THIRTY-THREE

That absurd stuffed Yorkie Sissy had attached to her like a wrist corsage had to be what Azalea saw. It was the only thing on the list that I could imagine would cast a shadow like the one Azalea described.

That settled it in my mind. Sissy had pushed Vera to her death on those stairs.

With Vera out of the way Sissy was free to marry Morty—and gain access to Morty’s millions. No more genteel poverty for her or her beloved little brother, Hank.

A fairly simple solution after all. Money lay at the root of it.

The motive was easy, but where was the proof? Azalea would tell the sheriff what she saw, and I could explain it, but a good defense lawyer would probably make nonsense of it in court.

The explanation did sound faintly ridiculous, even though I was convinced of the truth of it. It all came down to the accessories of a costume.

Costume.

Something else was niggling at me, something to do with another costume.

I looked at the list again, poring over the descriptions I’d compiled. What was nagging at me?

I lingered over the details of Hank Beauchamp’s costume as the rumpled but clever Victorian policeman, Thomas Pitt.

Rumpled. That was it.

Poor Hank was reduced to wearing that same suit, because all his other suits were at the cleaner’s. Probably a euphemism for having to sell them, or else he owed the cleaner’s so much money they wouldn’t release his clothes until he paid them.

Either way, Hank had only the one suit. No wonder it looked like it did.

There was another elusive memory. Where else had I seen that suit, or part of it?

It took me a minute, but then I had it.

Morty Cassity was wearing the jacket when he came to the door the day I went to take Vera’s plaque to him.

But how?

Then I remembered a chance remark Stewart had made. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes till ten, and I knew Stewart stayed up late.

I slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Diesel. I hurried up the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on Stewart’s door.

“Come in,” he called.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still dressed as he had been at dinner, with Dante napping beside him. He put aside the book he’d been reading. “Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”

“Remember the other day, when you were talking about how you ran into Sissy Beauchamp on the square?”

Stewart nodded. “Sure.”

“Can you tell me approximately what time it was when you ran into her, and how long the two of you were together?”

“Okay, let me see. I’m sure you’ll tell me why you want to know this?” At my nod he continued, “Well, it was around one o’clock, as I recall. We must have spent about an hour together over our milk shakes, so it was probably after two when I left her.”