Mrs. Peel was cleaning her flat to keep her mind off the incident with the men in black from the previous evening. Long quadratic equations and scholarly articles on Shakespeare were just not calming her nerves today. She figured the dullery of housework might. When she thought of what could have happened if Steed (and Mrs. Gale) hadn't saved her, she almost gave an undignified shriek of alarm.
"I still have plenty of things to do before I die," Emma murmured to herself. Wasn't that one of the reasons she had given up spy work in the first place? She couldn't rightly remember anymore.
Her agitation was further heightened by the hostile behaviour of her husband. He had come home late the following evening, no explanation of his whereabouts and had sniped at all her questions. After puttering around in the living area until quarter to three, keeping Emma awake in the bedroom, he had fallen asleep on the sofa. Then that morning he had simply barked, "I'm going out," before storming off in a huff.
"Why are men so absurd?" she muttered as she tried to dust a high shelf in her dining room. This was rather difficult, for she had to perch precariously on a small stool while elongating her arm toward the small spot. In a short while, her body refused to balance and stretch, and she fell to the floor with an unceremonious thud.
"Oomph," Mrs. Peel groaned as she hit the floor. She gazed at the feather duster with distaste. "This is the last time I'm using you." She tossed it disgustedly across the floor, where it slid under her china cabinet. "Bother it all." Mrs. Peel reached under the cabinet to retrieve the detested object. "One comforting thought is that no one has to know I've been forced to this degrading state." Her hands brushed something cool, but it wasn't the handle of the duster but of a revolver!
Emma pulled it out of its hiding place, staring at it incredulously. She owned a gun, to be sure, but she never stowed it under her china cabinet. That would be careless. "I wonder if this is Mr. Peel's? But then why would he hide it in this dirty place? Why would he hide it from me at all?" She opened the bullet shaft to discover six new bullets gleaming at her.
The weapon seemed vaguely familiar to her, and as she cradled the gun thoughtfully inside a handkerchief, she tried to recall where she had seen it before, or a revolver similar to it. Suddenly she remembered the peculiar gun at the party, the one that wouldn't fire until after three attempts. Her eye keenly fixed on a downy couch pillow, Emma fired the gun and was not at all surprised when nothing happened. Two more tries, and on the fourth, a clear shot resounded through the apartment building.
Mrs. Peel pursed her lips together tightly and phoned Steed.
"What was so important that I must come over immediately?" Steed asked in his usually charming way as soon as he entered her flat. He had to admit it, being in her flat again gave him a rush of nostalgia.
Emma pointed a revolver at him in response. Steed jumped back in alarm. "Why, Mrs. Peel, what has come over you?"
"I've found something that may be a clue to the mystery."
"The one that involves your husband, or the one that involves those nasty intruders from last night?"
"Both, if you can believe it." Mrs. Peel handed him some latex gloves like the ones she was wearing and after he obligingly put them on, handed him the gun. She then walked over to a nearby table where a bottle of champagne was sitting. She picked it up. "Shoot at the cork on this bottle."
Mr. Steed raised his eyebrows.
"It's the right vintage if that's what you're worried about," she assured him.
"I was more puzzled at why I must wear these ridiculous gloves and shoot at a cork, but if you insist..." Steed pulled the trigger and repeated the whole procedure that Mrs. Peel had just gone through thirty minutes earlier and what he had gone through the previous evening.
"Incredible," was all he could manage to say after he was through. "Your husband is one of the kidnappers?"
"Certainly not! It must be a different gun."
"But that would mean there is more than one gun in the world that only shoots after pulling the trigger three times," Steed pointed out.
Emma knew it was ludicrous, but the alternative was even more unfathomable. "What I'm thinking is that one of the kidnappers from the party hid this weapon in my flat when I wasn't around, like late last night while I was still out with you! That way he could sneak into my flat one of the nights my husband wasn't home and try to harm me again." Mrs. Peel poured some champagne for both of them from the newly opened bottle. She purposely avoided eye contact with Steed.
"Was your husband home last night?" Steed asked suspiciously.
"Well...yes," Mrs. Peel stammered.
"Did you ever leave your flat after you got home from the party last night?"
"No."
