Sheri Cobb South (12 page)

“Tell me, Mr. Pickett,” he intoned, scowling over the wire rims of his spectacles, “why are you so determined to believe this woman innocent?”

Pickett, unintimidated, answered the question with one of his own. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but why are you so determined to believe her guilty?”

“You cannot deny that all the evidence thus far appears to point in her direction: her bedchamber, her nail scissors, her discovery of the body, conveniently accompanied by a witness—her lover. To say nothing of her relationship to the victim. If she was indeed unhappy in her marriage, there was little else she could have done to emancipate herself. Even had she prevailed upon her husband to apply to the House of Lords for a divorce, you may be certain that august body would not have dealt kindly with her.”

“I’ll grant you she was at odds with his lordship, sir, but there’s quite a difference between divorce and murder. Lady Fieldhurst is innocent, and I intend to prove it.”

Mr. Colquhoun heaved the weary sigh of one who has echoed the same argument too many times. “I would suggest, Mr. Pickett, that you concentrate less on proving who did not murder the viscount and focus your attentions on proving who did. Or have you given any thought to that matter at all?”

If Pickett noticed the magistrate’s sarcasm, he chose not to acknowledge it. “Yes, sir, I have. I can’t rule out the heir, George Bertram, but to my mind, Lord Rupert Latham is the likeliest suspect.”

Mr. Colquhoun unbent sufficiently to cock one eyebrow. “Lord Rupert Latham? Lady Fieldhurst’s lover?”

“Only in his dreams, sir,” said Pickett, not without satisfaction.

“I see,” observed the magistrate, who apparently saw a great deal more than Mr. Pickett intended. “And is your case against Lord Rupert built upon evidence or—dare I say it?— envy?”

Pickett flushed scarlet, but replied woodenly, “I hope I know my place, sir.”

“Good. See that you don’t forget it.”

* * * *

Pickett, his pride stung by his magistrate’s parting shot, deemed it high time to pay another call on Lord Rupert Latham. He had not looked forward to this undertaking, being uncomfortably aware that he had not come off well in his initial interview with Lady Fieldhurst’s would-be lover. Not that Pickett doubted his abilities at detection; indeed, it was a source of some pride to him that he had been promoted from the Foot Patrol at the tender age of four-and-twenty. But although he had told Lucy that murder was the same no matter one’s part of Town, he was not entirely convinced of the truth of his own words. Something about Lord Rupert Latham made him feel not only his shortage of years but, worse, his lack of sophistication. Even more galling was the suspicion that his lordship was fully conscious of his advantage, and used it to full effect. Was it, as Mr. Colquhoun suggested, the bitter knowledge that it was Lord Rupert, and not John Pickett, who was Lady Fieldhurst’s choice? If that were so, he would do well to find the killer quickly and have done with her ladyship at once, before he made an utter fool of himself.

With these melancholy thoughts for companionship, he arrived at Lord Rupert’s rooms in the Albany, and requested the indulgence of a word with his lordship. Lord Rupert’s man opened his mouth—to say something crushing, Pickett had no doubt—but was forestalled by the appearance of Lord Rupert himself. On this occasion, his lordship was not seated at the breakfast table en deshabille, but was dressed for the day in a long-tailed morning coat of dark blue cloth and skin-tight pantaloons unmarred by creases. Dual rows of brass buttons gleamed on his chest and, as for his glossy black boots, Lord Rupert might have seen his reflection in them had his starched cravat not prevented him from lowering his chin. Pickett, painfully aware of his serviceable but outmoded brown serge coat, felt not only unsophisticated, but shabby as well.

“Ah, Mr. Pickett, my friend from Bow Street,” drawled his lordship. “To what, pray, do I owe this honor?”

“It’s come to my attention, my lord, that you left Lady Herrington’s ball at some point during the evening, and did not return to Portman Square until some time after midnight,” Pickett replied without preamble.

“Who says so?” demanded Lord Rupert.

“Lady Fieldhurst.”

Lord Rupert, engaged in extracting a pinch of snuff from an elegantly enameled box, froze with one slender white hand suspended scant inches from his aquiline nose. “Interesting. I wonder what other disclosures you had from the artless Julia’s lips.”

“And I wonder, my lord, why you saw fit to withhold the information.”

