CHAPTER FOUR
HIS THOUGHTS MORE ON the enigma that was Henry, Barnabas strolled through the sleeping city toward home. He turned the corner on his street. A carriage waited in front of his house. His chest tightened.
Hell, he’d been having a good night.
Only family called after midnight. The crest on the carriage marked it as his uncle’s, but if his uncle was waiting on him, he wouldn’t be alone. He should tell his servants to not let anyone inside when he wasn’t there. Not that he didn’t love his family, but the relationship had been strained for years. He didn’t want his raised spirits dashed to the ground and trampled just yet.
He used his key to let himself inside. His manservant, Jenson, hovered in the doorway to the parlor, his forehead puckered and his eyes darting into the room.
Barnabas’s mother perched on the armchair by the fireplace. She always perched with her back perfectly straight. She never leaned back in a chair, not even in concession to the lateness of the hour.
Barnabas sighed. Even if he would have told Jenson to turn her away, he doubted the man could have stood against her.
“Go to bed,” Barnabas told the man.
Jenson cast a glance over his shoulder. “Her ladyship asked for tea.”
“I’ll take care of my mother.”
Jenson gave a nod and whipped toward the stairs.
Digging out his notebook from his coat pocket, Barnabas moved out of the narrow foyer into the parlor.
His father stood at the fireplace. His face brightened. “Hello, son.”
“Father, Mother,” Barnabas said with a nod. At least his uncle wasn’t here to make it three against one.
His mother attempted a smile. But her, “How are you?” was clipped, almost curt. She didn’t really want an answer, but manners dictated the question.
“Fine. Have you been waiting long?” Barnabas crossed to the desk and uncapped a bottle of ink.
“Hours.” His mother’s mouth tightened. “Where have you been?”
“Working.” He dug a pen out of a drawer and began writing his impressions of the night. Henry’s questions, too. He wouldn’t apologize for doing his job, nor would he feel guilty for keeping them waiting when he’d had no idea they had been waiting. “You’ll have to excuse me while I write up my notes.”
He could almost hear his mother’s teeth grind. Except she never would have allowed herself to do that.
“It is late,” she said. “Would you at least give us your undivided attention?”
“If you would have left your card, I would have called on you at my uncle’s. But I must get this down while it is fresh in my mind.” Maybe if he ignored them long enough they would go away.
“Son, your mother wishes to speak with you,” his father said.
“I’m listening,” he answered, as much as he’d prefer not to. It would be more of the same.
“The Halbrooks are in town with their daughter Susan,” his mother said. “I thought it would be lovely if you joined us for dinner with them. You remember Susan, don’t you?”
He remembered Susan, although there wasn’t much that was memorable about her. Pale, blond, she was the kind of girl who’d been finished to the point of making her bland, like every other girl his mother had tried to introduce to him in the last decade. She would be suitably repulsed by the details of his work, because gently bred females were too delicate to be exposed to the depravities he dealt with, but of course she would be too well bred to say so—before she had the right.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the time at present.” It had been long understood that one day he would give up his playing at detective, marry, and settle into the life he was born to, as an eventual heir to a large inheritance—assuming it was still large when he came into it. That he would live the life of leisure he was born to live. Spend or horde the fortune his grandfather had amassed in India. The idea of it tightened like a noose around his neck.
Idleness had always made him feel like climbing the walls. Years and years of it was not something he wanted to contemplate.
“Your father and I think it is high time you gave up this little hobby. It is past time for you to pick a bride.”
His mother probably planned to enlist his wife in her campaign to make him quit working for the Metropolitan Police. He absently wondered if Henry would have the gumption to resist his mother.
Barnabas dipped his pen in the ink. “I’ve been at Scotland Yard for a decade. It isn’t a hobby.” More like a calling. This case in particular. This murder was the kind of crime he was born to solve. The kind of crime he’d solved once before—only too late for justice.
This case epitomized the very reason he became a detective, to learn the facts when truth wasn’t obvious. Or at least to look past the opinions and prejudices to bring the right person to judgement.
His father wandered from one end of the room to the other as if he’d lost interest in the conversation. But then he couldn’t be counted on for much. He drifted through life without ambition as was often the case of a man born to immense wealth. He amused himself with sports and gambling, but Barnabas never could generate any passion for either. Less so now that he’d been involved in numerous investigations into corruption around racing.
She put a hand to her forehead, lowered it and looked around. “Where is that tea?”
“There won’t be any tea. Cook has been in bed for hours, and I sent my manservant to bed.” Barnabas almost regretted sending Jenson to bed, but he didn’t have a huge staff that allowed him to always have someone ready to wait on him hand and foot. “Not that I ever expect him to put on tea. I can pour you some port if you like.”
