The Blue Girl (4 page)

I’d nosed about the neighborhood until I found an old woman who remembered where the writer had lived. She was certain he had died, and almost as certain that his house stood empty now.

The place did have the flavor of something long abandoned, but there were lights visible in the windows and so I pressed forward. I thought of
The Robber Bridegroom
and shivered. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, reminded of the girl on Kingsley’s table. The blue-grey fog still swirled about my ankles and crept along the hedges like a feral animal waiting for sufficient numbers to attack, and I could imagine a croaking voice from somewhere up ahead—
Turn back, turn back, you pretty thing
—but it was only the wind in the trees. Gas lamps were lit all along the path and I followed them to the massive front door, a single panel of oak that must have been imported at great expense. The brass knocker in the center of the door was in the shape of a wolf’s head. I rapped three times and waited, and after several long minutes I heard footsteps from within and the door swung open. A small, silent man in an inexpensive dark suit stood looking out at me. I handed him my calling card and he beckoned me inside. The door closed behind me and I was ushered through a vast entrance hall hung with a handful of colorful tapestries. Between the hangings were rectangular patches of dark bare stone. A chandelier dangled inches above my head and I noticed that the brass arches of it were coated with a heavy layer of dust. The place smelled as if it had needed a good airing out a year or two before and had now given up.

The man asked me to wait and went ahead of me into a dim room. I caught just a glimpse of dark wood and brown furniture before the door closed in my face. I waited. After a moment, the door opened again and the little fellow waved me in before disappearing back down the hall.

A man stood behind a desk across the room from me. He was surrounded by heavy floor-to-ceiling shelves, all stuffed with dusty books. A mirror in a gilt frame the size of a small carriage filled half of the wall to my right and magnified the effect of the books across from it. I took a quick inventory of those books. The old priest would have been shocked by the number of marbled spines among them. I recognized the well-worn cover of a book on his desk before the man started speaking and demanded my attention.

“Inspector Pringle?”

“Sir.”

“So good of you to come by.”

The man stepped around the side of the desk and held his hand out for me to shake. He seemed to have been expecting me. I noted the excellent tailoring of his earth-colored suit. He wore a cravat at his throat and his new brown shoes were stiff and polished to a high sheen. I took his hand.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“But you’re in my house. I assumed you knew who you were visiting.”

“You’d be Mr Cream, then?”

“Indeed, I am. Geoffrey Cream.”

“That book,” I said, “I recognize it.” I pointed at the familiar blue cover of
Marriage, Custom and Practise
on his desk. “Robert Cream, the author . . . was he related to you?”

“Our father,” he said. It sounded like the start of a prayer.

“Then you’re just the man I wish to speak to,” I said.

Geoffrey Cream took his hand from mine and smoothed the front of his waistcoat before leaning against a corner of the desk. “Yes?”

“I’d appreciate a few moments of your time, if it’s no trouble.”

“Of course. Please forgive me if I don’t seem awfully friendly. I’ve had a rather befuddling night and haven’t had a chance to catch up yet. I’m even wearing yesterday’s clothing.”

“I can’t imagine.” I really couldn’t.

He raised an eyebrow and nodded. If he hadn’t slept, he had at least taken the time to groom. His hair was oiled and brushed straight back from his wide brow, and his mustache had been waxed and shaped. He looked like an illustration from a men’s adventure magazine. Or something from that fairy tale about the wolf in human guise.

“Why such a hard night, Mr Cream?”

“My wife’s disappeared. Is that why you’ve come, Inspector? You have news about her?”

I took the blue girl’s portrait out of my pocket and unfolded it. I handed it to Cream. He swallowed hard and dropped the paper on the desk beside him.

“That’s her,” he said.

“What was her name?”

“
Was?
She’s dead?” He seemed, in that moment, like a man genuinely concerned about his wife. The moment passed. He started to fold his arms, then dropped them and looked at the portrait again. “Her name was Lily. Lily George. Well, Lily Cream now, I suppose.”

“How long were you married?”

