CHAPTER SIX
SOMETHING IN HIM SOFTENED. Was she willing to put herself through learning horrible things just to find her friend? “Henry.” He waited until she looked at him. “I’ll find her. But you have to stop questioning people who might have information in my investigation.”
“What difference does it make?” she snapped back. “Are you worried I’m going to break by learning something horrible?”
“No. I don’t think you will break.” He exhaled. “It is just that some of this—you can never get it out of your mind.” As much as it would be nice to have someone to talk to who didn’t turn green if he discussed his case, he shouldn’t encourage her. Nor did he want her interfering. Liars and the lies they told tended to improve with each telling. “I need to be able to see the witnesses’ responses when they’re unrehearsed, before they’ve practiced their story by telling you or some damn reporter.”
She jerked back and folded her arms. “Maybe you should have questioned them before I got to them.”
Prickly thing. “Between the earl, his servants, and the watch, I questioned twenty-six people before I got to the Master of Sewers. I’m only one person.”
Why was she so upset about being told to back off? Did she think he was incapable of doing his job? Then again, her efforts to get the police to find Kathy had been thwarted and she probably didn’t trust them. Maybe she would benefit from seeing him work.
Her defensiveness dropped and she leaned eagerly toward him. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I could help you investigate.”
The idea intrigued him more than it ought to. She was as bright as a penny. She was observant and came up with great questions. With the right guidance, she’d make a fantastic investigator—not that a woman would ever be allowed to be a detective, no matter how much raw talent she exhibited.
But he always asked the questions. Hell, he mostly used the police sergeant assigned to him to dig through records so he could focus on the people involved. He didn’t trust others to watch the nonverbal responses. Then again, much as he was loath to admit it, on this case he might need help.
Every day the newspapers whipped up the public, turning sentiment against Coleraine. Barnabas knew how fast that could turn into cries of Hang him! Perceived guilt and a need to punish someone, anyone, could become more important than the actual guilt of the chosen scapegoat. But beyond needing training, Henry was a woman and a member of the citizenry. Barnabas narrowed his eyes. He shouldn’t even consider letting her help.
The server brought his food, her dessert, and two tankards.
She lifted her fork, took a bite, and closed her eyes as if truly enjoying her treacle. As she cut off another piece, her tongue darted out to slide along her plump upper lip as if she might have left a trace of clotted cream and wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Since her gaze was on her plate, he didn’t think she’d done it for effect. Watching her eat it was fascinating and a little arousing. Would she approach physical pleasure with the same enthusiasm?
She caught him watching her, and her gaze darted down. She grabbed her napkin and wiped her mouth.
“Is it good?” Barnabas flicked his napkin into his lap.
“Yes. Thank you.” She took another bite with less overt pleasure.
He shouldn’t have been staring. He’d made her nervous, again. “The food here is better than at most pubs.”
After three more bites, she set down her fork and pushed the plate away. “Do you want the rest?”
“Are you not hungry?”
“I don’t want to eat too much of something so rich this close to bed time, but it was lovely. I don’t usually indulge in sweets.” She took a drink, her blue eyes watching him over the rim. “Why do you eat so late?”
“Working.” But that wasn’t the entire truth. Mostly it was habit from the aristocratic way he was brought up, with breakfast not served until noon and bed not sought until near dawn after a leisurely night of attending a play or dancing at a ball, which would seem odd to Henry, as it would to most working class folks. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t ready to tell her where he came from yet.
He’d never met a woman like Henry, a woman he was strongly attracted to, and not just physically. Her curiosity and zeal to get at the truth of what happened drew him, too. She might be someone he could discuss cases with, someone who might be able to understand the frustrations of solving crimes, and someone who could help him see other possibilities when he’d exhausted his theories. He didn’t want to scare her off or lure her in with his prospects before she came to know him. Either could be bad.
“I’ve been thinking about the other night,” she said.
He’d been thinking about the other night, too. About the kisses they’d shared.
She leaned forward. “After he killed her, the earl had to take her back through the house and out the front door. That is the only thing that makes sense.”
Disappointment wafted through him. “Not the part I hoped you’d been thinking about.”
She continued earnestly on as if she were oblivious to what he’d said. “Doubtful that any of the female servants would have had the strength to carry a dead woman through the house and not leave any smears of blood. At least not alone.”
