited through the small hours of the night for him to come in and then pointed it at him and brought him in here and sat him at his own desk, where it would look as if he chose to die. I suggest there was a struggle and he deflected the first shot, but the second was fired with the gun to his head.”
“A crime of passion, then,” said the inspector.
“No. Let me show you something else.” He rolled back the carpet and revealed the copy of John Bull. “You can pick it up,” he told the inspector. “Take note of the number seven scribbled on the top right corner. The magazine was delivered to this house as usual. It was Mr Russell’s copy, but Patrick Flanagan grabbed it the day it was pushed through the letterbox and hid it here. Now turn to page thirty-eight, headed Bullets, and look at this week’s thousand pound winner.”
The inspector read aloud, “Mr PF, of Teddington, Middlesex. That’s Patrick Flanagan. No wonder he was out celebrating.”
“But Patrick didn’t do the Bullets!” said Mrs Flanagan in awe.
“Right, it was your father who provided the winning entry. Being unable to walk more than a few steps, he relied on Patrick to post it for him. Patrick ripped open the envelope and entered the competition under his own name. I dare say he’d played the trick before, because the old man was known to have a flare for Bullets.”
“They’re second nature to him,” said Mrs Flanagan.
“Patrick delayed paying in the cheque. I’m sure we’ll find it in here somewhere. He hid the magazine under the carpet so that your father shouldn’t find out, but the old chap managed to get hold of a copy.”
“He sent me out to buy it.”
“And when he saw the competition page, he was outraged. The main object of his life was to win that competition. He’d been robbed of his moment of glory by a shabby trick from his son-in-law. So last night he went to the study and collected the gun and lay in wait. The rest you know.”
The inspector let out a breath so deep and so long it seemed to empty his lungs. “You’re clever, Father.”
“A man’s soul was at stake, Inspector.”
“Not a good man.”
“It’s not for us to judge.”
Mrs Flanagan said, “What was the winning entry?”
“Well, the phrase was ‘A Policeman’s Lot’.”
“‘A Lawfully Big Adventure’,” said the murderer with pride, entering the room.
Razor Bill
Constable Thackeray gripped his skirt and managed a few more steps towards the next lamp. Then he tried glancing over his shoulder, as women of that profession do. Difficult. He was wearing a leather collar that was meant to protect his throat. This was the most worrying assignment of his long career.
“It’s simple,” Sergeant Cribb had told him. “You’re a decoy. We dress you up as a streetwalker, fit you with a padded leather choker and invite Razor Bill to slash your throat.” Regardless that Thackeray looked nothing like a streetwalker and anything but inviting. “In a bonnet and skirt on a foggy night, you’ll do famously. Our man isn’t too particular.”