Death of a Mad Hatter (A Hat Shop Mystery) (19 page)

“Oh, dear, Mr. Busker, I think my husband needs some air,” I said. I pushed Harrison in Mr. Busker’s direction and I looked at Mr. Peakes and said, “Needles.”

“Ah,” Mr. Peakes said with a nod.

Harrison looked reluctant to leave, so I gave him another shove.

“I’ll be right along,” I said. I waited until the door closed behind them. Mr. Peakes had put his large needle back on his workstation.

“Do many people tour this area?” I asked.

“No, I expect most don’t want to know what happens after they’re gone.”

“I believe you took care of a friend of mine, recently,” I said. “An older gentleman named Geoffrey Grisby.”

Mr. Peakes frowned. “That was several months ago. I heard we’re getting the son, too, as soon as he’s released from the forensic pathologist.”

“Did you hear that Geoffrey Grisby was poisoned with formaldehyde?” I asked.

Mr. Peakes stared at me. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing,” I said. My voice came out in a high squeak. “It’s just an unusual sort of poison, don’t you think?”

I was suddenly aware that I was alone in a room with a very large man and a lot of medical equipment that could easily render a girl dead.

“Why are you here?” he asked. He took a step forward and I took one back. His face looked as dark as a thundercloud and I found my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. I swallowed, trying to create some saliva. It made an audible gulp sound.

“No reason, really, I was just looking around and it occurred to me that someone could have come in here and taken some of your chemicals and poisoned Geoffrey Grisby, the son,” I said. My words came out in a rush.

“That’s what I told the police!” Mr. Peakes slammed his hand on one of the steel tables. The crash made me jump and the table rattled ominously. A glance at his meaty fist made my whole body clench, fearing I might be next.

“The police?” I asked, hoping to redirect this anger.

“Yeah, an Inspector Finchley was here sniffing around, asking me if I saw anyone in here—I hadn’t—or if I’d had contact with anyone from the family, insinuating that I might have something to do with the murder. Right, because I don’t see enough dead bodies.

“Now the Buskers want me to keep my chemicals under lock and key, as if it’s my fault someone came in and helped themselves to a half-pint. You know, it only takes thirty milliliters ingested to kill a person. Bloody pain in the arse, I say,” he growled.

The door slammed open and Harrison stood there. “All right, Sca . . . uh . . . Sally?” he asked.

“Fine, just fine,” I said. I hurried to the door. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your work, Mr. Peakes; have a nice day.”

He grumbled something after me, but I grabbed Harrison’s hand and yanked him back through the garage past Mr. Busker, who was waiting at the door to the funeral home.

“So sorry to cut the tour short, Mr. Busker. Bye, Marjorie, you’ve all been very kind,” I cried over my shoulder as I dragged Harrison through the lobby and out onto the street.

My last glimpse of the funeral home was of Mr. Busker and Marjorie exchanging bewildered looks.

“Scarlett, what’s going on?” Harrison demanded.

“Not yet,” I said. “Keep moving.”

A small public garden nestled in between two residential streets beckoned up ahead. I dragged Harrison across the street and through the wrought iron fence. There was an older couple, admiring the roses on the far side of the small enclosure, so I pushed Harrison down onto a stone bench and sat beside him.

We were both huffing and puffing—okay, mostly it was just me. As the older couple shuffled past us, we smiled and nodded.

As soon as they left, Harrison turned to me. “Are you all right? What happened back there? He didn’t touch you, did he?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s complicated and no.”

Harrison shook his head. “Again and with more detail please.”

I took a deep breath and told him what Peakes had told me about the police already being there and how he was going to have to lock up his chemicals and how he had no idea who might have wandered into his embalming room and siphoned off his formaldehyde and how he didn’t seem to like the idea that they were looking at him. Also, that it only took thirty milliliters to kill a person.

“How much is thirty milliliters, anyway?” I asked.

“About an ounce,” he said. “He is a bit of a scary bloke.”

“Frankenstein the embalmer,” I agreed. We were quiet for a moment and then I said, “So, fear of needles, eh?”

