‘I admit I had my ear pressed against the workshop door,’ he said. ‘So I heard most of that.’
‘Good eavesdropping, Fred!’ said Augusta. ‘We really are turning you into a proper detective.’
‘I didn’t like the sound of him. I would have joined you at the counter if he’d turned unpleasant.’
‘Thank you. He clearly doesn’t want me looking into his brother-in-law’s disappearance and the obvious question is why.’
‘He doesn’t seem interested in finding out what happened.’
‘No. And that’s strange, isn’t it? He didn’t show any concern for Alexander at all. And his description of his wife being upset doesn’t fit with my experience of speaking to her.’
‘Perhaps he knows more than he’s letting on,’ said Fred. ‘Perhaps he had something to do with it.’
‘After that strange conversation, I think we can consider it a possibility.’
Chapter 17
The newspaper reports of Mr Connolly’s inquest had included his address in Finchley. Fred had written the address in the notes he had made at the library.
Augusta wondered if the Connolly family still lived at the same address. It would be interesting to travel to Finchley and find out what she could about them. But would she be met with hostility if she asked questions there? After her unpleasant encounter with Mr Stanton, she wasn’t keen on the idea of more difficult conversations.
She plucked up the courage that afternoon and asked Fred to mind the shop for her.
‘Good luck with the Connollys, Augusta,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Fred. I think I’ll need it.’
The train to Finchley took Augusta through the suburbs of north London. Beyond Hornsey, she caught glimpses of green fields gleaming in the summer sunshine. She also saw the neat rows of new houses encroaching on them. It wouldn’t be long before London’s northern suburbs reached Finchley.
Arthur Connolly’s address had been reported as number 7, College Terrace at the inquest. The street was a short walk from Finchley station. Augusta made her way along a shopping street and turned into a short, narrow street with old cottages on one side. Opposite the cottages was a row of railings, beyond which stood a red-brick Victorian school.
A woman with an eyepatch answered the door. She was about sixty years of age and wore a worn-looking housecoat over her dress.
‘Can I help you?’ she said, before inhaling on a cigarette.
‘Mrs Connolly?’ It was a guess and, fortunately for Augusta, it was correct.
‘That’s right.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you. I’m a private detective who’s trying to find out what happened to Alexander Miller.’
Mrs Connolly scowled. ‘I hope it’s not the one I’m thinking of.’
‘I’m afraid it is. That’s why I called on you.’
‘I don’t like having his name brought up. I don’t like being reminded of what happened to Arthur.’
‘I’m very sorry about what happened to Mr Connolly.’
‘Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your fault. But you ought to be sorry for bringing up Mr Miller’s name.’
‘Are you aware that he disappeared ten years ago?’
‘He disappeared? I took no interest in the man. He should’ve been locked up for what he did.’
Augusta didn’t wish to point out Arthur Connolly’s death had been ruled as an accident by a coroner.
‘I’ve been widowed for eleven years now because of him,’ added Mrs Connolly. She dropped her cigarette end onto the doorstep and extinguished it with the ball of her foot.
‘When did you last see Alexander Miller?’
‘When did I last see him? At the inquest. A joke of an inquest, that was. They had the nerve to stand up there and tell everyone Arthur stepped out in front of him. Arthur would never have done such a thing, and I told them that. They said it was the drink. I won’t deny Arthur liked his drink, but he could handle himself when he was drunk. He wouldn’t have stepped out into the road. I knew him better than anyone and I told the coroner so. I knew it wasn’t an accident. Mr Miller was going too fast. It was this road just here.’ She stepped out of her door and pointed to her left. ‘You can see the hill there, can’t you? Miller was racing down that hill. He was going too fast and he never even put his brakes on. My Arthur was at the bottom of the hill, walking home for his tea. And he never got here.’ She folded her arms and stared at Augusta with her uncovered eye. ‘There’s no justice.’
‘It must be very difficult for you, even after all these years.’
‘It is. And it’s even harder when no one was punished for it.’ She took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her housecoat and offered Augusta one.
‘No thank you.’
‘So Mr Miller disappeared, did he?’ said Mrs Connolly as she lit her cigarette.
‘Yes. He vanished about a year after your husband’s death.’
‘Well, I hope he suffered like we did.’
‘I understand your husband’s brother visited Mr Miller a week after the inquest.’
‘Who told you that?’
