Now he and Ross had been up one side of the street and down the other three times.
“If you wish to pay a visit to someone in this road, you’d better arrive armed with a machete,” Congreve said, using his sodden handkerchief to mop his brow.
“Perhaps we should go somewhere and ring him up, Chief,” Ross said. “It’s already gone half past ten.”
And that’s when a woman magically appeared from the dense shrubbery pushing a baby carriage.
“I wonder if you might help us,” Congreve said. “We’re in a bit of a fog here, you see. We’re looking for number 37 Whitehall Road. Can you possibly steer us in that direction?”
“Why, number 37 is right here,” she said, smiling. “You standing right in front of it! See? Here’s the gate!” With a great laugh, she pulled back a massive portion of green shrubbery and revealed an ancient arch covered in white bougainvillea. “Mr. Stubbs, he live in dere. Always has.”
“Most kind of you, madam,” Congreve said, tipping his hat once more. “You’ve been most helpful. I wish you a pleasant morning.”
Ambrose and Ross pressed through the thick foliage and emerged into a lovely, well-tended garden. At the end of a short pathway stood a small pink house with blue shutters. There was an ancient white-haired man sitting on the covered porch in a rocking chair. A sleeping dog of no recognizable breed was at his feet.
“Scotland Yard!” the old fellow shouted as they made their way up his walkway. “Always get your man! Even if you do it half an hour late! Ha!”
He laughed and rose a bit unsteadily from his chair.
“I believe it’s the Mounties who always get their man,” Congreve said, climbing the steps and shaking the frail brown hand of Stubbs Witherspoon. The man had extended his left hand. Congreve saw that the right sleeve of his simple linen shirt hung empty from his shoulder. Somehow, the poor fellow had lost his right arm.
“My apologies for the lateness of our arrival. I’m afraid we were unable to locate your gate. May I present Inspector Sutherland, also of Special Branch at New Scotland Yard.”
“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Witherspoon,” Ross said, shaking hands. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Well,” Witherspoon said, “you know, I thought about that after we hung up the phone. And then I thought, good Lord, if Scotland Yard can’t find me, no one can!” He laughed again, almost doubling over. “Why don’t we just step inside?” Witherspoon asked. “I’ve made some iced lemonade and the fans in there keep it nice and breezy.”
They followed Witherspoon inside and he disappeared through a swinging door, presumably leading to the kitchen. The shuttered living room windows were all thrown open and yellow hibiscus branches were drooping inside at every window. You could hear the trills of songbirds in the trees outside as well as the yellow canary in the cage standing in the corner. Witherspoon returned from the kitchen carrying a large frosted pitcher.
“Let’s all take a seat,” the old man said, pouring lemonade. “This is my rocking chair. I like to rock.”
“Well,” Congreve said, “we’re honored to meet you, Mr. Witherspoon. As I said last evening on the telephone, Inspector Sutherland and I are looking into a very old murder case. An unsolved double homicide that took place here in the islands back in the 1970s.”
“Yes. Lord and Lady Hawke,” Stubbs said. “Brutally murdered aboard their yacht Seahawke. Well, that was a bad one, I’ll tell you. One of the worst I ever saw. I just joined the force at that time, no big cases under my belt. Until that one.”
“Can you tell us about it, Mr. Witherspoon?”
“Better than that. I’ve got the entire Hawke file right over there in my desk. I dug it out last evening after your call. Sip your lemonade, I’ll get it, I’ll get it. Soon come.”
“I like to rock,” Ross whispered under his breath, and Congreve broke into a big grin.
Witherspoon returned with a large cardboard box held tightly to his chest with his left hand. He sat down and looked at his two guests.
“Before I show you the file’s contents, may I tell you gentlemen something? I may have still been wet behind the ears on that case, but what I did know was the name of the man responsible for the murders aboard the yacht Seahawke.”
“You know his name?” Congreve said.
26
“Hey.”
“Good morning, Doc.”
“What time is it?”
“I think a little after seven—wait, don’t get up. You’re supposed to stay in bed until the doctor comes.”
“Oh. That’s right. I’m in the hospital.”
“Good. You haven’t lost your remarkable powers of perception.”
“Oh. God. I’ve got a terrible headache.”
“I should imagine you do, darling.”
“Did I have a lot to drink last night?”
“You were working your way through two rather large vodka martinis.”
“That’s all? Wow, what a hangover. It feels like I really got bombed.”
“Bombed?”
“Why aren’t you laughing? You don’t get it?”
“Feeling sluggish. Slow on the uptake.”
“You look awful. Have you been sitting there in that chair all night? Doesn’t look very comfy.”
“Me? No, no. I raced home straightaway after you were admitted to the hospital. There I cracked a bottle of champers, soaked in a long hot bath, shaved, and jumped right back into this bloody tuxedo.”
“That’s funny, too.”
“Really? Why is that funny, too?”
“Because you’re always saying ‘bloody this’ and ‘bloody that.’ ”
“And?”
“And this time, your tuxedo really is bloody. Get it? Ouch, that hurts.”
“Stop laughing. You’ll kill yourself.”
“I feel fine. Can I get out of here?”
“The doctor’s coming by at eight when he does his rounds. I think he’ll let you make a run for it if you can convince him you’re feeling well enough to walk.”
“What are my chances for escape?”
“Fairly good, I should say. You’ve suffered a mild concussion. Under those lovely bandages, you’ve got a number of stitches on the top of your head. Assorted contusions, scrapes, and scratches. Otherwise, fine fettle.”
“How about you? Are you in fine fettle?”
“I got a fork through the hand. That’s about it.”
“Next time you invite me to dinner, let’s order in Chinese.”
“Brilliant idea. Chopsticks being a lot less dangerous than salad forks. Are you hungry? Your breakfast is on the tray in front of you.”
“I can’t even look at food. What’s this little box thingy?”
“The nurse put it on the tray with your cereal. You were clutching it in your hand when they wheeled you into the Georgetown University emergency room.”
“What is it?”
“It appears to be a small black velvet box.”
“What’s in it?”
“Perhaps you should open it. I gave it to you last night, before we were so rudely interrupted.”
“I’m terrified of men bearing small black velvet boxes.”
“Go ahead and open it, Doc. It’s something I want you to have.”
“Oh, Alex.”
“Yes?”
“Alex, it’s lovely.”
“It’s quite an old locket, actually. It, well, it belonged to my mother.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.”
“You can open it up, too. There are little heart-shaped pictures inside.”
“Oh, look! It’s—”
“Hard to see, I know. On the left side of the heart is my mother and me. On the right, that’s me and Scoundrel. He was a fine old dog.”
“How old are you in the pictures, Alex?”