"Then when could the criminal have sneaked in and planted this gun somewhere in your home? I know you, and you have excellent hearing. Are you saying that you wouldn't have heard someone breaking into your house and creeping around? And what about your husband; he would have probably heard the man, too."
"I suppose you're right," Mrs. Peel mumbled in an un-Mrs.-Peelish way, "but then how did the revolver get in here?"
"As I mentioned before, the gun must belong to your husband." Mrs. Peel was about to protest, but Steed continued, "but this man, William—er Peter—isn't really your husband."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, you said this chap doesn't act at all like your husband, and that he goes by William when we know his name is Peter. His name was in the newspaper, for Pete's sake—pardon the pun."
"Steed, don't you think I would notice if the man living in my home off and on for the last year was my husband?"
Steed scratched his chin thoughtfully. "That does present a dilemma." He snapped his finger. "He could be a clone or someone who has had plastic surgery. Maybe that is why he hasn't been home for most of the time? Perhaps he knew if you interacted with him often enough you would get suspicious."
Emma felt a blush of shame blossoming on her cheeks. How could a woman go so long and not notice the man she was living with wasn't her husband? Of course, it helped that she and Peter had been nothing more than platonic roommates since his return, but Steed didn't need to know that. It was almost as if she had purposely been ignoring the suspicions that had been accumulating in her mind since her husband returned home. Any time she thought too long and hard about the issue, a little voice would spring up and assure her it was just her imagination running away with her.
She tuned into the conversation to hear Steed say, "Therefore, the gun belongs to the man who's pretending to be your husband, and he is probably one of the kidnappers from last night.
"It all makes sense. You come home from the party, and your 'husband' is waiting for you. He obviously has hidden the revolver while you were away, and now he is just sitting there, looking as innocent as can be. He wants to harm you, no mistaking that, and now he's got the weapon carelessly hidden in your own flat. He's not a very sly one."
"You have had some outrageous ideas in your time, Steed, but this is ridiculous. For one thing, Peter came home after me last night. He wasn't waiting to murder me in cold blood!" Emma yanked the champagne glass out of her companion's hand. "I suggest we try to get a match on the fingerprints on the gun. If they match Peter, then we'll know your theory is right. Otherwise, be prepared to apologise."
Clutching the weapon tightly, Steed nodded in agreement. "We'll ask Mother. The ministry has a database for fingerprints."
"I simply can't believe it; this is outrageous!" Mother shouted, completely infuriated. "I honestly can't think of anything more incredible! Mrs. Peel's husband wants to kidnap her?"
"I would be most obliged if everyone stopped jumping to that conclusion," Mrs. Peel answered, eyeing Steed as she said so. "It was clearly planted in my flat."
"By her husband," Mr. Steed added. "We haven't handled it with our bare hands, so we should be able to get some fingerprints from it and figure out if this gun belongs to Mr. Peel or not." He placed the revolver on the desk in front of Mother. "I'm sure he's got to have fingerprints somewhere on file, what with him being a former air force pilot turned test pilot."
"But why should we waste a valuable agent's time looking?" Mother demanded.
"I'd be happy to do the research," Emma said. "I'm not busy."
"Nonsense! This gun belongs to Mr. Peel whether you want to admit it or not!" snapped Mother.
"You cannot say that conclusively! It's all conjecture at this point!" Emma protested. Steed realised he had only seen Mrs. Peel this angry once before: when she had discovered a man drowning in a bathtub and was infuriated Steed hadn't warned her. Her anger quickly sizzled out into defeat. "Besides, like Steed suggested, perhaps this man isn't really my husband at all. I don't know!"
Mother made a sound of shock. "But that…how does that even work? Wouldn't you have noticed before now if the man wasn't your husband?" A discomfiting silence settled over the room.
Emma hung her head. "In most marriages that would have been obvious, but Mr. Peel's and my relationship had been...frigid as of late."
Steed and Mother both had the courtesy to cough and look away. After a moment, Steed found his voice. "So can we please see if there's a match?"
Mother puffed his cigar nervously. "Just leave the gun with me or Mr. Smyth, and if you're really bent on getting fingerprints, we'll do that for you."
"You don't have to go through all that trouble. We'll be more than willing to get the information ourselves." Steed picked up the gun, and headed to the door, Mrs. Peel close behind him.
