I had not been excessively diligent. Murders are rare, and it did have some of the exotic characteristics which turn a squalid death into an interesting story, but in general we follow the police lead unless there is good reason not to do so. In this case, the official reasoning seemed sound. The girl was crucial and there was not much to be done until she rematerialised. I wrote a sidebar on mediums and a piece on the fashion for the occult while I waited for some development, but could push it no further. If they couldn't find her, there wasn't much chance I could, and I did not have the leisure to try.
Now I did, and I also had a very much better reason to do so than a few column inches in the
The first thing was to talk to the neighbours. The police had already done that, and I had seen their notes one night in the pub, but I was now interested in different questions. They had asked if anyone had been seen arriving or leaving on the day of the murder. To which the answer had been no; no one in particular. But I was now interested in two days previously as well, when Ravenscliff's diary said he had an appointment. This wasn't likely to lead to much, but I wanted confirmation that he had gone there.
So I called in at the umbrella shop, as the proprietor had been the most useful of interviewees to the police, and I hoped he would prove the same for me. He was the only person, in fact, who had noticed anything at all, and had been the one who had discovered the body. It was rent day, and he had gone to collect. As the lady was too uninterested in the material things of this world to take the mundane matter of paying debts too seriously, he had refused to go away, kept on knocking and had eventually gone in. She apparently had something of a history of pretending to be out when he came to call, and she was three months in arrears.
Mr Philpot was the sort of man who had no first name. The sort whose wife addresses him as Mr Philpot after they have finished making love, if they ever do. He is the butt of jokes from his betters, who scorn his ilk for their respectability, and lack of imagination and utter dullness. The very epitome of the English lower middle classes; a shopkeeper, with standards to maintain and a small place in society to defend. I liked him; I have always liked the Philpots of this world, with their honesty and trustworthiness and decency. I even like their small-mindedness, for they are content with what is theirs, and proud of the little they have. Only if that is threatened do they become testy, but what group of mankind does not? They respect their betters, and fear those below them. They go to church and reverence the King, and sweep the pavement outside their shops every morning. All they want is to be left alone, and in return they provide the nation with all of its substance and solidity. If a factory worker kills his wife, or an aristocrat fathers a child, it is scarcely remarked upon; if a Philpot does so, it is a shock. Philpots are held to higher standards than most of mankind, and on the whole they live up to them.
So, I was predisposed to like Mr Philpot, in his neat waistcoat, with the armbands keeping the cuffs of his glistening white shirt out of harm's way. With his meticulous little moustache, and well-trimmed fingernails, and shining black shoes. And to like his shop, with its hundreds and hundreds of umbrellas, every single one of them black, with only the handles – each one pointing outwards like a row of grenadier guards on display – allowing just the slightest hint of flamboyance to brighten up the dark oak of the counters and floor. Philpot made me feel as though the world was in good hands. Until I met Elizabeth, I had taken it for granted that I should, eventually, marry the daughter of a Philpot, who would be as diligent in the home as her father was at work.
We talked for some time before I introduced the subject of his erstwhile tenant. It is always best to do so, if possible; to establish your credentials as a decent, upright man. I sympathised with his embarrassment, and consternation at suddenly finding his shop mentioned in the newspapers in connection with such a terrible event. The shame of the neighbours discovering that he had rented out his little flat to a charlatan and a prostitute. It might be that eventually he would live it down, but his good name had been tainted.
'And I only let her have the place out of the goodness of my heart,' he protested. 'I couldn't see anyone else renting her anything, and she pleaded with me not to throw her out when I discovered what she was up to. When I let her have it, I never dreamt for a moment there might be anything improper about her. She was an old woman. I felt sorry for her. I won't make that mistake again, let me tell you.'
'But you knew what she did? How she made her money?'