“I was merely acting to give you the opportunity to question him on your own,” he said.

“Really,” I said. I opened my purse and began to search inside. “Because I grabbed one of his needles for evidence.”

Harrison’s face drained of color.

“Ha! Gotcha!”

“That was cruel,” he said as his shoulders slumped down from around his ears.

“But very funny,” I said. “Come on, we’d best get back to the shop or Viv will send the police to look for us.”

I led the way out of the walled garden. As I pushed open the gate, I turned to glance back at Harrison. Maybe I wasn’t ready to tell him, but the truth was that I was glad he was with me. I would have been nervous to go to a funeral home by myself, and the cover of husband and wife had certainly made our visit seem less odd, at least initially.

Harrison met my gaze and gave me a small smile. I liked the way his hair fell over his forehead and the sparkle in his green eyes when he looked at me.

He opened his mouth to say something but was distracted by something behind me.

“Scarlett! Look out!” he cried.

I turned to see what was behind me—lion, tiger, mugger—but Harrison grabbed my arm and yanked me down, covering my body with his. I heard a sickening thump and then Harrison slumped on top of me with all of his weight pressing down on my back.

“Oy! What are you doing there?” a voice yelled.

I heard footsteps pounding down the sidewalk away from us.

“Help!” I cried from underneath Harrison. I was trying to brace his unconscious form with my body, but he was too heavy and I was in an awkward position.

“Hang on, Miss, I’ve got him,” a man’s voice said.

Abruptly, Harrison was lifted off of me and I popped up to see a stocky man in construction attire holding Harrison. Together we gently lowered him to the ground.

“He took a right bashin’ on the noggin,” the man said. He was fumbling in his pocket for his phone. Two women and a bicyclist joined us.

I knelt beside Harrison while the man called an ambulance. I felt under Harrison’s jaw for a pulse. It was strong and steady. I could hear the people around me talking about an attacker in a hooded sweatshirt and how Harrison had protected me by covering me with his body.

“Why’d you do it, Harry?” I whispered. His face remained slack, his eyes shut, having seen something I could only guess at, because with my back to the attacker I hadn’t seen a thing.

In moments a bright-green ambulance roared up and out jumped a paramedic in a dark-green suit. Following the ambulance came a small blue metro police car.

The construction worker who’d called explained what happened to the officer while I stood and watched the medics work on Harrison. I felt as if all of my insides had shriveled.

“Ginger?” A groggy voice called my name and I pressed forward to see Harrison regaining consciousness. “What happened?”

“We got jumped,” I said. “I didn’t see who did it.”

“Blimey, what did they hit me with—a cricket bat?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t see that either.”

“Pretty close, yeah?” the construction worker said as he leaned over Harrison. “The guy was wearing a dark hooded jacket and carrying a heavy satchel. He must have had bricks in it, because he hit you and you went down. Nice save on the lady, though.”

“Thanks,” Harrison said. He closed his right eye and squinted at the man.

“Trying to make sure there’s just one of him?” the paramedic asked.

“That obvious?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah, we’re going to take you in for a proper look-see,” he said.

“Can I ride with you?” I asked. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“Sure,” the paramedic said. “The more the merrier.”

The police officer asked both Harrison and me what we’d seen. I was useless, having seen nothing, but Harrison confirmed what the construction guy had said about the man in the dark hooded jacket and the heavy bag that he wielded like a club.

The officer took our names and addresses and asked us to be in touch if we remembered anything. He planned to file a report on the chance that this was a mugger who would likely strike again. Harrison and I exchanged a look. This was no mugger.

“We’re taking you to the A&E at the Royal Free Hospital over on Pond Street,” the medic said. “It’s not far.”

I knew that “A&E” meant “accident and emergency,” the British version of the emergency room in hospitals in the States. I wondered if they were truly worried about Harrison or if they were erring on the side of caution because he’d suffered a head injury.

It didn’t take long to get to the hospital, and Harrison was whisked inside.

“I’ll be right in,” I told Harrison as they off-loaded him from the ambulance. “I’m going to call Viv.”

