‘Excuse me for one moment, Inspector,’ said the other, opening the door. ‘The record book is kept in the shop.’
‘I apologise for coming at such an awkward time.’
‘Business always picks up when the Derby is in the offing. Every lady wants to look her best on Epsom Downs. It’s been like this for several days now.’
Swinnerton went out and closed the door behind him, leaving Colbeck to take a closer look at the storeroom. As well as the row of leather hatboxes, there were a number of brightly coloured cardboard ones with the name of the milliner painted boldly on the lid. Evidently, it was a thriving enterprise with a constant demand for the hats that Swinnerton designed and sold. Catering for the upper echelons of society, the shop clearly fulfilled its requirements. When he returned with his ledger, the first thing that Swinnerton did was to lift up the hatbox so that he could look at the number on the back. He then referred to his record book, flipping over the pages until he came to the one he sought.
‘Here we are,’ he said, tapping the name with a long finger. ‘The hat and hatbox were sold two months ago. As a matter of fact, I handled the sale myself. Certain customers expect my individual attention, you know, so I have to oblige them. Yes, I remember the hat clearly – a little too flamboyant for most ladies but she carried it off well. It was almost as if it were made for her, Inspector.’
‘Made for whom?’
‘His wife,’ replied Swinnerton. ‘He came in with her and waited patiently while she tried on almost everything in the shop. That’s the hatbox he bought, no question of it. Though I can’t believe for a moment that he would have been responsible for putting a man’s head in it. That’s unthinkable. He would never dream of such a thing.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m an astute judge of character, Inspector. One has to be in this trade. Dealing with the public sharpens one’s instincts.’
‘What did your instincts tell you about this gentleman?’
‘He’s a pillar of society – decent, upright, wholly incorruptible.’
‘May I know his name, please?’
‘Lord Hendry.’
‘Thank you, Mr Swinnerton.’
‘Shall I furnish you with his address?’
‘There’s no need,’ said Colbeck, picking up the hatbox. ‘I think I know exactly where to find Lord Hendry.’
Hands on hips, Lord George Hendry stood back to admire the painting that had just been hung over the marble fireplace. Every detail intrigued him, every nuance of colour was a delight. He was a stout, distinguished-looking man of medium height with a fleshy, rubicund face that looked much older than his fifty years and large, blue eyes that had a zestful glint. He was still gazing at the portrait when his wife came into the library, leaning heavily on her walking stick.
‘Aren’t you tempting Providence somewhat?’ she enquired.
He turned round. ‘Providence?’
‘I would have thought it much safer to hang the painting after Odysseus had won the Derby, not before the race had even taken place. What happens if your horse loses?’
‘Out of the question, my dear.’
‘You’ve said that on many previous occasions.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘and my confidence has often proved to be without foundation. Not this time, Caroline. I have the best trainer and the best jockey. More to the point,’ he went on, indicating the racehorse in the oil painting, ‘I have the finest three-year old ever to enter the race. Look at a true thoroughbred, my dear, look at that conformation, look at that imperious quality the artist has caught so brilliantly. Every bookmaker in London has made Odysseus the favourite. I account him a certainty.’
‘Then I hope, for your sake, that he is, George,’ she said, coming forward to take a closer look at the animal. ‘It’s a superb piece of work – quite inspiring, in its own way.’
Lady Caroline Hendry did not share her husband’s passion for the Turf but she tolerated all of his sporting interests. If a painting had to be given pride of place in the library, she would rather it be of a champion racehorse than of one of the battle-scarred pugilists whom he chose to patronise. She was a short, full-bodied woman with a beauty that had slowly given way to a startling pallor savagely criss-crossed by age. Rheumatism and its attendant pain had put many of the lines in her face and hampered her movement. It did not, however, diminish her spirit or her Christian impulse.
‘Did you speak with the archdeacon?’ asked her husband.
‘I’ve just returned from the meeting.’
‘Well?’
‘He agreed that the charity was eminently worthwhile.’
‘You have to draw the line somewhere, my dear. You already give to far too many people. Why add to the burden?’
‘I only give to the deserving poor, George,’ she said.
‘But how do you know they are deserving?’
‘I take the archdeacon’s advice.’
‘Not in every instance,’ he recalled. ‘He had severe reservations about your donation to the lunatic asylum.’
‘I visited the place – he did not. The conditions there are quite revolting. I simply had to do what I could for those benighted souls.’
He forced a smile. ‘As always, my dear, you were right.’
Lady Hendry was a woman of independent means. Her private wealth had been an agreeable irrelevance when her husband had first met and fallen in love with her. He had been ensnared by her beauty, grace and sophistication. The fact that she took an interest in various charitable institutions only added to her appeal. Now, however, it was different. Lord Hendry strongly resented the recipients of his wife’s benevolence. On those occasions when he had heavy gambling debts to settle, he would have liked to turn to her for help but felt unable to do so. Someone who owned a splendid mansion at the heart of a large estate in Surrey could hardly claim to be one of the deserving poor.
‘How much do you propose to give this time?’ he asked.
‘Five hundred pounds.’
He felt a pang of envy, thinking of how he could spend that amount of money. The familiar bitterness rose up within him but he concealed it behind another bland smile.
‘You could donate even more than that, Caroline.’
‘We felt that was the appropriate amount.’
‘There’s a very simple way to increase it.’
‘Is there?’
‘Of course,’ he said, turning back to the painting. ‘Invest the money in Odysseus and let him double or treble it. I own the horse so you’ll be supporting the family into the bargain. After all,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘charity begins at home. Even the archdeacon would accept that, I dare venture.’
Victor Leeming was more lugubrious than ever. The past twenty-four hours had been something of a nightmare. Forced to endure a long train journey, he had spent an uncomfortable night in the company of a severed head before having to suffer another four hours or more on the railway. Though he was allowed a brief respite to see his wife and children, all the pleasure from the encounter had been dissipated by his visit to the morgue where he had had to listen to details of the decapitation that had made his stomach heave. No sooner had he taken the medical report back to Scotland Yard than he was grabbed by Robert Colbeck and taken off to another railway station. As the train rumbled south with ear-splitting assurance, Leeming retreated into a moody silence.
Colbeck had no difficulty in reading his mind.
‘You’ll thank me for bringing you on this trip, Victor.’
‘I doubt it, sir.’
‘You are about to meet an interesting gentlemen.’
‘What is interesting about buying your wife a hat?’
‘You obviously don’t know who Lord George Hendry is.’
‘I rarely rub shoulders with the aristocracy.’