Free Murder on Charing Cross Road by Joan Smith

this morning. A connection of mine, Harry Bolton, was murdered last night. His father asked us to look into it.”
    “Another murder,”Morgrave said, shaking his head in dismay but showing no other emotion. “It’s becoming unsafe to go out at night. How did it happen?”
    “He was killed in his own flat.”
    “Ah, a robbery. He’d have been wiser to just let them take what they wanted.”
    “We don’t know just what happened yet,”Luten said. “We were only called in this morning.”
    “Harry Bolton, you say? I don’t I believe I know him. Do we know him, Sam?”
    She frowned and said, “I don’t believe so, though the name’s rather familiar. Where would one have been likely to meet him, Luten? Did he go about in society much?”
    “Not what one would call high society, the ton. I daresay he had his own set.”
    The topic was winding down, and soon they would have to leave. When no one was looking at her, Corinne lifted her glass and tilted it on to her skirt, then jumped up. “Oh dear! I’m sorry, Samantha. I hope I haven’t stained your lovely carpet.”
    “It’s all right, only a few drops. I’ll call a maid.”She rang a bell and a maid almost immediately appeared, to be instructed to sponge up the spill.
    “It’s your own skirt that’s caught most of the spill,”Samantha said.
    “Oh dear, and a new suit, too,”Corinne said, examining her skirt. “Could I just nip into your room and see if I can get it out? A little cold water and a cloth ...”
    “Of course. I’ll help you.”Samantha rose at once.
    “That’s not necessary,”Corinne said. “You’d best stay and make sure the maid gets the carpet cleaned. That’s more valuable than my skirt. If you’ll just steer me to your room and have someonebring some water and a cloth. I’ll take care of it.”
    The butler was told to bring a basin of water and a cloth and show Lady Luten to the dressing room, which was just a few steps down the hall and reached through the bedchamber. Once in the room, Corinne didn’t waste a minute. The bedroom was elegant with hand-painted Chinese wallpaper and mahogany furnishings, but didn’t seem a likely spot for clues. No desk, just the big canopied bed and matching bed tables, an armoire, a pair of dressers and one comfortable chair by the window. On one bedside table sat a lamp and a copy of Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, on the other was a matching lamp and Reggie’s gothic novel. Reg would be interested to hear that. She wondered which one of them was reading Reggie’s book. She darted through the door into the adjoining room.
    It was a small dressing room used by both husband and wife, as the flat wasn’t large. There in the corner sat a mahogany desk holding a blotter, a calendar, a few invitations, an address book, an ink bottle, pens and some stationery.
    One sheet lay on the blotter. She ran over to it and saw that Samantha was writing to her mother. She drew open the one drawer and the first thing she saw was a little book with a red leather binding, much used to judge by the dog-eared condition of the pages. It had no title, and when she opened it, she didn’t know what to make of it. It seemed to be just a confusion of numbers and letters that didn’t form words, but after studying it for a few moments, she realized it was a code book! She quickly rifled through the one drawer but could find no further evidence of decoding —or possibly coding messages for transfer to France.
    When she heard a light footstep approaching from the hallway, she put the book back, closed the drawer, ran for the water basin, splashed some water on her skirt and was rubbing at it when Samantha came in.
    “There, all done,”she said, setting the cloth aside. “So clumsy of me. I am sorry. Is the carpet all right?”
    “It’s fine. Don’t give it a thought. And I’ll have those invitations written by tomorrow. Shall I bring them to you?”
    “I’m going out. I’ll pick them up,”Corinne