A murder sends shockwaves through London’s high society in 1920, setting ex-Military Policeman Neil Harper and his sidekick Fred Docherty on the trail of a killer. When old questions resurface years later, Harper is forced to revisit the case and wonder whether justice was ever truly served. In the scene below, the detectives confront a suspect connected to the original murder.

Pretty Valuable Things
By  A. J. Leslie
Published by Bold Wren Press

‘Nervous,’ murmured Harper, glancing at Fred Docherty. Docherty raised an eyebrow in agreement. 

Charles Sinclair was pale as he peered out of the door, wakened from a fitful nap by the insistent knocking at his small house in West Kensington. He looked like Mole from Wind in the Willows, thought Harper, even down to the specs. 

‘May we come in, Mr Sinclair? Detective Inspector Harper and Detective Sergeant Docherty. We met the other night.’ 

Harper and Docherty brushed past Charles Sinclair, Docherty looked around like an expert from an auction house and Sinclair ushered them into a cramped but tastefully decorated sitting room. 

Sinclair offered the officers a drink, tea perhaps, or something, er, and Harper and Docherty both refused but watched with interest as Sinclair poured himself three fingers of whisky, knocked back half of it at the sideboard, believing that they could not see, and sat down. 

‘So, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ 

Harper, ignoring Sinclair, consulted his notes with great attention, making Sinclair wait. Docherty inspected the room, from his vantage point of another chair. 

Harper looked up, noticing that, although the room was cold, Sinclair seemed clammy, sweaty.  

‘Going back to the party you were at the other evening, that ended at Guilliano’s, the one that started somewhere nearer Chelsea a good deal earlier,’ He looked at Sinclair with a slight smile. Docherty looked at Sinclair with no smile at all. 

‘Er, yes. Yes I was there, as you know.’ 

‘And do you recall the events of the evening, the last part of the evening?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Charles, taking a generous sip of his whisky. 

Harper waited. After several seconds of silence he twirled the hand holding his pen, indicating that Charles should explain. 

‘Well, it was quite late in the evening, Inspector. Everyone was having fun, or at least those buffoons were pretending to, dancing and what not. Then there was a scene of some sort and then I had a nosebleed. I went to the bathroom to see what I could do. When I got back, there was,’ Charles paused, ‘chaos, frankly and it turned out that someone was dead. Actually dead.’ 

‘Who was “actually dead” Mr Sinclair?’ Harper was watching Charles very carefully. 

‘Well. It was. Louisa Balfour obviously. Some ghastly accident someone said.’ Charles held Harper’s gaze, rather too hard, thought Harper. 

‘And you knew Louisa Balfour, Mr Sinclair?’ 

‘Er, well, yes. We were friends, of course.’ 

“Of course?” 

‘Well, you know, there was a whole gang of us. We went to the same places, that sort of thing.’ Sinclair tried a smile. Even the smile looked clammy. 

‘Nothing special about Louisa Balfour, then?’ 

‘Well she was, yes, she was the, the centre of attention I suppose.’ Charles started to take a sip of his whisky, realised it was empty and rested it on the arm of the chair. His hand shook slightly. 

‘How long had you known Louisa?’ 

‘Um, about five years or so. I suppose.’ A frown crossed Charles’s face. ‘This all seems a bit serious, Inspector. For an accident, I mean.’ 

Harper considered Charles for a few moments, lit a cigarette, then said ‘we are treating it as murder, Mr Sinclair. So, yes, it is serious. Very serious.’ 

It was Docherty who broke the silence that had fallen like a cold front. ‘You won’t mind if we have a look around, Mr Sinclair?’ It might have sounded like a question but there was no doubt in Charles’ mind that it was anything but.  

Charles stammered something about wanting to help in any way but Harper and Docherty were on their feet while he was still talking. 

Docherty went upstairs and Charles winced as he heard the scraping of chairs and bumping of furniture. DS Docherty was not subtle in his approach to having a look around. 

Harper meanwhile had wandered into what was obviously Charles’s study and was sifting through a desk. Charles had followed Harper and had grown bolder in the few minutes that he had been spared the questions. 

‘Inspector, is this really necessary? I mean what are you hoping to find. A murder weapon or something?’ As he said it, Charles regretted it,  laughing nervously. Harper turned slowly to look at Charles, his gaze very steady indeed. 

‘You never know what you might find. Mr Sinclair.’ He pushed the lock of hair back into place, his blue eyes holding Charles’. 

As Charles retreated to pour himself another whisky, Harper’s attention was caught by the wastepaper basket beside the desk. Among the envelopes and discarded letters, a particular envelope stood out. One corner was burnt. 

He retrieved it, turning it in his hands. There was nothing written on the outside but there was definitely a letter inside. He pulled it out, read the greeting and the first sentence, frowned and put it in his coat pocket.  

Back in the sitting room, the tableau the same as before, Harper asked Charles why he had not mentioned the fact that he had had some sort of, he consulted his notebook, confrontation with Louisa Balfour. Several witnesses had mentioned it. 

Charles stood up and started pacing. After a while he said, ‘well, yes, I did go and have a conversation with her but confrontation? No, no, certainly not. I went back to the bar, then got the nosebleed. Then I left and I don’t know after that.’ He stopped and said ‘that was all.’ 

Harper gave him several seconds to provide more but it was clear that if there was more, then it would have to wait until later. 

As the detectives left, Harper said ‘thank you for your time, Mr Sinclair. We will need to see you again, so please do not go anywhere.’ 

They did not see Charles Sinclair, the door closing a little too quickly, rush to his study, rummage through his wastepaper basket on his hands and knees and, paper strewn across the floor, put his head in his hands. 

Pretty Valuable Things by  A. J. Leslie is published by Bold Wren Press and is available now, priced £11.99