"Wait just a moment, you two. I insist you hand the gun over to me. I don't want you poking your noses where they don't belong." Mother paused a minute and added, "I mean, I don't want you to exert yourselves?"
Steed and Peel exchanged a simultaneous questioning glance before Steed demanded harshly, "Mother, what is going on? Yesterday when Mrs. Parker said all those strange things, you were more than annoyed…"
"And today you command us not to go about our job, namely investigating," Mrs. Peel finished. "Would you care to explain this to us?"
"No, I would not, and hand the gun over to me." Mother began wheeling over to them.
"This time I must disobey your orders, Mother. Good day to you." Steed opened the door and came face to face with Mr. Smyth. "Really, a spy of your stature should know better than to eavesdrop in the most obvious places."
Mr. Smyth stared coldly at him before brushing past into the room. Mrs. Peel exited with Steed, and they drove back to her apartment.
Meanwhile, Tara went to visit Steed and was surprised to find him not there. A note posted on the wall outside his flat informed her of his whereabouts, and Tara cringed at the thought of Steed visiting Mrs. Peel. The note invited her to stop over at Mrs. Peel's if she so desired, so Tara immediately set out.
When she arrived at the apartment, Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel were immersed in a serious conversation. "Peter doesn't even own anything in this flat except his clothes and a very hideous antique lamp that he refuses to let me throw out," Emma was saying.
They didn't notice her arrival until she cleared her throat several times. "What is so interesting that you didn't hear me?" she asked once she had their attention.
Steed filled her in on the details, including the strange affair with Mother. When he finished he added, "We talked to someone at the ministry more accommodating than Mother, and we were just on our way back to look at the fingerprints database."
"A wonderful idea; I'll go with you!" Tara cried enthusiastically.
"No, you'd better stay," Mrs. Peel replied. "We don't want to get you involved in this little ordeal. After all, Steed is already in trouble with Mother. It wouldn't do to have two of his top agents in hot water."
Tara was about to protest, but Steed agreed. "Yes, that's the best plan. Maybe you could visit Mrs. Parker and see what she meant by her cryptic message, 'We all know that you—'"
"This is a fine way to treat me, Steed. I go to your flat, you're not there. Then when I find you at Mrs. Peel's place, you're going out again!"
"Don't worry; I'm not going to disappear for long. I hope not, anyway." Steed gingerly lifted the gun, and ushered Emma out the door.
"Thank you for understanding," Tara muttered sarcastically as soon as the door shut. She wandered over to Mrs. Peel's little bar and poured herself a glass of champagne. When she finished, she argued with herself for ten minutes whether she should visit Mrs. Parker or not. In the end, Tara's feet refused to move from their position on the floor. She could not, would not talk to that simple minded Mrs. Parker while Steed escorted Mrs. Peel around the town, even if it was only to examine some fingerprints back at the ministry!
"If Mrs. Peel found the gun in her flat, then perhaps some other clues are hidden in these walls," Tara reasoned with herself. She ambled over to the china cabinet and uncovered the forgotten feather duster from under the piece of furniture. Unconsciously, she began to dust every object she inspected.
After forty-five minutes of examining every article, she wandered into the bedroom where two twin size beds stood neatly against the left wall. A bedside table separated them both, and an antique lamp was perched on top. Tara carelessly dusted the lamp, eyeing every item in the room as if it might be a clue. The lamp rocked precariously back and forth, but Tara was quite oblivious to this. Suddenly, it completely lost its balance and was about to totter to the floor when Tara snapped out of her reverie and caught it in time.
She surveyed the antique with genuine curiosity. She remembered Mrs. Peel had said this was one of the few valuables that Peter Peel had brought to the flat. There was something strange about the whole lamp, and it became even queerer when she unscrewed the top to reveal a hollow body. Tara peered into the cast iron body and spotted several letters tucked tightly into the base. After several attempts of trying to pry the notes out, she succeeded and spread them out on the bedside table to read. The first one was a simple-stated letter that made her blood run cold.
Jan. 9th, 1968
William,
I did it yesterday. I killed that lousy actor Richard Thoms before he could bat an eye. Now you hold out your end of the bargain and play Emma's husband. I hope you've been learning to not only act like him but to write like him. That last forged letter you sent me was a laugh. Don't think that Emma bird would be fooled for a second. At least your face is a close enough replica now that you've done the surgery.
