“Did he seem nervous?” Harriet said. “Agitated?”
Mrs. Edgeware shook her head.
Bertrand leaned forward. “Was he whistling?”
Harriet closed her eyes. What was this obsession Bertrand had with the whistling?
Mrs. Edgeware gave Harriet a confused look. “Yes. Well, he stopped when we approached him, but he did whistle. Not terribly well.”
Bertrand gave Harriet a meaningful look. “See? I told you.”
Harriet shook her head. “Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“In our room, preparing for our voyage in the submersible to visit the ruins. Colin has been excited for weeks.”
“And you were together?”
“Yes, of course. With the children. Oh. Colin did pop out for a few minutes. We weren’t sure where the submersible would depart from. Colin went to check. But it was only a few minutes.”
So. Mr. Edgeware did have the opportunity to push James Strachan off the balcony. But why would he? Why would anyone?
“Reverend and Mrs. Asheville?” Bertrand said.
The reverend shook his head. “I do not think we have anything helpful, I am afraid. We did not meet the young man, and we certainly would not have wished him harm.”
Bertrand threw Harry a glance. She shrugged. The reverend was clearly frail, and his wife even more so. Certainly neither of them had attacked her, and she doubted that even the two of them together could have pushed a fit young man over the balcony.
“Which brings us to you, Mr. Davies,” Bertrand said. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
The student blinked. “I was awarded a grant by Tharsis University to study the ruins. I have some theories about their construction and use. You wouldn’t understand them. And, no, I never met the chap.”
Bertrand cocked his head to one side. “Are you sure?”
“I think I’d know, don’t you?”
“How old are you, Mr. Davies?”
The student looked around, confused. “Twenty-three. I don’t understand the relevance, sir.”
“Mr. Ellis?” The hotel manager looked up with a start. “Mr. Ellis, how old was James Strachan?”
The hotel manager blinked. “Ah… Twenty-two, I believe.”
“Not much to build your case on, Simpson,” Sir William said loudly. “I expect better than that.”
Bertrand reddened, but he kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Davies. “It is peculiar, though. You see, I read an article in the Tharsis Times on your work. They were very impressed by your theories for one so young. A future star of the University, they said.”
“So?” Mr. Davies shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“So they included a brief biography of you. In it, I read that you had once attended Queen Anne’s Academy. Just like James Strachan. You would have been in the same year as Mr. Strachan, or a year above him. I find it hard to believe that you never met him or that you didn’t recognize him.”
Mr. Davies’s eyes flicked from side to side. Then he slumped back. “Oh, very well. Yes, I knew him. So what?”
“So you lied. Why?”
The student glared. “I had forgotten him, all right? I left Queen Anne’s six years ago.”
Bertrand looked at him askance. “No. That’s not it. The way you talk about him. That’s not the way you would talk about someone you’d forgotten. You resent him.”
The student’s lips tightened, but he didn’t respond.
“Come, now. I can arrest you and haul you back to Tharsis City. We’ll get to the truth there.”
Harriet gritted her teeth. This was wrong. Whatever had passed between Davies and Strachan when they’d been at school was neither here nor there. Strachan had been killed for the package he was carrying. But she couldn’t question him on that without letting her cover slip.
The student let out a sound of frustration. “Fine! But I didn’t kill Strachan. I didn’t even know he was here.”
“We saw you on the train,” Harriet said. “You looked furious.”
“I was reading Braithwaite’s idiotic theories on Fourth Age Ancient Martian culture. You’d be furious, too.”
“What happened between you and Strachan?” Bertrand pressed.
“He had me thrown out of school, that’s what. It was at the beginning of our final year and there was this girl I liked at school, a maid. Strachan took a fancy to her as well. He told our House Master that I’d stolen a watch from one of the other masters, and he planted it under my mattress. I was kicked out immediately, and all so he could have a free run at the maid.”
“That sounds like a motive to me,” Harriet said.
Davies shook his head disdainfully. “It was six years ago, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. My father employed a tutor who was a student of archaeology at Tharsis University. He taught me more on the subject than I would have learned in a lifetime at Queen Anne’s. Under his instruction, I was able to get a place at the University, and I have already made a name for myself in the field of Ancient Martian history. Strachan? It appears he was reduced to a footman. Why would I resent him?”
Resentment could be like coals in a hearth, still burning hot under the cold ashes. When he saw Strachan again after all that time… But it wasn’t proof. It wasn’t even evidence. And it had nothing to do with the smuggling ring.
Sir Lancelot must have thought that the attention had been directed away from him for too long. He strode into the middle of the floor and towered over Mr. Davies.
“I have just one question.”
Mr. Davies shrugged.
“That maid you were interested in. Was it…” He swung around with the dramatic gesture, flinging out a hand. “…Emily?”
“What? No. Her name was Sarah Mason. She didn’t look anything like this girl.”
Sir Lancelot stood frozen, arm held out, for a moment. Then he stepped back. “Just what I thought.”
Reginald Pratt pried himself away from the wall. Harriet didn’t think she’d ever seen his smirk look so malicious.
“How about you, Miss George? Where were you when the murder occurred? From what I’ve heard, you were alone with your… brother-in-law.” He managed to fill the term with unpleasant insinuation. “It seems others may fall under suspicion by virtue of only receiving alibis from their families. By my money, that makes you and Mr. Simpson just as likely suspects.”
Bertrand’s jaw dropped and he turned a stricken look on Harriet.
Harriet was not fazed. “There were a dozen witnesses in the room with us when we heard the scream. Now, may we continue the questioning?”
But Sir Lancelot wasn’t done with the limelight.
“There is no need,” he proclaimed. “For I have identified the murderer.”
A murmur of excitement went around the room. The gathered suspects exchanged glances.
“Exactly as I expected,” Sir William said, sending a satisfied look toward Bertrand.
Harriet surveyed the faces in the room. No one looked nervous. The murderer must be a good actor to hold his nerve. Or maybe he felt confident nothing could be proven.
“The murderer,” Sir Lancelot said, turning slowly, “is… you!” His finger shot toward the hotel manager.
The man blinked blearily. “Me?”
“Yes. James Strachan was stealing from the hotel. You didn’t dare expose him, because that would damage your reputation and the hotel’s reputation. So, you saw your opportunity and you murdered him instead.”
Sir William leaped out of his chair. “You dastardly fiend! Simpson, arrest this man immediately!”
“But it couldn’t have been me,” the manager spluttered. “I was in my office the whole time.”