Free Murder by Sarah Pinborough

the Alice McKenzie killing, the one date he’d claimed beyond doubt to be dining at the club.
    I was not in luck: despite my entirely plausible excuse of wanting to check some personal dates of attendance to clear up a matter with a friend – banking on the fact that the man in charge would not know whether I had visited there before or not – he could not provide me with the books, for they were stored elsewhere, and in any case, members’ records were a private matter. I could, however, leave a note with myname and the date in question on it, and someone would check on my behalf and send a message to me. All of this was explained on the presumption that I was a member and not simply a guest, and so I smiled and told him I might well do that if I could not find the details in my own papers; that I wouldn’t put anyone to such trouble until I was certain it was necessary.
    After that, I made my excuses to my companions and left. I could not risk the gentleman at the desk changing his mind and coming to find me, for there was no story I could conceive that would explain to Charles my needing to see the club’s records. As I was quite sure he was innocent of the suspicions I needed to allay in my mind, it would make me look a fool, and it would also damage our relationship – and thus my relationship with Juliana.
    My sleep was fitful as my mind dragged images and memories I thought had long since faded to the fore of my nightmares and then twisted them with images of Hebbert and Juliana and of course James Harrington until I woke, sweating and terrified, a little after four. There was no laudanum in the house and I was glad of that, for I am sure I would have swallowed half the bottle to calm myself.
    I needed to check those records. It was the only way I would find peace for myself again. The kernel of suspicion I held about Hebbert was like a gateway to all the horrors of the past I had worked so hard to put behind me.
    After Mrs Parks’ breakfast, which, though I was in no mood to eat, I managed anyway, I took a cab to Walter Andrews’ offices and asked if I could engage his private investigation services to get the records for me. To his credit he did not press when I told him I would rather not share why I wanted themat this stage, but I did say it had something to do with young Harrington. I was simply trying to clear up a small matter, nothing important.
    When he arrived that evening with the Members’ Ledgers for 1888 and 1889 in his hands, he was more curious. Although I was desperate to check the entries, I put the books on a side-table and offered him a drink, which he accepted.
    ‘I must have them back early tomorrow morning,’ he said. He hadn’t taken his coat off and the heavy raindrops caught in its folds dripped on the rug, marking out the seconds. ‘And there is a small sum to be paid to the employee who provided them – no fee on my part though, Thomas. Consider it a favour to a friend.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I handed him a small glass of brandy – an ungenerous measure, but I didn’t want him to linger. ‘I shall return them first thing.’
    ‘You could of course check what you need while I wait,’ he said. ‘And then I could return them tonight.’ I did not miss the curious look in his eyes. I knew Andrews well, and his eye for detail was as acute as mine. We also trusted each other, and I had no doubt he was wondering why I was being so reticent about this.
    ‘I need to look at these in conjunction with some other documents that aren’t in the house, I’m afraid,’ I extemporised. ‘But have no fear: I shall have them back to you by breakfast time, I assure you.’
    ‘That’s fine.’ He drained his brandy. ‘Then I shall leave you to it.’
    ‘Thank you once again,’ I said, trying not to look over-eager as I edged him towards the drawing-room door. ‘I really do appreciate your help.’
    He paused in the hallway and studied me in the dimmedlight. ‘I could not help but