“We were married yesterday morning. I brought her back here and when I checked on her before tea she was gone from her room.”

“Did you send for the police?”

Cream hesitated before answering. “My sister thought it best to wait. She thought Lily might come back.”

“But she didn’t come back.”

“I thought perhaps she needed some time to herself. To get used to the idea of marriage.”

“Was marriage so disagreeable for her, then?”

“Not at all.” That wolf smile flickered across his face.
Of course not
, it said,
she was lucky.
Then he remembered that he was supposed to be sad. His mustache bobbed up and down as he composed his expression.

“Mr Cream . . .”

“Please, call me Geoffrey.”

“Mr Cream, you were just married and you were already avoiding your spouse? Because your sister suggested it? Do you always follow your sister’s advice in personal matters?”

“My sister and I are very close. Our father died too early and we were left with no family but each other, you understand.”

“And Lily.”

“Pardon?”

“No family but each other and Lily, correct? She had just married into the family.”

He waved his hand, dispelling my remark like a bad odor, and walked away from me around the side of the desk. He sat and leaned back and looked up at me.

I got the sense that my audience with him was nearing its end. I needed to draw him out. I had no evidence that he had committed a crime, but I didn’t like him.

“Why did you marry Lily George if you didn’t care for her? Money?”

“Why would you say such a thing? Yes, she had money, but what of it? I did care for her. Of course I did. She was my wife.” He covered his face with his hands, still trying to muster a human reaction.

“Did your sister care for her?”

“I never asked her.”

“But what do you think?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think she did.”

“Why?”

“She said . . .” he stopped and I heard a soft gurgling noise coming from somewhere behind his hands. “She once told me we didn’t need Lily.”

“But you did need her, didn’t you?” I said. “Tell me, just how much money
did
Lily have?”

“Don’t be idiotic.”

“I noticed bare spots on your walls. You’ve sold your paintings. And from the dust everywhere, I imagine you’ve let most of your staff go. The little fellow who let me in the door, he’s all you’ve got left, unless I miss my guess. Lily George had the money you needed, but you didn’t love her. Your marriage was a sham.”

“That’s nothing but idle speculation. I was quite prepared to make Lily happy.”

“From what I see here, I very much doubt that. I’m going to have to send round to the Yard for an inspector, Mr Cream. Someone from the Murder Squad.”

He lowered his hands and looked at me. His eyes were dry.

“Send for an inspector? But my sister told me
you
were an inspector.”

“Why would she say that? I haven’t met her.”

“Haven’t you? I thought . . .” he broke off and glared at the wall.

“I’m only walking my beat,” I said.

“You’re nothing but a bluebottle? Why would they send you?”

“You weren’t important enough for anyone to send a detective.”

He stood and leaned toward me over the desk. Finally he showed some real emotion. “This is outrageous!” His voice cracked as it rose and I could see the muscles bunching under his well-tailored white shirt. “You’ll regret this charade. I can promise you that.”

“That’s enough, Geoffrey dear.”

I turned and watched the woman drift in through the open study door. She moved around to the other side of the desk and laid a proprietary hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. He instantly relaxed.

“Lily is dead,” he said to her.

“I heard,” she said. “I was listening at the door. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” he said.

“Be calm, dear.” She turned to me. “Very clever, Constable. Were you hoping my brother would confess to killing poor Lily if you angered him sufficiently?”

“It was a thought,” I said.

She had changed her dress since I saw her at the lending library and she had freed her long auburn hair from its chignon. I knew she was a spiteful creature, and a librarian to boot, but my heart beat a little faster and I realized that a part of me still wanted to see Veronica Cream smile.

“You told me you were a detective,” she said.

“I hoped to impress you. I always hope to impress beautiful women. But it was a useful lie because you ran straight to your brother and warned him that I might visit. Do you think he would have let me in the door if he knew I was a constable?”

“I doubt it very much. So you knew I was here the entire time?”

“I suspected you were.”

“You seem to suspect a great deal. Did you follow me here from the library?”

“No. Your brother called me ‘Inspector’ before I’d even introduced myself. My calling card says no such thing.”

