Page 4 of Corpse in the Canal

“You don’t think Percy is missing at all, do you?” Solomon said.

“I think it’s unlikely. But his father is worried to the point of fearful, and I want to know why.”

Solomon nodded. They often had the same instincts at the beginning of a case. It tended to be later that they diverged as they learned and interpreted all the gathered information. At the moment they had nothing but a father’s concern.

They were too early for a civilized morning call, especially when they were unknown to their hosts, so Solomon made a point of sending apologies with their card. “But if Mr. or Mrs. Waltham could spare us a few moments of their time, we would be most grateful.”

The well-trained butler invited them inside and showed them into a small, impersonal reception room while he inquired if his master or mistress were at home. Which was the accepted euphemism for whether or not either wished to receive the visitors in question.

Solomon poked around the tidy bookshelf, while Constance examined the bland landscapes on the wall. But there was little clue to the Walthams’ characters from either. Solomon was just straightening when the door opened and a young couple burst into the room, their faces wreathed in mischievous grins.

Constance, of course, was up to any social occasion. She advanced, smiling upon the couple, who had pulled up short at sight of Solomon. “Mrs. Waltham? We’re so sorry to intrude upon you unannounced.”

“Oh, no,” said the pretty Mrs. Waltham, “Sheeves announced you perfectly and curiosity got the better of us. But we’re not acquainted, are we?” She did not offer her hand.

“Not yet,” Constance said. “I’m Mrs. Grey. This is my husband.”

“I say!” Waltham exclaimed as Solomon bowed to them. “You are the Solomon Grey, aren’t you? In shipping?”

“I am in shipping,” Solomon admitted, “among other things.”

Waltham thrust out his hand with casual friendliness. “Robert Waltham, at your service. Tell you what, come up to the drawing room—it’s always cold in here.”

The lady of the house and Constance led the way. Constance said admiringly, “What a charming home you have. Is the decoration your own design, Mrs. Waltham?” Everything was light and bright and uncluttered, from the plain-painted walls to the dainty, almost-sparse furnishings.

“It is,” Mrs. Waltham said, beaming. “My mother hates it, of course. She doesn’t think it’s dignified enough, but we’re just not dignified people, are we, Bobby?” she appealed to her husband, who gave a rueful laugh.

“Sadly not. Can’t seem to stay serious for long enough. Which is why I’m at a loss to explain your visit, sir—welcome as it is,” he added hastily as they entered a drawing room in a similar style. “Refreshment? Tea? Something stronger?”

Solomon and Constance both refused, and they all sat down comfortably, their hosts together on the sofa like children expectant of a treat.

Solomon spoke lightly. “Don’t worry, we have not called on a serious matter. Merely, we are looking for Mr. Percival Harvey.”

“Percy? He’s got rooms just off Piccadilly, in—”

“He hasn’t been back to his rooms in a few days. His father is worried—no doubt forgetting his own youth.”

“Not sure old Harvey was ever young,” Waltham remarked.

“The thing is,” Solomon said, “it might be best if I find him before his father does.”

Waltham grinned. “I should say so.”

“Have you any idea where I should start?”

Waltham opened his mouth, then closed it again and scratched his chin. “Not sure I do…”

“I understand there is a lady, a Mrs. Jenkins…”

Waltham frowned. “Oh, there’s always a lady with Perce. Not sure I know a Jenkins, though. What’s her first name?”

“Adelaide, I believe. She is a widow.”

Waltham brightened. “Adelaide! Of course. Yes, he’s quite besotted with her, whoever she is. Never met her.”

“I understood she was in Town just now.”

“Ah, then she might be at Grillon’s Hotel—he did go haring off there the other night.”