Now remember to not fall for this dame, cause we've got to kidnap her later, and I don't need you turning soft all of a sudden. Get out of the house a lot, especially since Emma ain't no dummy and will probably start getting suspicious if you're around too much.
-Ed
P.S. Destroy this letter as soon as possible, or hide it in a good place. And it had better be a very good place, or you'll be as dead as Richard Thoms.
The other letters were more of the same sentiment. From them Tara learned that Ed had befriended a struggling actor named Richard Thoms. Why, the letters didn't say. But Ed's accomplice had undergone plastic surgery to resemble Peter Peel, and while he was recovering, Ed had murdered Richard Thoms. And now his associate was pretending to be Mr. Peel! Not only that, but they had tried to kidnap Mrs. Peel last night at the party!
Tara shakily put the lamp back in its place and wandered to the living room. Mrs. Peel was in grave danger, and now so was Steed. "Ooh, Steed, please be careful!" Tara pleaded as she crushed one of the letters against her ample chest.
As if to answer her entreaty, Steed and Peel entered the room. "Tara," Steed exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you would be discussing the weather with Mrs. Parker by now."
"No, I didn't have any desire to be bored to death," Tara returned wryly. She began to tell Mrs. Peel and Steed about her discovery, but Steed interrupted her.
"We looked at thousands of fingerprints, but we couldn't find a match for the ones on the gun. Peter Peel wasn't in the database, either. Strange, isn't it?" Steed set his bowler hat and umbrella down on a table. "I don't know what we're going to do now."
"While you were trying to find the owner of the gun, I found this letter hidden in Peter's antique lamp, Mrs. Peel," Tara interrupted urgently. "Here, read it."
Emma and John immediately complied, bending over the note together. "So there is a man pretending to be my husband, and he is the one who tried to kidnap me last night!" Mrs. Peel cried after she finished reading. "Steed, you were right!"
"Of course I was right. Your fake husband turned out to be a chap named William who owns a strange gun, and who, for some odd reason, wants to kidnap you."
"Don't forget that his accomplice Ed murdered the actor Richard Thoms," Tara reminded him.
"You know I met Richard Thoms once," Emma commented. "He was a struggling actor, but he did a tremendous performance in Comedy of Errors on the West End. I even had a picture taken with him, but it was destroyed in a fire with all my other photos."
"All your pictures were destroyed?" Steed asked.
"Even the ones of my husband," Mrs. Peel replied. "I don't know how it happened, for that memory is rather hazy. All I remember is someone telling me about it after the great fire. I must have been injured in the fire by falling debris."
"What 'great fire'?" Tara inquired.
"I don't recollect that either, though I do believe it occurred right before I started working with you, Steed."
"Doesn't that seem odd that you were involved in a 'great fire' that neither Tara nor I ever heard of?" Steed asked, concern unmistakable in his voice.
"Yes, I often find it odd, but then I usually shake it off as just my overactive imagination." Emma shrugged, her doe eyes remarkably distant. "Anyway, I have one small photo left of Peter." Mrs. Peel opened a locket that was around her neck and pointed to a photo of a man putting a bowler hat on his head. In fact, the picture had been taken right as he had lifted the hat across his face. Because of this, his face, except for a bit of his nose and smile, were obscured.
"It was taken in Italy when we were on holiday." Emma explained, fondly reminiscing about the good old years. "My husband was constantly wearing his hat everywhere, even in all our pictures. My husband had lovely thick hair, so I didn't see why he wanted to hide it all the time. At one point of our holiday, he took his hat off, so I wanted to get a picture with him without his ridiculous hat on. As luck would have it, just at the moment when I took the photo, he put the hat back on, again."
"I like your husband, Mrs. Peel," Steed remarked, chuckling at the humorous tale. "By the way, when were you in Italy?"
"It was 1962, if you're interested. Why do you ask?"
"I was there that same year on some business. I wonder if I passed you on the street?"
"I highly doubt it. My husband and I walked only the best boulevards, and if I know you, you were on a spy mission in one of the filthiest parts of towns. Still, that would have been quite ironic."
"How did we get so off track?" Tara asked vexatiously.