She shuddered delicately. So no wine for her. “Must you be on this case?” she asked. “Couldn’t another detective be assigned to it? With your history...”
Would they finally talk about the events that set him on this path? The family secret that was locked so tightly in a cupboard. “No one at Scotland Yard knows the family history. Nor would anyone find me prejudiced in my opinions. Just because George—”
She put up a hand as if the conversation had gone far enough. “Don’t you dare make false accusations against your cousin.”
No one but him believed his cousin was a murderer.
But he didn’t believe. He knew.
Her mouth tightened betraying her disgust. “I will not hear it. Not now.”
Not ever her tone said.
His chest felt skewered. So he wouldn’t be allowed to take out the family skeletons and rattle them, no matter that she had obliquely referenced them. His mother preferred to believe her own son a liar rather than believe his cousin had committed murder. “It is late. You had better get home.”
His mother’s mouth flattened. “Not until we’ve settled this. Your name has appeared in The Times.” Her nostrils flared. “This is unacceptable.”
His name in the newspaper was only unacceptable because it wasn’t on the society pages announcing his engagement. “I don’t have any control over what is printed in the newspapers, but I can assure you I don’t speak with reporters.”
“Of all cases...must you be involved in this...witch hunt?”
He gasped. She could have just as well stabbed him in the heart. Even his father stopped strolling around the room. Barnabas carefully put his pen down lest he snap it in two with his grip. “I have never participated in a witch hunt. Nor would I. I have never made a false accusation, nor did I dream up anything. George murdered that girl.”
His mother gaped at him.
There he’d said it. For the first time in fifteen years he’d said the words out loud and the world didn’t collapse. His mother might not ever speak to him again, but he was tired of tiptoeing around his cousin’s crime.
“You, you, you, cannot say such a thing,” she sputtered.
His father moved behind his mother and put a hand on her shoulder. “Emily, you are overtired.”
“This work you do has you suspecting everyone. You have to stop.” Her voice was thin and sharp as a stiletto.
“The only person I suspected in that crime was my cousin. I had proof, whether you choose to believe it or not.”
“Do I need to involve your uncle?” she asked.
His throat went dry. The last thing Barnabas needed was an MP throwing his weight around. Especially one who wasn’t happy with him. For the most part, people at Scotland Yard didn’t know his family connections. Those who did know didn’t hold it against him. Yet. “I don’t see what good that would accomplish.”
His mother stared at him tight-lipped, waiting for his resistance to collapse.
His powerful uncle could whisper in enough ears that he would be dismissed or worse, forced to shuffle paper about instead of given crimes to solve. “I promise when this murderer is brought to trial, I will hunt for a bride in earnest.”
His mother gave a sniff and stood. “I will hold you to that. Do try to keep from making a spectacle of yourself.”
He escorted them to the door, then returned to his notes, which mostly consisted of Henry’s questions. Her face sprang to mind as a bride, eyes bright, dimples showing, plump red lips glistening from his kiss. She was not the sort of woman his mother would ever approve as his wife, which certainly only increased her appeal in his mind, but at least she wouldn’t become an ally to his mother in the never ending campaign to get him to give up his work.
*~*~*
The servants’ dining hall in the Baron of Avondale’s house was plain—white walls without adornment, the table sturdy, the battered mismatched chairs obvious discards from above stairs. The baron hadn’t been happy that Barnabas wanted to question the members of the household, but had told one of the footmen to take him to the basement. Servants often made the best witnesses, because they saw and heard everything, but Barnabas was getting nowhere fast.
Next door, Coleraine’s staff had vouched for him, but they were in his employ. His alibi wasn’t as solid as it would be if a person who had nothing to gain could swear to his whereabouts.
He stared at the housemaid seated in front of him. “Is there anyone else who might have seen Lord Coleraine arrive home, Monday last?” he asked.
“I don’t see how,” said the servant with the direct—but not too direct—gaze of an honest responder. “The house was in an uproar what with half the children feeling poorly and Lady Avondale deciding they had to go to the country to escape the poisonous air before she got sick, too. I know that was Monday night because they left Tuesday morning.”
Barnabas stared down at his notes. Five children. A cousin of her ladyship. Several servants. If just one of them had seen Coleraine, he could give the earl’s alibi more credence. Once and for all, he could cross him off the list of potential suspects. He’d need to talk to the members of the household who were in London the night of the murder. “When will they be back?”
“I suspect if Lady Avondale has her druthers, they’ll be away a month or more.”
Barnabas frowned. Long enough for memories to fade. “Where exactly does his lordship’s sister live?”
