Jinkinson’s elaborate pantomime of a man struggling to retrieve a memory hidden in the furthest recesses of his mind was a performance worthy of the stage of the Lyceum.
‘Ah, yes. I have it. A gentleman who lives out of town. Dulwich, perhaps? Or was it Herne Hill? I seem to remember I was able to do him some trifling service. Something to do with a missing watch. Not valuable, but a memento of a much-loved relative. I would have to consult my records to be certain.’
Jinkinson gestured towards what Adam had assumed was a large wastepaper basket overflowing with papers. The ageing dandy noticed his look of scepticism.
‘The records need attention, Mr Carver. And that blackguard boy outside, Simpkins, is as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. Some mornings you cannot stir him into action at all. No more than you can stir cold lead with a wooden spoon.’
‘So you would have no notion why Mr Creech is dead? Murdered, in fact.’
Jinkinson had been stunned by Adam’s earlier remark. He was rendered speechless by this one. His mouth opened and closed in a vain effort to find words. His face, naturally rubicund, was now so pale he looked almost dead himself.
‘You are shocked, I see, Mr Jinkinson.’
The enquiry agent made a Herculean effort and recovered the power of speech. ‘Who would not be, sir? The death of a fellow traveller through this vale of tears is always shocking. A murder is even more so.’
‘And yet you knew the gentleman in question only slightly.’
‘Hardly at all,’ Jinkinson agreed quickly. ‘But I am a sensitive man, Mr Carver. The years may have rolled over me but they have failed to harden my heart entirely. I have heard the swish of Death’s scythe so many times and yet each new report of it still saddens me.’ The sound of his own voice echoing sonorously around his office appeared to help Jinkinson recover his equilibrium. ‘I learn of the sudden departure of some acquaintance — some slight acquaintance — and the tears start unbidden to my eyes. It is hard to be a sensitive soul in a world so indifferent to the feelings of the individual, but I have learned to live with that fate.’
With difficulty, Jinkinson heaved himself to his feet. He lurched to the left and seized hold of the edge of the table to steady himself.
‘I cannot help but be curious, Mr Carver, as to why you are interested in Mr Creech and his death yourself. You are related to the gentleman, perhaps?’
‘No, Mr Jinkinson, I am not.’ Adam noticed the enquiry agent’s relief at these words. He wondered how much, if anything, to tell him. He decided that the truth, if not the whole truth, should probably be divulged. ‘I met him only the once. But the meeting was in curious circumstances. He spoke to me of secrets which I could help him to unearth. Secrets buried far away in European Turkey. We arranged to meet again at his house. When I arrived in Herne Hill to keep the appointment, I found him dead. With a bullet in his head and his brains scattered about the room.’
‘Curious circumstances, indeed,’ Jinkinson said, still clutching the table for support. He was clearly drunk, but he was equally clearly the sort of drinker who could function perfectly adequately with quantities of liquor inside him that would fell a lesser man. ‘They almost remind me of the opening of one of those penny dreadful stories that wretched boy Simpkins will insist on reading.’ Jinkinson pawed briefly at his silk cravat, as if he was unsatisfied with the way it was tied and was contemplating redoing it. ‘Not, I hasten to assure you, that I have ever read any of them myself.’
‘I thought perhaps that you might be able to throw some light on the mystery of Mr Creech’s death.’
‘Throw some light? I, sir?’ Jinkinson appeared astounded by the suggestion. ‘How could I do so? How have you travelled, physically and mentally as it were, from Mr Creech’s bloody corpse in Herne Hill to my humble offices here in Poulter’s Court? What connection — what mistaken connection — can you have made, I wonder?’
‘There was a journal by Creech’s bed. With notes in his handwriting. Your name and address appeared in it.’
‘Easily explained,’ Jinkinson said, waving his hands in the air as if they were about to do the explaining. He had entirely recovered his composure. ‘As I have said, I undertook some investigative work for the unfortunate Mr Creech. He must have recorded our business in his journal. No doubt the book holds records of the gentleman’s other dealings.’
‘All the records in the notebook — and there are many of them — appear to refer to you.’
‘Our business was trivial but it took some time to reach a conclusion.’ Jinkinson smiled blandly. ‘Mr Creech must have been a careful gentleman who recorded even the most trifling of transactions in detail.’
‘Curious, however, that only your dealings with the gentleman were recorded in this notebook.’
Jinkinson made an elaborate performance of shrugging his shoulders. ‘Curious indeed. Perhaps he kept a multitude of such journals. One for each of the individuals with whom he did business.’ The enquiry agent gave another bland smile. He looked like a fat baby with the wind. ‘But the death of Creech and all circumstances surrounding it are surely now matters for the police, are they not? Not for a private gentleman? Even one such as yourself, who had the shocking experience of finding the body weltering in its own gore.’
‘There were a number of other names in Mr Creech’s notebook,’ Adam continued. ‘Names of prominent men. Lewis Garland and Sir Willoughby Oughtred. James Abercrombie.’
‘I thought that you said that only my own dealings with Creech were recorded.’
‘All these men seemed to be linked to your business with Mr Creech in some way. Perhaps you know them?’
Jinkinson’s repeat impersonation of a man racking his brains in search of elusive knowledge was once again worthy of an audience’s generous applause.
‘No, I believe not,’ he said at last. ‘I thought for a moment the name Garland was familiar to me, but I can only assume that I have chanced upon it in the newspapers. A gentleman of the turf, perhaps? Or a brother of the quill?’
‘He is an MP. As are the other two gentlemen.’
Jinkinson smiled again as if all mysteries had been solved.
‘I take little interest in politics, Mr Carver. There is little wonder that the names mean nothing to me.’
‘But there they sit on the pages of Mr Creech’s notebook, side by side with your own.’
‘A puzzle, indeed.’
‘What of the word “Euphorion”, Mr Jinkinson? Does that recall anything to mind?’
For the third time in the conversation, Jinkinson was rocked on his heels and, for the third time, he recovered his poise swiftly.
‘That would be a Latin word, would it, Mr Carver?’
‘Greek, I believe.’
‘Ah, well,’ Jinkinson said, spreading his hands wide as if this explained much that was previously inexplicable. ‘Unlike your good self, I have not had the inestimable benefit of a classical education. No sojourns by the Cam or Isis for poor Jinkinson, however much he may have yearned for them in his youth. The Thames alone has been his watery companion.’
‘And the word means nothing to you? It was also prominent in the pages of Creech’s notebook.’
‘Not a thing, sir. Unless it be the name of some minor god? The men of ancient Greece had so many, I understand.’
‘It is not the name of a god, Mr Jinkinson. Why would Creech record the name of a Greek god?’
‘Why indeed?’ The enquiry agent was swaying on his feet but was now, once more, entirely at ease. ‘Why would he record any Greek word? In my brief dealings with the gentleman, he did not strike me as much of a classical scholar.’