The shingle warned that the architect was available Tuesday through Friday, by appointment only; a handwritten note, taped and fluttering in the breeze, instructed deliverymen to ring next door, at number 15.
They did, and an elegant, aquiline man answered. He was around Edwyn Heap’s age, but tan and trim in chinos and a blue twill button-down.
He said, “Please bring it — oh, sorry. I was expecting someone else.”
Norton badged him. “Charles MacIldowney?”
“Yes?”
“May we come in, sir?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, sir. A few questions.”
“It’s not the best time.”
Jacob said, “We’ll be brief.”
MacIldowney started at Jacob’s accent. He ran his fingers through his coiffure, once and then again. “Yes, all right, please.”
A blizzard of pastels softened the living area’s industrial character, tubular steel and vaulted ceilings and exposed ducting. MacIldowney apologized for the mess, shifted straw baskets and packages of tissue paper to allow them to sit.
“We’re hosting our annual garden party this afternoon. I thought you were the florist.”
A voice from above said, “Charles? Is that them? Are they here?”
“Not yet.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody.”
A man two decades MacIldowney’s junior appeared barefoot at the top of the floating staircase. “It doesn’t look like nobody to me.”
He came down. “I’m Des,” he said.
Norton introduced them, and Jacob explained the purpose of their visit. Both men reacted to news of the murder with genuine shock.
“I’m sorry to break it to you like this. Were you close?”
“Close?” MacIldowney said. “Not — I mean, I don’t think so. I never knew Reggie to be close with — I suppose — well, he was—”
“An odd duck,” Des said.
“Without question, but — to be honest, I don’t know what I’m saying. This is awful, just... awful.”
A silence.
“Can I offer anyone some tea?” Des said.
“I’d love that,” Jacob said.
“No, thanks,” Norton said.
Des clapped his hands and strode off to the kitchen, separated by twenty feet of bleached flooring and a stainless-steel peninsula.
“Would you prefer privacy?” MacIldowney asked. “We can go to my office.”
“It’s all right,” Jacob said. “You both knew him?”
Des, filling a speed kettle, nodded.
“He worked for us on occasion,” MacIldowney said. “Though I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“At least a year, I reckon,” Des said.
“His father said you were his tutor at one point,” Jacob said.
“You spoke to his father?”
Jacob nodded.
“Is he — I mean, does he know...”
“He knows.”
“Well — yes. Obviously he would. I apologize. It’s all rather — I’ve never known anyone — it’s a dreadful... yes. I was Reggie’s tutor. Years ago.”
“What was he like in those days?” Jacob asked.
“Painfully shy. He hardly spoke to anyone. I have — well, it’s going to sound callous, out of context, but — I have a distinct memory of thinking he resembled a turtle.” MacIldowney paused. “Is that horrible? I’m sorry. He had this coat he wore every day, regardless of the weather. I don’t think I ever saw him out of it, I reckon it could’ve stood up on its own. It was this hideous murky color, and he would sort of shrink back into the collar, like so... It gave one the impression that he was short, although I don’t believe he was, or no more than average.”
“Edwyn Heap told me he was supposed to study law, but you convinced him to change.”
“Well, that’s — thank you,” MacIldowney said, accepting a cup from Des, who set down a tray with more cups, sugar, and a plate of digestives.
“Thanks,” Jacob said, adding three lumps in an effort to pacify his stomach. His full English breakfast had morphed into a bellowing South American revolutionary. “He — Edwyn — he seemed pretty angry about it.”
“I’m sorry for him, I am, but that’s simply untrue. Reggie had decided to change courses well before I met him. The university doesn’t have a program devoted to practical architecture, per se. I came for my doctorate, after which I lectured in history of design for a brief period. I might’ve attempted to bolster his confidence, but I never told him to do anything. He was quite... needy, I suppose, is the right word. He would bring these massive batches of drawings up to me and thrust them in my face. The moment I showed the slightest approval he cottoned on to me and began asking for help transferring into Ruskin.”
“The drawing school,” Des said.
MacIldowney nodded. “Apparently he had applied there once already and they’d turned him down. He wanted me to throw my weight around.”
“Did you?”
“I had none to throw. But when I tried to explain that to him, he got extremely cross.”
“And then?”
“I left to open my practice, and he drifted out of my life. I didn’t see him for fifteen years or so.”
“He turned up on our doorstep, begging for a job,” Des said.
“He wasn’t begging, Desmond.”
“You must’ve been surprised,” Norton said.
“Oh, I was astonished,” MacIldowney said. “I only just caught myself before shutting the door in his face. I didn’t recognize him — it’d been so long, and he’d lost the coat. Nor did he say hello, introduce himself, ask how I’d been. He said, ‘I need a job,’ as though I would hand him the keys straightaway.”
“Fifteen years is a long time to be out of touch and think that,” Jacob said.
“Yes, well,” MacIldowney said, blowing on his tea, “I gathered from the way he talked that he was hard up.”
“Did he say what he’d done in the meantime?”
“He had a portfolio with him, so I suppose he must have taken some courses or worked elsewhere.”
“His father described him as an office boy.”
“That’s rather uncharitable. He was quite a capable draftsman, especially with pen and ink. I never would have hired him otherwise.”
“We can’t run a business based on pity,” Des said, “though Charles makes every effort to do so.”
“Nowadays everyone uses computers,” MacIldowney said. “We’re no different. But I often prefer to work by hand, as I was taught, and it gratified me to meet a like mind.”
“He was an odd duck,” Des said.
“I’m not going to dispute that he had... tendencies.”
“The house connects to the office via the second floor,” Des said. “I used to come down to the kitchen for a drink of water at midnight and hear him in there, listening to the radio while he worked.”
“He got his assignments done on time,” MacIldowney said.
“You can’t deny it’s out of order, Charles.”
“Did he get along with people?” Jacob asked.
“Well, that was the crux of it,” MacIldowney said. “I always thought that his reason for keeping late hours was to avoid interacting with the rest of the staff, which he couldn’t have done at a larger firm. Aside from Des and me, we employ two architects and an office manager. Reggie would turn up to lend a hand for a few months, around Christmastime. Under any other circumstances I would have insisted on a more stable arrangement, but it so happened he fit the bill precisely. It helped to have someone picking up the slack for the rest of us.”
Des said, “Tell the truth, darling. You felt bad for him.”
“I suppose I did. I couldn’t help it. I looked at him and saw the same confused little boy.”
“He wasn’t a boy when you knew him,” Norton said.
“Yes, but he had a certain quality to him,” MacIldowney said.