If he had to take a trip somewhere, he wouldn’t have time to see Henry again, not that he’d managed to see her yet. By the time he was done interviewing the Master of the Sewers the day before, it had been far too late to call on her. His list of people to question grew longer each day.
The maid answered, but he forgot to listen and had to ask again. He wrote the address in Shefford in his notebook. That wasn’t so far away by train. He could get there, question the family, and be back in the same day.
“What do you know of how the servants next door view their master?”
“They adore him,” the maid said without hesitation. Which was another thing that just didn’t fit with the earl being a murderer. Servants from neighboring houses talked to each other, griped about their employers, except Coleraine’s didn’t seem to have many complaints.
Barnabas finished his questions for the maid and took his leave.
Once he was standing on the street in front of the impressive houses with their limestone facades, he turned toward the earl’s house. Perhaps he could answer Henry’s question about the earl’s former lovers. He shouldn’t waste his time, but his feet carried him to Coleraine’s door anyway. His knock was answered by one of the Irish footmen.
“May I help you?”
Behind him the steward Dougal stood watching. “I have some more questions.”
“His lordship isn’t at home.” The footman started to shut the door.
Barnabas stuck his foot in the opening. He knew it was rude, but he wouldn’t let the earl’s servants close ranks on him. “Mr. Dougal might be able to provide me with the answers.” He pinned the man with his gaze. “If you would be so good, sir. Just a few matters to clear up.”
Dougal’s mouth tightened. The man gave a slight bow indicating his displeasure. “Show him into my office.”
Not only were the servants fond of their employer, they were protective. That didn’t generally happen when the employer was a brute. That tended to induce more of a cowed response. Dougal turned on his heel and left the entry hall. Probably to warn his master that the annoying inspector was in the house.
Barnabas was shown into a closet of a room, dominated by a desk with papers strewn across it. There was only one chair, which meant he was to stand like a supplicant. Since the steward didn’t follow him into the room, apparently he was to wait like one, also.
He used tricks like that to make others uncomfortable during questioning. But he’d be damned before he’d allowed others to employ the same sort of tactics on him. Barnabas took the chair behind the desk. The papers on the desk were mostly bills for coal, water, food, and other household supplies for this house, the Southwark house, and for another flat in London. Who the hell lived there? Another mistress?
Mr. Dougal finally entered the room and drew up when he saw his desk chair occupied.
“This won’t take long.” Barnabas pointed to a chandler’s bill on the desk. “Who lives in the flat?”
“His lordship’s brother.”
“Ah.” Barnabas leisurely stood and didn’t move out from in front of the chair. It gave him the opportunity to watch Mr. Dougal’s entire form as he spoke. Barnabas was always on the lookout for the little signs that a person was uncomfortable with a question or anxious to get away. “Will he inherit if the current earl were to expire?”
“No. He’s a half-brother,” said Dougal, as if that explained it.
It meant one of two things. Half-brother on the mother’s side or baseborn. “Illegitimate?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dougal stiffly. He folded his arms. Closing off.
Barnabas made a mental note to look up who would inherit if the earl died without issue. So far the only person who seemed to have a motive for murdering Jane Redding was the earl himself. “Look, I want to find the guilty party so Coleraine can clear his name,”—if he was innocent—“but I need help here. I need to figure out who might have had a reason to kill Mrs. Redding.”
Dougal blinked rapidly. Surprise or deception? “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Is there anyone who might bear a grudge against your master?”
The man clenched his jaw. “No one I know, sir.”
Time to switch subjects and keep him off guard. “What about Coleraine’s former mistresses, Kathy Carter, Lucy Inglis or Violet Fenton? Could they have born Jane Redding some ill will since they were dismissed and she’d taken over as his mistress?”
The man’s eyes held steady. Not even a flicker of consideration. Interesting. “No.”
“Come now, jealousy can be a motive for murder.” More often than he liked.
Dougal sniffed. “I am given to understand none lives in London any longer, and the settlements were generous.”
A little too generous for the steward’s taste, Barnabas surmised. “Where would I find these women?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You will have to speak to the earl about that,” Dougal said.
Barnabas took a step closer and Dougal stepped back. “Are they dead, too?”
The steward reared back. Genuine horror and shock crossed his face. “No!”
Barnabas merely waited.
“I took them to the train station, gave them their money, but I did not procure their tickets to their destinations.”
Barnabas fought to keep his own surprise from his face. “None of them stayed in London?”
“No, his lordship gave them the means to start over elsewhere.”
“Why?”
The steward sniffed. “I gather before moving into the other house their situations were untenable.”