"We were talking about Richard Thoms," Mrs. Peel reminded her, "and that bought up my memory of meeting him, and that—"
"Ah! Yes, thank you! We still don't know why Thoms was killed in the first place."
"We do know who murdered him," Steed reminded her gently. "It was Ed, but what induced him to do such a terrible thing?"
"I believe we need to check into this little mystery of Richard Thoms," Emma declared, her mind busily at work.
"That's an excellent idea," Steed complimented her. "I'll phone my friend, Harold Witherspoon. He's a detective for Scotland Yard who works on tough cases, and he should have all the suspects for the Richard Thoms Case. It's a far stretch, but maybe our Ed is listed as one of the suspects."
"I've been wondering," Emma began, "if William is posing as Mr. Peel, where is my true husband?"
Tara made no response, for she was at a loss for words. She really did not want to jump to any conclusions.
Fortunately she didn't have to, because Steed did. "Maybe he never survived the Amazon."
"I hope not," Tara and Emma replied at the same time for different reasons.
Steed looked at them strangely before dialing his friend's number. After a quick chat with Harold Witherspoon, he hung up and smiled triumphantly. "Harold has all the information we could need, including pictures. He's really anxious to find out what I've learned, so I'll leave right now." Steed grabbed his bowler hat and brolly and addressed Mrs. Peel, "This should please you, Harold also thinks he has some information on your little friend, William. Well, I'm off."
Tara hurried over to Steed. "What should I—er, I mean—we do while you're gone?"
Steed appeared to have no answer, so Mrs. Peel supplied them both with one. "I've been thinking…Mother didn't want us working on this mystery. Perhaps he knows the actual whereabouts of my husband? I figure Mr. Peel is either really lost in the Amazon, or he is being held captive somewhere."
"What are you getting at, Mrs. Peel?" Tara asked curiously.
"Mother has detailed information of every agent that's ever worked for the agency, amateur or professional. These files list information about our birth, former employment, spouses, etc. If one of us could get my file somehow, then we would really know what has become of my husband."
"And what if it just says 'lost in the Amazon, assumed dead'?" Steed inquired.
"Then I'd like to know why the ministry let me walk off with an impostor."
"Since it was your idea, you can have the honours of performing the task," Tara smiled innocently.
Mrs. Peel stared at her in amusement. "Are you sure you just don't want Mother to be angry with you if you're caught? After all, aren't the files kept in an off limit zone?"
"Yes, they are," Tara snapped peevishly. She calmed down a bit and continued, "They used to be opened to all agents, but after several spies were caught using the information against other spies, the files were locked away. Now only Mother and agents who get permission from him can see the dossiers."
"Well, I'm sure Mother will let me see the data on Mr. Peel. He is my husband, after all, and I am entitled to know what has become of him." Mrs. Peel marched over to the doorway where Steed was standing and teasingly asked, "Are you sure you don't want to do it instead, Tara?"
"You'd better decide soon," Steed added. "I want to know which lady I'm dropping off at ministry headquarters." He smiled at the women, thinking that it would be a pleasure to be with either of them.
Tara looked at the twosome standing far too close to each other and immediately changed her mind. "Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Peel. I'd be more than willing to investigate for you."
Mrs. Peel laughed silently to herself. Tara was certainly an easy person to read. It was quite obvious she loved Steed, and it was also apparent that she was oblivious to the fact that everyone else knew her feelings. Mrs. Peel wondered if Steed had such feelings for Tara, or if he was as much a cad as ever. The idea that Steed was in love annoyed Emma, and she didn't know why.
As Steed and Tara left, Emma wished that she hadn't badgered Tara into taking her place.
Steed drove up to the agency headquarters in his old yellow Rolls Royce. Smiling gregariously, he said, "Here you are. I certainly hope Mother gives you permission to see those files. I wouldn't want you waiting for me for a quarter of an hour with nothing to do because Mother refused to let you into the personnel files room."
Tara daintily stepped out, shutting the car door behind her with an equally as graceful move. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
"When have I ever been known to worry?" Steed asked. He grinned impishly before driving off.
Mother was more than surprised to see Tara standing in his office. He was even more flabbergasted to learn that she wanted to see Mrs. Peel's dossiers. "Didn't you just look at those files last month?"
