CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HENRY’S EYES BURNED AS she tramped toward home. Barnabas was a rotter. Why he’d all but called her fat, when he said she could miss a meal. She’d known this would happen when he learned she was a reporter. She’d thought he might have learned in the morning when he found her article, but at the last minute she’d seen the paper behind the desk where it must have blown off before he saw it.
So much for his protestations of honorable intentions, with his demand for an apology. She didn’t owe him anything, the least of all an apology. And she’d be damned before she let him see how hurt she was.
His anger had been palpable, present in his glare, the pulse of his jaw, and the way he tried to intimidate her with his height. He’d all but admitted his intentions were base. He wanted to bed her. She scrubbed at her cheek. She hadn’t deserved that.
She was just trying to do her job and get the man responsible for Rachel’s death held accountable. How could Barnabas not see the earl was a monster?
She drew to a halt and glanced over her shoulder to make certain Barnabas wasn’t following her. He wasn’t. Her shoulders slumped. She’d known he’d want nothing to do with her when he learned what she did for a living. She just wished it didn’t feel as if she’d swallowed shards of glass.
She drew in a steeling breath and turned toward the house where Jane Redding had been living.
The detour would guarantee that she’d miss dinner at the boarding house. A dinner she’d paid for whether she ate it or not, but she had to step up her efforts to learn exactly what had happened.
She marched up to the front door and knocked loudly. Surely the earl wasn’t here this early in the evening. The wail of a baby made it through the door as she waited.
Finally, an improbably red-haired woman with blackened eyebrows that dominated her face opened the door. Fanny Smith. A red-faced baby screamed in her arms. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak with you.”
“I don’t think so.” Fanny shifted the baby from one side to the other, but his cries continued. “Good day.” She reached to close the door.
Henry put her hand out against the door to stop it from closing. “Please. I just want to know if you know anything about my sister.”
“Your sister?” The red-haired woman blinked. “Why would I know anything about your sister?”
“My sister Rachel. She came here. I don’t know why.”
Fanny’s reddened lips tightened. “She probably asked his lordship for help. Girls in trouble do sometimes. You’re wrong about him, Miss Brown. Lord Coleraine is the kindest man there is. He’s helped a lot of women.”
With that kind of help, who needed wickedness? “Like Jane Redding?”
“Yes. He helped her. He just didn’t get her set up somewheres soon enough to save her from being murdered.” Fanny’s eyes turned watery. “He don’t deserve your suspicion. I’m telling you that man would have trouble killing a rat in the larder so soft he is.”
By God, the servants were completely hoodwinked as to their master’s character.
“He thought she’d be safe here.”
This was not the way Henry expected this talk to go. Her chest was fluttering in a weird way. How had the earl managed to mesmerize his staff so much that they didn’t see what was happening right under their noses? “Who killed her then?”
“I don’t know. Good day, Miss Brown.” This time the red-haired woman shut the door and the lock clicked loudly.
There were a thousand questions she should have asked, but hadn’t thought of. She stared at the door. Well, she wasn’t done with the denizens of this house. She didn’t believe for one second that Coleraine was innocent. He couldn’t be. Instead he was a formidable foe. A mastermind capable of deceiving those around him. Perhaps even persuading Barnabas of his innocence.
She shook off the thought. Barnabas didn’t deserve one iota of her concern if he had fallen under Coleraine’s spell. As a detective he should know better. In any case, she had a lot of work to do to uncover the truth. And she wouldn’t think of the false promises Barnabas had offered. She refused to think about him any further.
*~*~*
Barnabas shoved a file into his desk. He put his elbows on the top and leaned his head into his hands. He’d been working furiously on this case for weeks and kept ending up in blind alleys.
He was miserable. Not because of the frustrating case. He missed Henry. Much as he’d tried to forget her, he suspected he could benefit from her thoughts about the case to turn him in a direction he hadn’t tried.
“Bad time?” asked Murdock from the doorway of the office.
“No. Come in. Did you learn anything in Ireland?” The good thing about Murdock was he was so innocuous people tended to forget they’d talked to him. Barnabas had sent him to Ireland, while he tracked down Jane Redding’s husband in Manchester. Mr. Redding had been working the Monday before and the Tuesday after the murder. Barnabas had stared at train schedules until his eyes hurt trying to make the time frame work.
More than once he’d had to start over with his calculations because he couldn’t think of train schedules without thinking of the train ride with Henry—or really the night in the hotel.
There was just no way Mr. Redding could have traveled to London, killed his wife, and traveled back to Manchester in time to make it to work on time the next day. So his most likely suspect was crossed off the list.
