Because of a leaking roof Henry Thompson, a chief at Scotland Yard, met Lady Molly. It was a meeting that would change both of their lives.

The winter prior, his wife had told him the roof would need to be seen to, as there had been a few drips here and there. Naturally, that home chore had become lost amongst the demanding duties of being a chief at Scotland Yard.

So when she entered the parlor and said with her hands on her hips, “Plaster has just come down into my soup pot! You forgot about the roof, didn’t you?” he should have agreed it was his fault. However, since he had been working two weeks solid on a robbery case that resulted in the death of a noble lady in Westminster, he snapped back that perhaps she should have called the workmen herself.

The argument became a week of annoyed looks behind a wall of silence before she packed her trunk and left for Brighton. With a new baby, perhaps her sister would appreciate a helping hand, Matilda announced. It was the last comment before she walked out the door.

He wallowed in self-righteous indignation for almost a fortnight. But one evening when he was frying bacon, half the ceiling came crashing down and the problem could not be ignored any longer.

Workmen were called, and the roof and timbers were inspected. Worm and rain rot. Within a day, it became clear the job would leave the house in shambles. In helpless fury, Henry watched them stand around, idly discussing family life or the latest sporting match. Boots tramped over Matilda’s rugs, and the garden filled with building materials.

Complaining seemed only to slow the work down, so beating a reluctant retreat, Henry found a temporary abode in a respectable boarding house close to a train line that would take him straight to his office at Scotland Yard.
Afterward, he couldn’t recall who exactly had recommended Church Street. Regardless of how he got there, his presence resulted in one death and the acquisition of a keen mind to Scotland Yard.

He was sitting at the dining table at the house on Church Street trying to decide if he should telegram his wife with news that he had the workmen in when the woman across the dinner table spoke to him for the first time. “I would do that, sir. As quickly as possible. Better to relieve her mind and restore domestic tranquility.”

Because of his line of work, Henry met many people he had to size up quickly. The woman who had spoken was in her late twenties, with chestnut hair and lively eyes. However, what struck him immediately was her air of quiet self-assurance and confidence. From her appearance and the cultured tones of her voice, he recognized her as someone from a higher station than the others sitting at the table. He thought her presence as incongruous as a shiny gold sovereign on the pavement at Fleet Street.

“Is it that obvious something weighs on my mind?” he asked.

Her face enjoyed smiling. “You spoke earlier of missing your wife’s cooking, and wear a wedding band, but I see that your shirt has been laundered by a service because of the mark on your collar. Your trunk in the hall is not big enough for a long stay, and it had plaster dust upon it. It all led me to believe you have lost your regular domicile.”

“I must admit you are correct. Miss—?”

“Molly Smith.”

She was no more a plain old Molly Smith than he was a street sweeper! The planes of her face, cheek, and jaw were refined, and her nose was long and delicate. Her face held the serene complexion of a woman who neither toiled nor worried about the state of her bank balance. Though her dress was not flashy, her clothes were expensively made.

He wondered if she had recently come down in the world. Or perhaps she was a teacher? According to his typist, plenty of young ladies now sought independence in the great city and used employment to escape their parents.

“Henry Thompson.”

The dining table forestalled any shaking of hands. He told her that her guess was correct and explained about the leaky roof. “Like all workman they promise the job would be done speedily, but every time I visit the house, it seems they find more that must be done.”

Another of the lodgers, an older woman in her sixties with dark blond hair growing mousy, said, “Count yourself fortunate owning your home. Imagine the luxury of that! Does it have a yard?”

“It does.” From her expression at this news, he might as well have said it was that Indian palace, the Taj Mahal.

“So what is it you do for a living, Mr. Thompson?” asked Miss Smith.

“I’m a chief at Scotland Yard.” At this pronouncement there was a clattering of silverware and a gasp from someone. Henry didn’t notice who, for his eyes were watching the lady who sat across from him. She had gone an extraordinary shade of pale, to where if she hadn’t been sitting down, she might have fainted. Her lips of deep rose faded to a pale pink. Her hand was steady as she brought a drinking glass to her mouth which hide her expression.

“So you catch crooks for a living?” continued the older woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Amanda Price. From her earlier conversation he knew she was a nursemaid who was waiting for her “family,” in reality her employer, to return from Paris.

“According to the Telegraph, I only pretend to do so.” It still rankled him how he had been misquoted on his last case.

Over the next half hour, he was asked a wave of questions from those seated around the table. The current boarders numbered five, six, including his landlady, Mrs. Myra Clark. At the head of the table, she carried an air of benevolence, pretending she was a host of a dinner party rather than a collector of the weekly rents.

At her right sat Felix Taylor. He was a paying guest, and a personal friend of Mrs. Clark. A thin man boasting a large mustache that tried ineffectively to hide a thin mouth and weak chin, Taylor liked to hear his own voice. He played at being the man of the world, but Henry suspected the man knew little of anything outside of England, and the stews of Paris.

He suspected Constance Morgan was the one who gasped and dropped her silverware. She was a woman in her mid-thirties with a comely face that would be prettier if she didn’t look so tired. Miss Morgan taught music, the piano and violin. Thankfully, that was in other people’s homes, so there would be no child pounding away on the keys or scraping a bow at Church Street.

The last boarder was Douglas Hill. Henry didn’t know what to make of him. Like Miss Molly he had an air of sophistication which implied a higher station in life, but was introduced as a government clerk. A pen-pusher. He spoke little, but his eyes examined everyone and were often found resting on the charming face of Miss Molly.
He had a nondescript face that would make him useful in committing a public crime, as no one would remember him.

While it was an interesting mix of people, what intrigued Henry the most was how the atmosphere had changed when his profession was revealed. There was now an air of strain and wariness that had not been there before. Being an old police dog, with thirty years and more on the force, it alerted him; someone here feared the police.

Mrs. Price pressed him with questions that bordered on being impolite. Taylor laughed too much while Miss Constance kept trying to change the conversation. Their landlady pretended that he had never divulged that he was a chief of police. Hill’s eyes were watchful while Miss Molly remained silent.

After the meal, he was told by Mrs. Clarke that the front parlor could be used by the residents. This evening, she and Taylor were leaving with Miss Constance to attend a musical society, as one of Miss Constance’s pupils was debuting a piece.

After a polite goodnight, Miss Molly retreated to her room. Henry was left with the government man, Hill, and the nosy nursemaid, Mrs. Price. As soon as the front door closed upon the party leaving for the concert, the woman started to gossip.

“What do you make of her, then? Not what I’d expect to be staying here. Do you think she’s hiding because she poisoned her husband?” Mrs. Price laughed. Hill shot her a venomous look and retreated behind a copy of the Times.

“Has she been here long?” asked Henry, for he was curious about Miss Molly.

“No. She arrived two weeks ago. A nice big trunk, well-made. The regulars are Constance and myself. Mr. Hill also. She and you are the invaders into our tranquil home.”

The sofa and chairs in the parlor were hard to sit on and, not for the first time, the chief missed his homey abode with its deep, comfortable chairs. Most of all, he missed his wife, who was not a woman who chatted incessantly. She knew when a man wanted to smoke his pipe in peace.

“Miss Mystery is what I call her. That name? How ridiculous! No way is Smith her real one. She’s hiding, mark my words. Probably from a husband. Or maybe an employer. Did she steal money?”

Having heard enough spite, Henry asked the man hiding behind the newspaper about his thoughts on the recent Eton v Harrow cricket match. The paper shield went down, and the man’s eyes showed an excited glint as he began to talk about how Fowler had seized the win the second day.

His comments told Henry something about Douglas Hill. He was an Eton man.