“You’d be willing to swear that you saw them off?”
Dougal straightened his jacket. “I would. Withdrew the money I handed them, too. On his lordship’s orders.”
Which wouldn’t provide Henry with the answer she wanted. Nor would the absences look good for Coleraine. If the damn newspapers caught wind of other women who couldn’t be found, they would pillory him. It wouldn’t be long before they were demanding his execution. “What about the others?”
The corners of Dougal’s mouth drew back and he shook his head. “Merely unfortunates his lordship has assisted in finding employment. He is a bit of a...soft touch.”
The steward didn’t approve. Did Dougal think his lordship weak, letting others take advantage? “Where does he find them employment?”
“The last one I put one on a train to Bedford—really you should ask his lordship about these creatures.”
Bedford wasn’t that far away from Shefford. Perhaps he could persuade Henry to take a day trip with him. Why she popped into his head, he couldn’t have said.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway and the door jerked open.
“Have you found the bastard who killed Jane—Mrs. Redding?” the earl demanded.
The man’s hair was disheveled and he hadn’t shaved. His waistcoat and jacket were unbuttoned as if he’d shoved them on in a hurry. He’d probably been abed. With his light eyes shining with hopeful concern, the earl didn’t strike Barnabas as a deadly killer.
In fact, Barnabas had the growing impression that the earl was generous and kind to a fault. He’d hired a string of Irish servants and ex-whores, he took a nightly turn caring for Mrs. Redding’s child—a child that might not be his—and it appeared he fully supported his half-brother. Not that others were aware of these acts.
“Not yet. I had a question.”
Coleraine’s shoulders dropped. He rubbed his forehead, like a man disappointed, not relieved.
Henry’s concerns were valid. Had these women moved away or gone missing? The earl’s reactions to questions about them might provide a gauge.
“Join me in the drawing room,” said Coleraine. “Dougal, have coffee sent up, please.”
The steward pressed his lips together. Either he didn’t like his master appearing disheveled or he didn’t like being given an order that would have usually gone through a lesser servant or a housekeeper.
Barnabas followed the earl out of the room. “Do you know if any of Mrs. Redding’s shoes were missing?”
Coleraine turned and his forehead creased. “I don’t believe so. Did you ask the servants at the other house? Fanny would know better than I.”
The murderer would likely know if Jane Redding was wearing her shoes or not. It was those sorts of details that often gave away guilt. A killer would remember which shoes were missing or if there weren’t shoes missing, but Coleraine hadn’t answered in a way that indicated any knowledge. He answered like a man trying to be helpful, but without a specific memory of what had really happened.
Barnabas started organizing questions from his mental list as he followed the earl to the drawing room.
Once they were both seated, he began with what the steward had said. “About the woman in Bedford...”
“Bedford?” The earl genuinely seemed confused, but then understanding dawned on him. “Do you mean Doris Meyer?”
“Is there more than one woman in Bedford?”
The earl pressed his lips together. He gave an almost indiscernible nod before he switched to looking concerned. “Has something happened to Doris?”
“Not that I know.” Barnabas leaned forward. “Tell me about her.”
“Not much to tell.” The earl pulled back.
So he would have to drag answers out of the earl today, whereas before he’d been forthcoming about everything he knew about Jane Redding. Her habits, her troubled marriage, even the argument they’d had the night she’d been murdered.
Barnabas knew how to be patient. He asked open ended questions until he could form a picture from Coleraine’s short answers. He’d drained his second cup of coffee, and relaxed the earl with questions about his former coachman before he brought up the names Henry had given him. “Tell me about Violet Fenton, Lucy Inglis, and Kathy Carter.”
The earl gave a startled shake of his head. “They aren’t involved in this. None of them has ever met Jane.” Coleraine’s answer wasn’t helpful by itself.
“Who are they?” Barnabas asked. He would have to get more names from Henry and the women working in the Southwark house.
Coleraine rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “They each lived in the Southwark house for a time.”
It was such a gentlemanly answer and seemed almost old-worldly in its discretion. He didn’t claim them as his mistresses. Although it made Barnabas wonder. “Where are they now?”
Coleraine took a deep breath in through his nose. “I’d rather not say.”
Barnabas lifted an eyebrow and tried silence, but Coleraine didn’t fill the void. After an excruciatingly long time, Barnabas switched to cajoling. “You know it won’t look good if you are associated with other women who are missing.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
It very much mattered. “I just need to talk to them.” Or verify they were alive.
Coleraine folded his arms. “I won’t have them dragged into this. They don’t deserve that.”
The answer took Barnabas aback. “Not even to save your own neck?”
Coleraine shook his head. “Not even then.”