And I see good, too—little boys out sweeping crossings to bring precious pennies back to their mums, husbands giving up their ‘baccy and beer to give the kids a Christmas, women working long into the night for the wherewithal to feed their families—
Maya put on her hat, skewered it in place with a hatpin the size of a stiletto, and went to see the “perleesmun” before he frightened three quarters of her patients. With her bag in hand, so that he would get the hint that she meant to be on her way home as soon as she’d done with him, she went out into the waiting room. The waiting room was full, of course, but thanks to Lord Peter’s generosity, they’d been able to bring O’Reilly in on salary, and he, bless him, had arrived a half hour ago.
It wasn’t difficult to pick the policeman out, although he was not in uniform; not too many men coming into the Fleet were so nattily attired, and those that were generally were ill at ease or even alarmed at the sight of so many members of the lowest class of society. Besides the neat brown suit, he was too well-groomed and prosperous to be from around here; his old-fashioned mutton-chop brown whiskers and mustache surrounded a well-shaved, firm chin—such a good, strong chin with no hint of middle-aged fat that Maya suspected he kept it bare out of vanity. The bowler hat had not a speck of dust to disfigure it. Maya went straight to him, her free hand held out. He took it, and shook it gravely.
“I am Doctor Witherspoon; I believe you are looking for me, Detective—?” she paused significantly, waiting for him to supply a name.
“Detective Crider,” the man replied, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. She liked his handshake; strong without being overbearing, a warm, dry hand, neither too familiar nor too distant. “You’re quickwitted to know me for a ‘tec, if I do say so, miss.”
“Well, a police officer, but out of uniform—what else could you be?” she said, smiling. “How can I help you?”
“I was just hoping you would tell me about the last time you saw a gentleman by the name of Simon Parkening,” was the odd reply. “I’m told you have had a bit to do with him.”
Maya frowned, puzzled. “Parkening? Goodness, the last time I saw him was at the hospital, when I was showing Bishop Mannering some of the charity wards I work in,” she replied immediately. “I must say, he looked rather ill. He’d had what I thought might be a heatstroke the day before, I found him on the floor of one of the storage closets, you know. I sent him up to the regular Male Wards to have one of the other physicians look him over, since he wasn’t my patient.” She smiled deprecatingly. “I am a very junior surgeon and physician, you see. As a consequence, most of my patients are charity cases, and when they are not charity, they are uniformly female. I’m hardly the type of doctor that Simon Parkening would welcome as attending physician.”
“You say he looked ill, miss?” the detective persisted.
She nodded. “Quite green, to be honest. If he had been my patient, I would have insisted that he stop at home for several days, and if he felt he needed further attention, I would have made a house call. I can’t imagine what he was thinking, coming into the hospital like that after collapsing the day before. Even if it was because he urgently needed to see his uncle, surely Doctor Clayton-Smythe would have come to him if he’d sent a message.”
“So—he wasn’t thinking rational, you’d say?” The detective’s mustache twitched, as if he were a bloodhound that had just sniffed something interesting.
Well, this is certainly an odd conversation. I wonder what Parkening has gotten himself into now? More than his uncle can hush up, if there’s a police detective asking questions. “That would depend entirely on what you think of as ‘rational,’ ” she temporized. “Do I think he still knew the difference between right and wrong? Definitely. Do I think he was capable of getting himself from his flat to the hospital and back without losing his way? Obviously, or I would have made sure someone went with him. But do I think he was prepared to treat himself as an invalid? Definitely not—but that was as likely to be from a reluctance to accept an infirmity, however temporary, as from a deficiency in judgment. A man like Simon Parkening,” she added judiciously, “is unlikely to admit to any sort of weakness.”
The detective nodded, but persisted. “Assumin’ he had a heatstroke, could he have, well, gone off his head after you saw him? Not in any violent way, you understand—just, go a bit barmy, so to speak, and wander off somewhere?”
Good heavens, don’t tell me the man’s gone missing! “It’s less likely than that he’d simply fall down in a faint somewhere, but it could happen, I suppose,” she replied. “The last I saw of him, his uncle had taken him in charge and was sending him back to his flat in a cab.”
“And that would be where?” the policeman asked.
Curiouser and curiouser. “I’m not sure. We don’t precisely move in the same social circles, you understand,” she responded, and frowned. “Piccadilly? Or would that be—no, that’s Doctor Greenway. I’m sure he must be in the West End somewhere. Doctor Clayton-Smythe is Sloane Square—well, Mister Parkening isn’t a doctor; I know all of the other doctors’ addresses of course, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you where Mister Parkening lives.”
Piccadilly probably wasn’t where Parkening lived, but it was probably the right sort of area for him to be in. If something’s wrong, I don’t want to immediately deny that I know where he lives. Oh, dear, this is so difficult! How to avoid looking suspicious when I don’t know what I might be suspected of!
“Belgravia,” the policeman supplied absently. “He’s got a flat in Belgravia.” He seemed to find Maya’s responses perfectly reasonable; she detected a relaxation that hadn’t been there a moment before.
Oh, good. At least I’m not a suspect anymore!
“Oh—that makes sense—so handy to his uncle.” Maya smiled cheerfully. “Although I would never have guessed it; Simon Parkening doesn’t strike me as the sort of gentleman for such an artistic neighborhood. It just goes to show how little I know about him, I suppose. Perhaps he has secret yearnings to act, or writes unpublished poetry! I don’t suppose you can tell me what all this is about, can you, detective?”
“Seein’ as there’s no connection with you and Mister Parkening—it seems he’s gone missing, miss.” The detective was very good at concealing his thoughts behind that walrus mustache, but Maya saw his eyes peering at her keenly, waiting for her reaction. Fortunately, since she had nothing whatsoever to hide, it was an honest one of surprise.
“Good heavens! Missing? But how? When? Oh, dear. Is Doctor Clayton-Smythe all right?”
“Happens he went out last night, and didn’t come home at all, miss,” the detective said with a certain subdued relish, but a very inquisitive and predatory gleam in his blue eyes. “His man alarmed the police this morning, thinking his master must have met with harm.”
“Oh, no—how horrible!” she exclaimed. “And certainly if he’d met with an accident, he’d have been taken to his uncle’s hospital immediately—oh, heavens!” Her tone took on annoyance as well as concern. “Oh, these young men will go out on their amusements, no matter what a doctor tells them! I swear to you, if it wasn’t for young men behaving foolishly, I wouldn’t have half the number of patients I see!”
Now the policeman chuckled, and there was sympathy in his voice. “I must agree with you, miss. If it wasn’t for high-spirited young men, there wouldn’t be no need for a quarter of the men on the Force.”
She sighed. “I can’t think what to suggest to you. I suppose there’s no chance he could have come over ill and be safely in bed at a friend’s flat?”