While it was nice to have someone to talk with about the case, he would have to stop thinking about kissing her.
Pulling his thoughts back to the murder, he considered her theory of carrying the body through the house and out the front to the street to use the manhole there. Her scenario fit the evidence, with the exception of the nearer grate to the back garden that could have been used to dispose of the body. But she was so certain Lord Coleraine was guilty she hadn’t looked around for other options. She was trying to fit what she knew with Coleraine being the murderer. But he might as well let her roll out her thoughts unimpeded. Her theories could only help to hone his. “Her cape is gone.”
“Was it heavy enough to wrap her inside to keep blood from spilling on the floors?” Henry was sharp as a knife.
“That is as good a theory as any.” But he needed more than theories. He needed facts that could only be interpreted one way. “Or she might have grabbed it before stepping outside voluntarily. Or the killer might have carried her through the alley. There’s no proof either way. I need proof that points to a specific killer, not guesses or suppositions.”
Henry’s brow furrowed, and he knew she’d gone back to that night.
“I asked your shoe question. No one believes any of her shoes are missing, but none of them can say for certain.”
“Well, that is not helpful.”
“It was a good question. But human memory is fallible and it fades with time.” Which was why he needed to question the Avondales sooner rather than later. If just one member of Coleraine’s neighbors saw him come home, it would eliminate the earl from suspicion. The Avondales were his best hope. On the other side of Coleraine’s Mayfair house was an elderly couple with equally ancient retainers, who were all fast asleep an hour after sunset.
While he pretty much knew he would invite her along, she probably wouldn’t be able to go. He had to go in the next day or two. What employer would allow it on such short notice? “I have to take a trip to Shefford to interview—”
“Who is in Shefford?” she interrupted, her eyes brightening. “Does Redding have family there?”
“No.” He shook his head at her, while a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. If he were ever to bring her home with him, he couldn’t even imagine what his mother would do beyond disapprove of Henry’s manners, but then she generally disapproved of him and his choices anyway. “If you’d let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“There are some potential witnesses I want to question.” He certainly hadn’t shown all his cards to Henry and normally he kept his hand close to the vest, but she could help him. Without knowing all the facts, she gave him things to think about. What would she come up with if she knew everything he knew? He could let her see more of the investigation. Lay down a few of his cards and possibly all of them in the future. “Then after that I want to head up the line to Bedford. I have reason to believe one of those women who stayed in the house is now living there.”
“Kathy? Or Lucy Inglis or Violet Fenton?” she interrupted again. She bit her lip and her dimples appeared. “Sorry.”
“One of the others.” Her eagerness was adorable. He held back a smile. “Bedford is half an hour or less away from Shefford by train. I thought if you’d like to go with me, we can talk to this woman.”
She blinked and gave a slight shake of her head, making the fringe over her forehead swing. “You want to take me along?”
In the best of worlds, the Avondales would provide Coleraine with a rock solid alibi and the woman would sing his praises. Then maybe he could get Henry to stop assuming Coleraine was guilty and help him figure out who was. “Yes. You think of good questions, and it would give us a chance to get to know each other.”
Her eyes brightened, and she almost seemed to be holding herself back from bouncing. Then her expression grew serious. It looked as if a dozen questions were running through her mind.
“I need to go soon. If you can’t get away, I understand.” He told himself it didn’t matter if she agreed to go or not. However his gut clenched as he waited for her answer.
“We could go tomorrow.”
He barely stopped his jaw from dropping. “Your employer won’t mind?”
She went very still for a second. Then she waved her hand in a jerky way. “Oh, they will give me leave. I am ahead on my work and I will just stay late the rest of the week if need be.”
“Tomorrow it is.” He shouldn’t be this pleased. “We’ll make a day of it. I should have you back in town by ten-thirty at the latest. “But, Henry, you have to promise to let me do the questioning of potential witnesses.”
She squinted and then gave a half-hearted nod. Keeping her in line might be the toughest part.
*~*~*
Her secret was out. Henry’s throat clogged as if the newspaper she held had been stuffed down it. She couldn’t breathe. She jumped out of the hackney cab in front of King’s Cross Station. The byline on the story of the inspector’s late night examination of the murder scene was her name bold as polished brass. She thought when her editor said he’d give her a byline, he meant for the salon article that would be buried several pages in that Barnabas, nor any other man, would ever read.