“Perhaps,” suggested his lordship, after a pause during which he raised the pinch of snuff to one nostril and inhaled sharply, “I withheld it because it was none of your business.”

Made bold by righteous indignation, Pickett held his ground. “Murder is everyone’s business.”

“There, sir, you have me,” acknowledged Lord Rupert, bowing with exaggerated civility. “Should I ever commit murder, you will be the first to know. Alas, I did nothing more remarkable than douse my person with champagne— unworthy of me, I confess, but hardly illegal.”

“I’d like to see those breeches, if I may.”

Lord Rupert arched an eyebrow. “My dear Mr. Pickett, surely you do not suppose I would wear stained breeches! I gave them to my man, Farley. Farley, be a good fellow and fetch my damaged breeches for Mr. Pickett.”

“Not to be disobliging, my lord, but I regret that I cannot,” said the servant, breaking the disapproving silence he had maintained since first opening the door. “I sold them yesterday morning to the rag-and-bone man for two shillings tuppence.”

“Two shillings tuppence!” echoed Lord Rupert in mournful tones. “And when one considers what one’s tailor charged for them! Ah, well, I daresay it can’t be helped. As you see, Mr. Pickett, I can be of no further assistance to you.”

“One moment,” Pickett said, addressing himself to Farley. “What of this rag-and-bone man? Do you know his name or direction?”

“I am hardly upon intimate terms with such a person, sir,” intoned Farley in haughty accents that equaled anything his master might have employed, “but I believe, by certain things the man let fall, that he had formed the intention of selling the article to a second-hand clothing store.”

“Any idea as to which one?” Pickett asked, making a notation in his notebook.

“As I am not in the habit of frequenting such establishments, sir, I am sure I could not say.”

The disappearance of the stained breeches was a bit too facile for Pickett’s liking, but the recollection that Lady Fieldhurst frequently disposed of her own cast-offs in a similar manner served to lend credence to the tale. Still, it was a lead, and in a case with so little hard evidence, any lead was worth pursuing. Searching the numerous second-hand shops in London’s seedier districts was, he decided, a task that would suit Lucy down to the ground.

Chapter 10

Sir Thaddeus Runyon, Squire of Somersetshire

Over the next forty-eight hours, Lady Fieldhurst was overwhelmed with visitors paying condolence calls. Lady Dunnington, with her usual candor, characterized them as a flock of vultures come to pick over the dead man’s bones, but the viscountess could not but be grateful for their concern. She attributed the unusual number of visitors to her late husband’s influence in government circles, and so dispensed tea and cakes with all the graciousness of a seasoned political hostess performing the office for perhaps the last time. However else she must have disappointed her husband, she felt she had not shamed him in that rôle. She accepted condolences on the viscount’s death, gently but firmly discouraging any speculation as to how it came about, and steered the conversation to less personal subjects. The Herrington ball of two days ago was one of the more convenient topics to hand since, now that she thought of it, most of her current guests had been present on that occasion, also.

Alas, she was in for a rude awakening. During a brief lull in the conversation, young Mr. Ned Gibson, the same stammering youth who had stepped on her ladyship’s hem during the night’s festivities, declared in a fervent voice, “I don’t care what anyone says! I know you didn’t kill him!”

A shocked silence greeted this pronouncement; whereupon Mr. Gibson, seeing the reproachful looks cast in his direction and feeling the evil eye of his mother upon him, felt it incumbent upon him to make matters worse by adding, with undiminished fervor, “And so I told that fellow from Bow Street, you may be sure—

“Dear me, look at the time!” interrupted Mrs. Gibson, seizing her hapless son by the ear and hauling him to his feet as if he were still in the nursery. “I shall be late for an appointment with my dressmaker. Good day, Lady Fieldhurst—tragic loss—so sorry—”

With this disjointed farewell, she all but dragged her disgraced offspring from the room in her wake. An awkward silence reigned for only a moment, before the entire company burst into loud and cheerful conversation. This unnatural jollity lasted perhaps five minutes, until Lady Fieldhurst demanded of the lady seated on her left, “What of you, Martha? Has Mr. Pickett questioned you, as well?”

“N-no, my dear,” stammered the lady, “he merely called to make a few inquiries of my husband. Robert did dance with you, you know, and that Bow Street fellow wanted to know if he could recall what time—”

“And you, Lydia?” challenged the viscountess, turning to a trembling woman on her right.

