A Death at a Gentleman's Club by Caroline Dunford

Author:Caroline Dunford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Accent Press

Chapter Eleven

Interviews, Second Sitting

Prentice Davenport sat forward in his chair, a bundle of nervous energy. ‘Anything I can do to help,’ he said. ‘It’s all about his missing papers, isn’t it? That’s what Chapelford said. He suggested that old Killian must have some salacious secret up his sleeve. Not that I would know what that is. Heart attack, was it? Only the others were - well - saying things. Wouldn’t be nice for those to get out if it wasn’t true.’

Mentally, I kicked myself. I wrote on a piece of paper We should have got Parry to put them in different rooms after we have interviewed them, so they couldn’t confer and passed it across the table to Bertram.

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Bertram aloud. He recovered quickly. ‘What are your fellows suggesting?’

‘That Killian was a bit of a user of drugs - you know, opium and that kind of thing.’ He fidgeted in his seat. ‘Cole-Sutton was even saying he might have done himself in - excuse me, miss. I know that’s not a nice thing to say, especially of a dead man, but I need to be as open and honest as I can be with your employer.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bertram’s lips twitch. ‘It is very important you tell the truth, Mr Davenport,’ I said. ‘My sensibilities must come second to justice.’

‘Right-o,’ said Davenport. ‘Thing is, Killian never married, as far as we knew, but when he was in his prime he supposedly was rather fond of the weaker sex. He got very drunk recently and hinted to me of a terrible scandal in his past.’

‘When was that?’ said Bertram quickly.

‘Oh, a couple of nights ago. Let me think. Wednesday, because we had plum duff.’ He turned to face me. ‘There’s always plum duff here on Thursday. It’s rather good.’

‘Wednesday or Thursday?’ I asked.

Davenport slapped himself on the forehead. ‘If it’s not written down I’m a martyr to my memory,’ he said. ‘Never could get my head round mathematics at school.’

‘What is it you do for a living, Mr Davenport?’ I asked.

‘I have a little import and export business. Poor Pa popped off quite suddenly. He was in the process of training me up. Then it would have been all fine and dandy, but it wasn’t to be. Nasty thing, having a dodgy ticker. Never know when that dreadful chappie with the scythe is going to come calling.’

‘Wednesday or Thursday?’ said Bertram coldly.

Davenport shook his head. ‘Terribly sorry, old thing, but I really couldn’t say. Not to put my hand on my heart and all that. Definitely the same day as the plum duff though. So if you ask the kitchen they’ll be able to tell you.’

‘I’ll make a note of that,’ I said, hoping we could now move on from puddings.

‘Did you ever see Mr Lovelock’s memoirs?’

‘Yes, that is to say no,’ said Davenport.

‘Which?’ said Bertram, who was beginning to sound more and more like Fitzroy the vaguer Davenport became. The problem was

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