“The earl is well-liked.” Murdock took a seat. “They are less kind when it comes to his father.”
“What about the missing countess?”
“Everyone believes his wife ran out on him. They blame it on her being a flighty French woman. Didn’t like the way she treated Coleraine’s natural son.” Murdock’s brows drew together. “But it would appear she left with nothing more than her jewelry shortly after the former earl died.”
“Any suspicion Coleraine killed her?” Barnabas rubbed his forehead. Was he wrong about Coleraine’s innocence?
Murdock shrugged. “The earl is the one who insisted upon her clothes being kept in case she returned or sent for them.”
More than once Barnabas had investigated men who’d killed their wives in cold blood. Often the man couldn’t wait to be rid of his wife’s effects. A murdering husband usually sold clothing and personal items or burned them. Coleraine just didn’t behave like a man trying to get away with murder. Or a man who hated the women in his life enough to shed them by foul means.
Before his Ireland trip, Murdock had been poring over records. “I did find a court case. After Lucy Inglis reached her majority, she sued her uncle for mismanagement of her trust. He claimed she’d disappeared. She said she had to hide to avoid his schemes to marry her off to a crony and steal her inheritance.”
“And the time she was in hiding matches with the time she spent in Coleraine’s care?”
Murdock nodded. “She’s living in Scotland now. The judge found for her, although I doubt she’s recovered anything.”
“Any of the others?”
“Haven’t found any of them names you asked me to look for in the census records.” Murdock sighed. “Of course now everyone is looking for them.”
“Why?” asked Barnabas.
“Don’t you read the papers?” Murdock put a folded news sheet on the desk.
The Southwark Chronicle. His gaze went straight to the byline. Of course it was Henry’s article. Barnabas’s stomach tried to migrate to his throat.
Murdock tapped his finger on the print. “An awful lot of women associated with the earl have gone missing. Your friend is reporting that his wife’s family in France haven’t seen nor heard from the countess in seven years.”
“She’s not my friend,” Barnabas said so quickly that if he’d been watching himself he would have called it a suspicious reaction. He not only couldn’t get away from thoughts about her, but she was learning things he didn’t know.
Murdock merely twisted his pudgy lips. “Are you certain the earl isn’t a murderer? A cunning one?”
Only once had Barnabas run across a murderer who could convince everyone of his sincerity—everyone except him. There had always been the tiniest tick of time before the right emotional response was summoned forth. That pause had always bothered Barnabas, but had seemed to go unnoticed by others. Yet, his cousin had been young, only seventeen. Perhaps he would have improved in time. Was it possible Barnabas had it wrong?
“Why would Coleraine have an argument with Jane Redding about wanting her to stay in his house and not go back to her husband and then kill her?”
“Jealousy?” asked Murdock.
“He offered to find her another place to live and employment if she didn’t want to stay in his house. She didn’t understand why he let her live there when he had no affection for her.” Or at least that was what the servants reported.
“Cold fish, is he?” asked Murdock. “Doesn’t have any affection for the woman sharing his bed?”
“As far as I can determine, he never shared her bed. I believe whatever attraction he felt for Mrs. Redding had waned, but he didn’t want her to go back to a man who beat her.”
“Who do you think could have murdered her? A servant?”
That was the trouble. There weren’t good candidates. The only servants in that house were women. For a woman to dispose of a body seemed unlikely. The grate by the stables weighed a good amount, at least three stone, a manhole cover weighed more. Then maneuvering a lifeless body through to the sewer without attracting attention. A few strong women could have managed, but most wouldn’t have been able to do it. But God forbid he ever made the mistake of thinking a woman couldn’t do a man’s job. Just look at Henry.
“Could have been a stranger.” Who found his way into the house and laid in wait. Which might mean he’d have to wait until the killer struck again. “She could have had a lover. Or her husband hired an assassin. I haven’t ruled out the earl. The only people to vouch for his whereabouts are all in his employ. It’s just my instincts tell me he didn’t do it.”
Murdock steepled his fingers and tapped his lips. “While you were in Manchester, it came to my attention that his lordship was discreetly seeking a private detective. I took the liberty of suggesting Wilcher get in touch with him.”
Wilcher had been a detective until his drinking and a bad political situation had forced him to quit.
Barnabas tilted his head to the side. His repeated grilling of Lord Coleraine’s staff had probably led the earl to fear an arrest. “Guilty men don’t usually send in their own investigator.”
They made noise about it or offered a reward for evidence, but they wouldn’t spearhead an actual investigation. They certainly didn’t do it quietly.
“Unless it is for show or to destroy evidence before we find it. Give him enough rope and see if he ties a noose in it, I say,” Murdock said.