Trying to remember, Tara shrugged and frowned. She knew she had done copious research on Steed's former partner when she was first assigned to work with him, but that was over a year ago. And she had never read any files. She had simply asked around the ministry and looked up newspaper articles on the indomitable Emma Peel. "I don't believe so," she finally concluded.
"All right, I'll send Smyth to go fetch them for you. Oh, Smyth!" Mother called over an intercom for several seconds until Mr. Smyth appeared at the door. "Ah, Smyth. Miss King wants to see Mrs. Peel's files. You know, Mrs. Peel's files."
Smyth froze in place. "But no one is supposed to—well…"
"Smyth, you misunderstood my orders." Mother impatiently drummed his fingernails on his desk. "Send me the portfolio with the material about Mrs. Emma Peel and her husband Peter Peel."
A light of comprehension filled Mr. Smyth's eyes, and he quickly exited the room.
Tara stared confusedly at Mother, wondering why he and Smyth were acting so strangely. "You shouldn't have troubled Smyth. You know I would have looked for the document myself." Tara eyed Mother suspiciously as she spoke, but Mother didn't look at all fazed.
His uneasiness seemed to have passed. "Smyth knows the layout of the files much better than you. He'll find the needed dossier in half the time it would probably take you."
As if proving Mother's point, Smyth reentered the room, carrying a skinny folder. "Here you go, Agent King." Smyth handed her the portfolio but would not let go.
"Please, Mr. Smyth." Tara yanked at the folder until Mr. Smyth let go. She opened it anxiously and scanned all the data in record time. It seemed curiously light for an agent's file. After she finished inspecting the file, she scratched her head in puzzlement. Under the information for Mr. Peel, it stated, "Was lost in the Amazon, but returned home unexpectedly in early 1968."
Mother must not know that there is an impostor being Mr. Peel, Tara thought. I had better tell him. "Mother, there's something you need to know about Mr. Peel."
Mother and Smyth exchanged nervous glances. "What's that, Tara?" Mother asked, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice.
"There is a criminal pretending to be him. He hasn't returned from the Amazon at all! There wasn't any way you could have known this fact, since Steed and I just discovered it today. But now that you are aware about this dreadful situation, perhaps we could get some back up protection for Mrs. Peel?"
"Who told you there was an impostor running around?" Mother asked angrily.
"Nobody did; I was searching for clues at Mrs. Peel's flat, and I stumbled upon a letter." Tara was a bit taken aback by his condescending tone.
"You shouldn't trust everything you read," Mother replied, indicating that she was a rather silly girl to believe such a note.
"But it's true! Someone named William was an accomplice to the murder of an actor called Richard Thoms and then he started posing as Mr. Peel."
Mother seemed very alert at her last piece of information. "Do you mean to say that Richard Thoms was killed?"
"Yes! Steed phoned his friend Harold Witherspoon, who had information about who killed Thoms, and he's there now sorting it all out. Aren't you pleased?" Tara beamed proudly, but her smile was not returned.
Mother motioned to Smyth, who immediately left the room, gun in tow. "Tara, this is all the result of an overactive imagination. No one is posing as Mr. Peel. What would be the point? I want you to go visit Mrs. Peel and give her this dossier." Mother grimaced and added, "I'm sure she'll be relieved to know that there is no man pretending to be her husband."
"But there is, and we have proof!"
"Goodbye, Tara." Mother had Rhonda escort her out the door and lock it behind her.
Tara stood in the hallway, more perplexed than she'd ever been. Mother knew something that they (Steed, Mrs. Peel, and herself) didn't, and he was doing his hardest to keep it a secret. The answer, she was sure, was lying in the off limits room. Ascertaining that no one was following her, Tara headed in that direction.
"Here we are, Steed." Witherspoon handed his friend a thick portfolio filled with glossies and all the information Steed could want on the Richard Thoms Case.
"Ah! This will keep me busy for a while." Steed gazed admiringly at the compilation in his hands.
"It took us a whole year to gather all this material together. I hope you'll appreciate the trouble we went through." Harold sighed forlornly as if remembering the painstaking task he had carried out.
"I'll cherish every word," Steed replied almost in earnest. He set the heavy portfolio down on the desk next to a fake statuette of Venus. He immediately began toying with the replica.
