" 'And yet you've gay gauntlets ana blue leathers three! — ' 'Yes: mat's what we wear when we're ruined/ said he."
Given the inspector's chilly reception of his first two pieces of evidence, the feather and the fingerprint, Charles had not thought it helpful to mention the third: the name of the street for which Monsieur Armand had been bound. And since it did not seem likely that Wainwright would release either Sergeant Battle or PC Trabb to make inquiry in Queen Street, he decided to do it himself. On Monday morning he borrowed Bradford's saddle horse and rode to Colchester through a chilly gray drizzle. He left his horse at Taylor's Livery Stable and asked directions of a vendor of hot pies. Having purchased a fragrant, crusty pork pie, he ate it with relish as he walked.
Queen Street proved to be a residential street a stone's throw from the old castle. Chimney pots poured sooty smoke over roofs of gray slate that rose steeply above the narrow three- and four-story houses, closely spaced to conserve land. Charles noted with disapproval that here, as in the new suburbs of London, the roof lines of the ill-proportioned brick houses were interrupted at irregular intervals by gables, turrets, battlements, and dormers, so many and so varied that they confused the eye. The houses fronted directly on the
street, so that there was not even the relief of a square of grass fenced by a few sprigs of privet.
Having arrived at his destination, Charles opened his portfolio and took out a photograph of the dead man. He looked once over his shoulder to ascertain that Miss Ardleigh was not following after him; then he climbed the first stoop and rang the bell. His summons was answered by a stiff-backed parlor maid with a long face, a trace of dark mustache over her upper lip, and the saddest eyes he had ever seen.
"Good day, miss," Charles said, raising his brown felt hat. "I am making inquiries for the police about-"
"Tradesman's entrance round back," the maid said. She gave his canvas coat a scornful glance and shut the door.
Charles frowned with irritation. His hand was poised to ring again, but he thought better of it. He would return later, and trust that a more receptive person might answer his knock. He went back down the stoop, out to the sidewalk, and up the stairs of the next house. This door was opened by a butler with a brilliant red nose. Taking no chances, Charles swiftly inserted his foot in the opening.
"I represent the police," he said, "in an inquiry of great importance." He held up the photograph. "This man is said to have visited a house on this street. Have you seen him?"
The butler sniffed. "I have not," he said with grave dignity. "Are you the police?"
"No," Charles said, "I merely-"
"Pray remove your foot, sir."
Charles held his ground. ' 'I would like to inquire of other members of your household. Perhaps your mistress-"
The butler's right arm disappeared behind the door and reappeared again with a silver-tipped cane. "Your foot, sir," the butler said, and stabbed Charles's toe smartly.
The third door, which Charles approached with trepidation and a slight limp, was not answered at all. The fourth, however, was opened by a middle-aged man whom Charles took by his dress and manner to be the gentleman of the house. He was apparently on his way out, for he wore a velvet-collared chesterfield and held one end of a leather leash, the other end of which was attached to a fluffy white poodle
about the size of a lady's muff, furiously yapping. When he saw Charles, he looked alarmed.
"If it's the money you're after," he said over the dog's din, "I have already-"
"I am not a bill collector," Charles said with dignity.
"Good," the man said. He looked down, obviously flustered. "Be quiet, Precious." The poodle ducked behind the man's ankle and glowered at Charles, continuing to bark. From somewhere within the house, a woman's voice fretfully commanded, "Take that dog out of here, Frank, before my brain explodes."
"Yes, Irene," Frank replied nervously, over his shoulder. "Precious and I are just leaving." He looked out at the gray drizzle. "Is it raining?" he asked Charles.
Charles held up his photo. "Have you seen this man?"
"Can't say that I have," Frank said, giving the photograph barely a look. He reached behind the door and Charles stepped back quickly. But when his hand reappeared again, it held only a gray bowler and an umbrella.
"Are you sure?" Charles persisted. "It is a matter of some importance. The police-"
"Frank!" The female voice was loudly petulant. "Can't you manage to do even one simple thing? Get that dog out of-"
"Yes, my dear," Frank replied, putting his hat on his head. Precious launched a swift sortie at Charles's trouser leg. He retired to the top step. Frank yanked the dog back, stepped out of the door, and closed it behind him. "Never saw the fellow," he muttered, pushing past Charles. "I say, old chap, I really must be off."
Charles stared at him. A jaunty trio of peacock feathers was inserted into the band of trim that encircled Frank's bowler. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as if one were broken. He was seized by a sudden excitement. "Pardon me," he said, gesturing at the hat, "but I wonder if you would permit me to have a look at those feathers."
Frank frowned. "Feathers? I don't know about any-" He apparently recollected them, for he reddened and, still holding the leash, snatched off his hat and pulled out the cockade of
feathers. Precious took advantage of Frank's inattentiveness to lunge at Charles's shoe.
"Do the feathers have a special significance?" Charles asked. "Perhaps-"
"I tell you," Frank said loudly, "there are no feathers!" He stuffed them into his pocket, jammed his bowler back on his head, and put up his umbrella. He walked smartly away, dragging Precious with him. As he did so, a gentleman wearing a caped Inverness came toward him. The two were apparently acquainted, for as they passed on the sidewalk, Frank tipped his gray bowler and the other inclined his head. As the man in the Inverness drew nearer, Charles saw that in his lapel was fixed a cluster of peacock feathers.