“No, but I was at Lady Herrington’s on the morning after her ball, when the Bow Street officer came to question her. They were gone for quite a long time.”

And so it went. One by one, each caller admitted that, yes, they had heard of Lady Fieldhurst’s implication in the crime, if not from “that Bow Street fellow” himself, then from Lady Herrington or one of her guests. The viscountess’s head was buzzing by the time the bravest of her callers deemed it safe to take her leave and crept sheepishly from the room. The others quickly followed and, within ten minutes, the viscountess was alone with Lady Dunnington.

“What did I tell you?” sniffed the countess. “Vultures, every one of them, come to sniff out what gossip they can.”

“And who can blame them?” asked Lady Fieldhurst, slumping in her chair. “I thought he believed me. I suppose I was naïve.”

“No more so than I,” said Lady Dunnington, sipping her now tepid tea. “I said the man-child from Bow Street could do you no harm. It appears I was wrong.”

* * * *

Lady Fieldhurst was not finished entertaining for the day, for shortly after tea, Thomas ushered Lord Rupert Latham into the room.

“Rupert!” cried her ladyship, pressing a hand to her black-clad bosom. “Thank heaven it is only you!”

“My dear Lady Fieldhurst,” Lord Rupert said with excruciating correctness, bowing over her hand. “I trust I have not come at an inconvenient time, but I had to see for myself how you are bearing up.”

“As well as may be expected, considering that I have spent the better part of the day pouring tea for the most voracious set of busybodies in London,” she replied, gently withdrawing her hand from his, when he might have retained it a bit longer than propriety decreed.

Thomas, still acting in the capacity of butler, took himself from the room and closed the door behind him. Lord Rupert, hearing the click of the latch, abandoned his pursuit of Lady Fieldhurst’s hand, only to pull her into his arms.

“Rupert!” protested her ladyship, struggling to hold him at arm’s length. “We must not!”

“I can think of a time when you were not so unwilling,” he reminded her.

“Under the circumstances, this is hardly—”

Lord Rupert released her, nevertheless objecting, “Come now, Julia, this is doing it much too brown! Surely you don’t think to enact the rôle of the grieving widow?” He broke off and raised his quizzing glass, the better to admire the effect of sunlight spilling through the long window, turning her fair hair to gold and giving her an angelic appearance which contrasted sharply with the unrelieved black of her gown. “Although I must confess that you are one of the few women to whom mourning is becoming. Accept my compliments.”

“Oh, bother your compliments! Rupert, when you left Lady Herrington’s ball, where did you go?”

“Why, here, my sweet. Surely you must remember?”

“Not then—earlier, after you spilled your champagne.”

“I returned to my rooms to change my raiment, just as I told you at the time. Why do you ask?”

Too late, it occurred to the viscountess that it might be wisest to keep her doubts to herself. She knew from experience that Lord Rupert could be unscrupulous where his own interests were at stake; indeed, the frisson of danger which surrounded him had always been a great part of his appeal. But, while a ruthless admirer might be all very well for provoking the ire of a jealous husband (not that Frederick had ever shown any signs of jealousy), he might not be the safest confidante for a woman in her present circumstances. If Lord Rupert had indeed committed one murder, he might not scruple to commit another in order to conceal the first. Suddenly his air of tightly controlled passions seemed much less appealing, and far more menacing. Although she would have scoffed at the idea only moments before, she was now uncomfortably aware of the fact that she was very much alone with him, and that Thomas—and indeed all the rest of the staff—seemed very far away.

She shrugged, making a valiant attempt at nonchalance. “No particular reason. It merely seemed to me that you were gone a very long time. You did promise to return before supper, and when you did not, I began to wonder—”

“The devil you did! Has that damned thief-taker been here? What has he been telling you?”

“He has been here, yes—it appears he has been all over Mayfair!—but he didn’t say anything about you. In fact, he didn’t know anything about your absence from the ball until he suggested you might vouch for my presence there from half-past eight to almost two. Honesty compelled me to say that you could not do so, as you had been absent for a brief time yourself.”

“Destroying not only your own alibi, but mine in the process,” Lord Rupert pointed out. “I see now why I was forced to endure another visit from Bow Street. At least this time the diligent Mr. Pickett had the courtesy to wait until I had finished my breakfast before descending upon me.”