“How clever of you. Perhaps you should be a detective after all.”

“Did you murder poor Lily George?”

“Of course not.”

“Perhaps you both killed her.”

“Not at all. If she’s dead, I’m sure she did it to herself. She was a timid thing, never strong.”

“Lily drowned in the canal four streets over. But she was choked first. There were marks on her throat.”

“She must have met with an unfortunate accident,” Veronica said. “My brother and I are devastated, of course.”

“An accident?”

“I can only assume. Perhaps she went for a walk last night and was surprised by a ruffian. Some man, some criminal, strangled Lily for whatever she had in her pocketbook and then threw her in the canal. It seems clear enough to me. Perhaps if you were out there doing your job such things wouldn’t happen.”

“It works as a story,” I said. “But you like stories, don’t you? I prefer the truth.”

“I suppose the truth is whatever you choose to believe, ‘Inspector.’”

“Enough, Veronica.” Geoffrey’s voice was quiet and he didn’t look at me as he spoke. I couldn’t see his face. “I did try to help poor Lily, you know.”

“You tried to help her?” I said.

“Oh, do be quiet, Geoffrey,” Veronica said.

He ignored her. “She really was an emotional girl. I thought she might brighten up a bit upon marriage, but she went to her room directly after the wedding and wouldn’t come out for hours.”

“She was unhappy?”

Geoffrey nodded. “I don’t know why. I really don’t. I became . . . concerned. When I finally had my man open her door, she was sitting at her vanity, staring into the mirror and she had the most horrible bruises on her neck. She didn’t say anything. She simply stood and left her room, walked right past me as if I didn’t exist, and walked out of the house.”

“Her throat was already bruised?”

“She must have done it to herself.”

“You didn’t follow her?”

“I thought she’d come home. I thought we’d talk.”

“Did your sister follow her?”

“I did not,” Veronica said.

“No,” Geoffrey said. “She was here with me. She never left.”

Veronica smiled and I was disappointed to find I’d been wrong: a smile failed to improve her. “Let’s have enough of this foolishness,” she said. “No crime’s been committed here. Join us for tea, Mr Pringle.”

She moved around the desk and approached me. One sleeve of her dress had slipped from her smooth white shoulder. She laid her fingers on my chest and I breathed her hair. Lilacs and vanilla. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror across the room and saw that wolf grin and was ashamed. Lamplight flickered across the surface of a diamond. I caught Veronica’s hand and twisted the ring from her finger. I pushed her away.

“Why are you wearing a wedding ring?”

“She asked me to keep it for her,” Veronica said.

“Lily, you mean? Lily asked you to wear her wedding ring? I don’t believe it.” I turned to her brother. “Mr Cream, did you even notice that your sister is wearing your wife’s wedding ring today?”

Geoffrey Cream blinked and said nothing. His sister’s lip curled at the edge and a throaty whisper echoed somewhere deep in her chest. “It was Mother’s ring, not some stranger’s. It didn’t belong to her.”

“You took it from her?” Geoffrey said.

“It was meant to be mine. Lily didn’t belong here. It’s always been the two of us and we’ve been happy.”

“What did you do, Veronica?” I said.

“She gave me the ring.”

“Lily went to her room to freshen up after the wedding,” I said. “And you visited her there, didn’t you, Veronica? Did you tell her that Geoffrey didn’t love her? What else did you say to her? That he belonged to you?”

“I said nothing that wasn’t true.” I could see the hate in her eyes. It looked more natural than her smile had.

“You couldn’t stand to share your brother with another woman, could you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the fire had gone out of her. Her brother tried to catch her eye, but she looked away from him at the shelves of books.

“It must have bothered you when Geoffrey started seeing her. You controlled your emotions, but last night . . .

“You two have been sharing this house since your father died,” I said. “You’ve settled into a routine here and Lily threatened everything, didn’t she?”

“I barely spoke to her.”

“You choked her.”

Veronica looked worried for the first time. “We disagreed,” she said.

“You must have nearly killed her.”