Free The Final Page of Baker Street by Daniel D. Victor Page B

wife to death?”
    Ignoring the question, Youghal produced a small notepad and yellow pencil from his coat pocket. Nostalgic recollections gone, he was now all business. “For the record, sir,” he said to Billy, “may I ask where you were just past midnight?”
    â€œIn my digs in Bloomsbury. I say, are you - ”
    â€œCan anyone confirm that?”
    A flustered Billy paused to consider. “I was writing all day. Listened through the walls to my neighbour playing Bach on his violin; but, no, the fellow never saw me. I bought some ham and cheese for early supper, returned to my room with it, ate, did some more writing, and went to bed. By myself.”
    â€œMore’s the pity,” the inspector said. “Witnesses can be helpful. It’s so much easier when we can eliminate suspects.”
    A look of alarm crossed Billy’s face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to think better of it, and remained silent.
    â€œRight then,” Youghal said. “I’ll be getting back to the Yard. We’ve already posted men at train stations and dockyards, but I fear the fugitive has got too early a lead on us.”
    He returned his notebook and pencil to his pocket. Then he picked up his derby from the entry-hall table and, placing the hat on his head, touched its brim with two fingers, and followed Mrs. Meeks to the door. About to make his exit, he suddenly stopped and turned.
    â€œDoctor,” he said to me, “I almost forgot. Terrence Leonard’s Derringer. I’ll be needing to take it back to the Yard.”
    â€œHis wife’s Derringer,” Billy corrected.
    It was strange that I had forgotten about the gun. Reaching into the pocket of the coat to which I’d transferred it, I produced the small weapon and placed it into the policeman’s outstretched hand.
    â€œHis wife’s gun,” I repeated.
    â€œAnd who was it, Doctor, that told you this gun belonged to his wife? - besides Billy here, of course. The killer himself?” With a smirk and a shake of the head, Youghal examined the Derringer. “It’s not loaded.”
    â€œNor has it been fired recently,” I told him. “I checked.”
    Youghal nodded his thanks and once more extended his hand. “The bullet as well.”
    â€œI thought it safer to remove it,” I said, handing him the tiny missile that I’d kept in a pocket of my waistcoat.”
    Youghal grunted thanks. Then he resumed his original march out into the darkness.
    * * *
    Much against my better judgement, I had agreed to meet Billy in front of Lord Steynwood’s town house shortly after noon the next day in Mayfair. Confident in his friend’s innocence, Billy hoped that the key to the “true” story of Sylvia Leonard’s murder might lie with the house staff.
    No matter how determined Billy might be, I still had a medical practice to attend. As far as I was concerned, the terrible events of the day before needed to be put behind us, and the best method for accomplishing such a task seemed to me a return to routine activities as soon as possible. Still, I couldn’t ignore Billy’s pleas. After mollifying Miss Shelvington, as well as devoting additional examination time to Mrs. Wallingham and three others, I found myself in Mayfair beneath gloomy skies an hour or so after noon. I met Billy as we had planned. Dressed in his dark mac, he was leaning against the black wrought-iron fence that fronted the Steynwood property.
    A stately terraced house that befitted its wealthy owner, it was painted like its neighbours’ homes in a white the colour of rich cream. With windows trimmed in formal black and a pair of Corinthian columns framing the entrance, the stoic façade seemed unmoved by the tragedy inside. And yet one felt something ominous clinging to the place. A line of tall oaks near the pavement cast deep shadows across the large front door; and half-drawn curtains,