He nodded, and I could tell by the way he winced that the motion caused him significant pain. The next hour was a blur. Viv was worried, but I reassured her that Harrison was conscious and that no, I wasn’t the one who had hit him. Yes, she actually asked.

When I joined Harrison in the A&E, a doctor was checking his pupils and feeling the lump on his head.

I stood to the side while he asked Harrison questions. He seemed satisfied that Harrison was okay but then warned him not to be alone for twenty-four hours and to have someone wake him up every two hours to check for signs of a concussion.

A surge of guilt hit me hard right in the chest. Harrison was now holding an ice pack to the lump on his head because he had protected me. And he wouldn’t have had to protect me if we hadn’t been attacked and I was pretty sure we wouldn’t have been attacked if we hadn’t gone to the funeral home and asked questions about Geoffrey Grisby. In other words, this whole mess was my fault and I felt horribly guilty. A sob burbled up in my throat and came out like a half cough, half hiccup, and it hurt.

“You all right, Scarlett?” Harrison asked. He had a handful of papers in one hand and his ice pack in the other.

“I’m fine.” I sniffed and then wailed, “But you could have been killed!”

Harrison’s eyebrows shot up and the doctor gave him an alarmed look before ducking out of our area.

“Come here,” Harrison said.

He lifted one arm and I hurried forward to help him off the bed. Instead, he hugged me close and kissed the top of my head.

“Don’t you worry,” he said. “My cabbage is as hard as concrete. A little bump like this is nothing.”

I wiped the tears off of my face and nodded. “Still, you’re not to be alone for twenty-four hours. You’re to go home and rest and I’ll be checking on you every two hours to make sure your pupils haven’t suddenly dilated or you’ve slipped into a coma because of a brain bleed or swelling or anything weird.”

“Excellent bedside manner,” he said. “I feel so much better.”

“Is that sarcasm?” I asked.

“Yes, I believe it was.”

“Well, that’s a good sign at any rate.”

We took a cab to his home in Pembridge Mews. It didn’t take long, but I could see his head had to be hurting, as he rested it on the back of the seat and kept the cold pack they had given him firmly in place.

The cab let us off along a row of impressive white houses, the sort that were tall and imposing and inexplicably reminded me of wedding cake. Harrison fished in his pocket for his key. I took it from his hand and unlocked the door. The knob for the front door was set in the middle of the door, which I found charming and made me think I was entering a hobbit home.

Harrison wobbled on his feet and I quickly put his arm over my shoulder and my other arm around his waist as I helped him over the threshold. A door led to the first-floor apartment, but Harrison motioned to the stairs.

“My flat is on two,” he said.

We maneuvered our way up the steps and he took his keys back to open his door. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about his home. Was he as neat and tidy as he seemed or did a slob lurk beneath his starchy shirts and expensive suits?

He wobbled again and I led him to the big squashy couch in the middle of the main room. It was a mountain of cushy brown leather in front of a large-screen television. Exposed redbrick made up one wall while windows looking down on the street made up the opposite. A compact kitchen filled one side of the room while a door to the right opened to a hallway with several doors, which I assumed were the bedrooms and bathroom.

“Do you want to go lie in your bed?” I asked.

Harrison kicked off his shoes and reclined on the couch.

“No, I’m good here,” he said. “I’m just going to keep the ice pack on for a bit. It’s just a bump. Nothing to worry about.”

He reached for the remote and switched on the television. A soccer match came on and he perked up with interest.

“If you get overexcited, I’m switching it to a cooking channel,” I said.

“I’ll be good,” he said. “I promise. I’m fine. You don’t have to stay, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

I stood not knowing what to do with my hands. Why was that? I crossed my arms but that felt belligerent, so I put them on my hips, but that seemed angry. Finally, I clasped them behind my back, trying to look casual.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Water? Tea?”

“You don’t know how to make tea,” he said.

“You could talk me through it,” I said. I moved to the kitchenette and glanced in his cupboards. I didn’t find fixings for tea or coffee or anything else. A glance in the fridge showed a few bottles of Britvic apple and raspberry juice and nothing—and I do mean nothing—else.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” he said.