She’d always thought having her name on the front page article would be her moment of glory, but her stomach churned with terror that the inspector would see it. She couldn’t risk being exposed by keeping a copy when she was about to meet him. She abandoned her Southwark Chronicle on the seat.
Her heart pounded as she entered the station. Every newsboy hawking a paper seemed to be shouting about the murder investigation. How many were peddling the Chronicle she didn’t know, but she wanted to get out of London before Harlow saw the article. Then she wanted to find out everything he knew before he realized her profession.
She scanned the crowd and then he was there, weaving through the throngs of business travelers. He stood out from all the other men in the room. Taller, his step purposeful, and his suit crisp. Her stomach fluttered.
“There you are.” He extended his arm. “Our train is boarding.”
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. It took forever to get a cab.”
His lips twitched as he guided her to the platform. “Really?” The throng seemed to part for him without him having to ask. “You’re using that excuse?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Although that was the least of the lies he could challenge her upon. “All right. I took too long getting ready.”
She’d tried desperately to recreate the hairstyle the salon had given her and ended up with a mongrel cross between her old style and new. Not to mention she’d been sluggish this morning because she’d stayed up late to write her article about the hair salon, so she could hand it to her editor at the same time she told him she’d be spending the day with the inspector.
“Ah, I believe that is your prerogative as the fairer sex.” He led them to the train platform and steered them toward the front. “Or dare I hope that you spent extra time on your toilette because you were meeting me?”
“Of course not.” Her nose itched, and she rubbed it. She stole a glance at him.
A full grin lit his face. Her breath left her in a whoosh.
But then she remembered the newspaper. Her stomach soured. “Have you read the papers this morning?”
“God, no. They make my life hell when they write about things they don’t know.”
The wad of newspaper in her throat became a stack and dropped through her stomach, opening a deep hole. “If the newspapers are getting it wrong, perhaps you should set them straight.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t think so. The press gets more excited about a story that sells papers than seeing justice served.”
The public deserved to know when a murderer roamed the streets. She bit the inside of her mouth so hard she tasted blood.
He stopped by a first class cabin and handed her up. She ducked from his inquiring gaze, not certain how to respond. If she told him she was a reporter he might not take her with him, and she desperately wanted to go with him. She told herself it was to learn about the story, but when she’d finally tried to sleep last night it was the memory of his kiss that kept her awake. She couldn’t tell him now. He’d probably never kiss her again. Certainly he’d never share another detail about the murder or his investigation, but she might miss his kisses more.
The first class cabin was plush, the seats upholstered and facing each other. Two men had taken either side of the backward facing bench. One nodded a polite greeting but the other had a newspaper spread open in front of his face. Every muscle in her body went tense.
“Would you like the window?” Barnabas climbed in behind her.
She jerked her gaze away from her intent focus on the masthead—not her paper, thank the good Lord. “Uh, yes. Thank you.”
Taking the forward facing seat by the window, she tried not to gawk at the burnished wood paneling and polished brass lamps. She’d never ridden in first class. She didn’t want to appear gauche.
The attendant stopped and punched the two tickets Barnabas held out.
“Who are we going to question in Shefford?” she asked.
He shook his head and leaned close to her ear. “We can’t talk about the investigation here.”
An involuntary “Pfft” left her mouth. How was she to learn anything more if they couldn’t talk about the murder? Never mind that his lips so close to her ear made a shudder roll down her spine.
“Try not to look so disappointed, Miss Brown.” He took the seat beside her.
She stole a look at him.
His face was back to his regular impassive expression, as if he’d trained himself not to reveal the slightest clue about what he was feeling. His lips drew her gaze. Those same lips that had pressed against hers on three occasions. Although last night his kiss had been more circumspect than the first two, as if she’d lost his attention. That had kept her up late, too.
“Whatever will we talk about?”
“We should get to know each other.”
A fluttering spread out from her stomach. Had he changed his approach not because he was withdrawing from her, but because he was becoming more serious about courting her?
She drew in a stiff breath as her stomach flipped. Cold dismay dug claws into her neck. When he found out what she did, he would be done with her. Her best bet was to find out more about him and try and prevent him from asking questions about her. “So tell me about yourself.”