Barnabas nodded.
Murdock leaned forward and a mournful look crossed his hangdog face. “There’d be no shame in admitting his lordship bamboozled you.”
“I’m not wrong,” Barnabas said. “If ever there was a lamb in wolf’s clothing, it is the earl. No matter what the newspapers are saying. All those women who’ve disappeared came from men who might have seriously harmed or killed them if Coleraine hadn’t offered shelter.”
“Yes, well, the commissioner has taken an interest in our reports. He wants another suspect named or the earl arrested before the week is out.”
Barnabas swallowed hard. “There isn’t enough to convict him.”
Except there probably was enough circumstantial evidence. Access to the victim, the argument, his wife’s disappearance—all could lead a reasonable jury to a conviction.
Murdock put his hands out and his shoulders rose. “I’m just the messenger.”
The threat of a premature arrest hung over Barnabas as he made his way to Mayfair. If only he could find a witness who could eliminate the earl once and for all. His best hope was to question the Avondale girl and the one member of the household he hadn’t spoken to, Miss Hall.
*~*~*
Barnabas’s knock on the Avondale’s front door was answered by a harried maid. A young boy thumped down the staircase riding a pillow while another one followed.
“Stop that!” said the maid, while a footman scooped up the youngster and confiscated the pillow.
“I’m sorry, sir. We are at sixes and sevens.”
“I need to speak with Miss Hall and Miss Avondale.” Barnabas extended his card. “Official business, I’m afraid.”
The footman and the maid exchanged wary looks.
The footman passed the boy to the maid and took the card. “I will let her ladyship know you are requesting an audience.”
They left him standing outside with the door open. Even if he were to be turned away, leaving the door open was odd. And he’d hoped to avoid her ladyship and her battlements.
A third child, a sturdy little toddler, barreled straight toward him or more likely the opening and escape. He caught the boy around his waist, turned him around, stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Rathe,” said the little one, pointing. He hopped up and down and looked on the verge of tears.
Barnabas was in the midst of trying to decode the word, when one of the other boys shouted, “Race!”
No sooner had the maid carried off one boy and picked up the next to take upstairs when the first was running back down the stairs.
The footman returned and beckoned him, while trying to pretend he was impervious to the chaos of the Avondale entry hall.
The drawing room wasn’t much better. Lady Avondale was pacing, her hand under her large belly. Miss Avondale sat in a corner red-nosed and with puffy eyes. Her sister looked confused as she looked between the members of the drawing room, and Lord Avondale stood looking as if he wanted to be anywhere else.
“Oh, Inspector, you have to help,” said Lady Avondale.
“What is wrong?” Barnabas asked.
“She’s gone, and half the staff has quit,” the pregnant woman declared.
Lord Avondale cleared his throat.
Lady Avondale whirled on him. “Well, I can’t let her get murdered, can I? No matter what she has done, she is family. And I knew her weakness of character. I never should have allowed her to stay here alone with nothing to do. It is no wonder she fell under his spell.” She turned and glared at her husband. “And you should have told me when you saw them together. How was I to stop it, if I knew nothing?”
Miss Avondale sniffed loudly and buried her face in a lace-edged handkerchief. Her younger sister’s brow puckered.
“I assume you are talking about Miss Hall,” Barnabas offered. “You believe she’s gone off with Lord Coleraine.”
“Didn’t I just say that?” snapped Lady Avondale.
No, she hadn’t, but she’d said enough for him to put the pieces together. He looked toward the shaking form of the young teen in the corner. Seemingly reacting to his scrutiny, Miss Avondale darted off the sofa where she had been sitting and ran past him with a loud sob. Was she upset because her cousin had left or was there a deeper wound?
Had Coleraine charmed her away or had Miss Hall felt she had to leave?
“You have to convince her to return. I can’t get on without her,” said Lady Avondale.
The earl’s usual fare was to rescue women from men who were mistreating them. Violet Fenton’s husband had nearly killed her. Lucy Inglis’s uncle was stealing her money and trying to sell her in marriage to a man he was in cahoots with, and Kathleen Carter had been locked in a cellar by her husband, who’d then had the audacity to sue Coleraine for alienation of affection.
But had Miss Hall needed rescuing? He looked toward Lord Avondale, who rocked on his toes and glanced forlornly at the door. On first impression the man seemed rather innocuous.
Henry’s suggestion about why Coleraine might have killed his mistress rang loudly in his ears. Had Coleraine simply been ready to replace Jane Redding and gotten rid of her? Had he been wrong about the earl’s guilt all along?
“I will speak to Miss Hall and persuade her to return for her safety,” Barnabas said.