"Our sector of detectives takes deep pride in our work." Witherspoon proclaimed. "You won't see us messing about on our jobs. We are a respectable lot of detectives, who've only failed to solve five cases in the 140 years we've been in operation."
"It's that so?" Steed asked, not paying thorough attention to his friend's rants. Making himself comfortable, he perched himself on the desk.
"Of course, the Richard Thoms case is one of those five, but you have a lead. Yes, I say Scotland Yard is as solid and steady as ever."
"A beautiful creation of art," Steed remarked, referring to the statuette. "I admire the man who first thought of her."
Witherspoon, believing Steed was alluding to his detective firm, beamed in approval. "That's exactly what I thought when I first joined."
Steed realised they were talking about two entirely different things, so he only smiled in return. He set the statuette back in its place.
"So what is this clue that you've discovered, Steed? I'm really quite anxious to know." Harold Witherspoon sat back in his leather desk chair, listening intently to whatever Steed had to say.
"I've found a letter that tells us exactly who the murderer is." Steed procured the letter from his pocket. "Ironically, I don't know much about him, except his name is Ed. You're supposed to supply me with the rest of the information."
Witherspoon put his feet up on his desk before replying, "There was an Edmund Baccarat and an Edward Skisserd on the suspect lists. You'll find them both in the folder. One of them—I don't remember which—had an accomplice he always worked with, a fellow by the name of—
"William?" Steed interrupted.
Witherspoon slid his feet off the desk in surprise. "Yes, William Avery; he's been involved in three armed robberies. But how did you know his name?"
"My good friend Mrs. Peel is acquainted with the felon. He tried to kidnap her." Steed handed him the note to peruse. "I was talking about him earlier to you on the phone; remember? You said you might have some information about him along with the Richard Thoms case."
"Ah, yes, of course." Harold studied the note for several moments before saying, "Peel. That name sounds familiar. That's right! The last job Richard Thoms was going to do before he was murdered was to play the part of a Mr. Peter Peel."
Steed nearly fell off his desk. "Are you sure?"
"The strangest thing: he was hired by an organisation of some sort to play this woman's husband. They offered him oodles of money. His girlfriend was set up nicely after his demise. She told me that he was supposed to sweep this woman away from her current life, then ask for a divorce, and leave. Anyway, Richard Thoms accepted the part, and several days later he was killed. Is this friend of yours, Mrs. Peel, related to the man that Thoms was supposed to play?"
"They weren't related," Steed answered evasively. "Do you have a picture of this man, Witherspoon?"
"We carry pictures of all the victims." Mr. Witherspoon went over to a file cabinet. "Do you want one with him dead or alive?"
"Preferably alive, if you don't mind." Steed stood up and began pacing back and forth, in deep contemplation.
"Here's a photo with him alive, but he has a woman with him." Witherspoon handed the photograph to Steed, wondering what was going on.
Briefly scanning the picture was all Steed needed to do to confirm his suspicions. The photograph showed a man in a suit with a mustache, looking very much like Peter Peel. Smiling happily next him was none other than the charming Mrs. Emma Peel. "One of the pictures she lost in the fire, no doubt," Steed murmured to himself.
Steed flipped through the portfolio of all the suspects until he found a picture of William Avery. He had very similar features like that of Richard Thoms, except he had no facial hair. "Do you have a black marker, Witherspoon?" Steed asked.
Witherspoon rummaged through a drawer and retrieved the item that Steed wanted. Steed snatched it away and began scribbling a black mustache under Avery's nose. "I say, Steed, what are you doing?" Harold cried.
Steed held up his piece of art next to the picture of Thoms. "There, see how similar in appearance these two men are?" Witherspoon nodded in agreement. "Thoms was killed. Do you think this man could take his place and get away with it, especially if he underwent plastic surgery?"
"Yes, it's probable."
Portfolio under one arm, Steed managed to grab his bowler and umbrella. "Thank you for the information, Witherspoon, but I have no time to chat. I must tell Mrs. Peel." With that, Steed marched out the door.
"I thought you said that Mrs. Peel wasn't related to Peter Peel!" Witherspoon called after him. "Hmm, that's what comes of not being a detective." If only Witherspoon knew the truth!