He gave her a sideways look and settled back against the seat, arranging his overcoat. “Not much to tell. I work. A lot. My family is from Dorset. My parents still live there. I have two sisters—one older, one younger, both married—and a handful of nieces and nephews. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
A shaft of pain sliced through her breastbone. It should be a simple question. But it never was.
Barnabas waited for her answer.
“I had an older sister.” Her voice dropped low. “Rachel.”
The whistle blew and the train started forward, saving her from explaining she had siblings she didn’t know—and didn’t want to know—courtesy of her philandering father.
“Had?”
“She p-passed a little over six years ago.”
He reached and put a hand over hers. It was a simple touch, but she felt it deeply. The gentle compassion he exhibited was like he was holding her broken heart. It had been so long since anyone had really cared about her.
The gesture was so right, yet it made her feel awful. He was going to hate her for deceiving him. He likely wouldn’t ever want to see her again. She didn’t want to give him up, didn’t want this to end.
*~*~*
Once they arrived in the town of Shefford, Henry waited in the small station while Barnabas secured a gig. She heaved a deep breath. She’d made it through the hour long train trip without revealing the truth about herself. Although, Barnabas might be questioning her intelligence or wondering what he was doing with such a chatterbox.
He stopped in front of the station in a tilbury with a raised hood. She darted out of the station to climb in, but Barnabas set the brake, leapt out, and came around to hand her up. His smooth movements appeared slow and measured, but he was at her side before she took three steps. Her heart beat like a bird trapped in her chest, fluttering futilely about. She didn’t want him to hate her. For a second she stared at him. When had she started caring what he thought of her?
The corners of his lips curled and everything inside her went soft. More than just viewing him as a source, she enjoyed being with him. More than she should. His hand under her elbow seemed to touch her in more places than he actually touched.
But this was supposed to be about work, about reporting. She wasn’t after her own pleasure. She was trying to see that Rachel got a measure of justice. How could she weigh her own happiness against that?
“May I ask who we’re going to interview?” She should remember the reason she approached him was to learn about the investigation, not because she’d been seeking a suitor.
“You may.” He traveled around behind the lightweight two-wheeled carriage before he answered her. “We will be calling on Lady Willingham.”
“Lady Willingham?” Henry echoed weakly as she finished settling onto the seat. She’d had no idea they’d be calling on nobility. She didn’t trust them. Nobs wouldn’t think a little person like Jane Redding mattered. They didn’t think her family mattered. Not her mother, Rachel, or her. Her stomach burned. “Why are we calling on Lady Willingham?”
“To speak with Lady Avondale, who is staying with her.” Barnabas leapt onto the gig. “The Avondales are neighbors of Lord Coleraine in London, and they were home the night of the murder. Are you any good at taking notes?”
“I’m great at taking notes.” It occurred to her that a woman working in an office might be expected to know shorthand. She should learn one of these days. “Why?”
“If you take notes, I can concentrate on the interviews.” He shot her a sideways look. He picked up the reins, released the brake and started the horse forward.
If she took notes, she would get a hand on his notebook. Trying to conceal her glee, she ducked her head. “I would be happy to take notes for you.”
After they left the buildings of the town and entered a country lane, he put his arm around her shoulders. The weight of it warmed her. He’d not only held her hand on the train much longer than was needed to show comfort, he was now embracing her. Reality rammed into her thoughts. Her stomach churned. Once he knew her occupation, this easy companionship would be gone. She rather feared she’d miss it.
“Don’t worry. I’ll guide you through.”
He misinterpreted her anxiety. She was less worried about interviewing nobs and more worried about his reaction when he learned she was a reporter. Would she have more than this day with him?
They turned into a long drive. Acres of green parkland surrounded a stately mansion. Henry gulped. The last time she’d been to a house like this, it hadn’t been good.
“Just let me do the talking,” he said.
She bristled and opened her mouth to protest. She caught herself just in time. She had to forget the slights of her past. A woman who wasn’t a reporter would not be upset by his request. She reminded herself that Barnabas didn’t know she was an old hand at interviewing. “Of course. I wouldn’t even know the first thing to say.”
“All right.” He pulled his arm off her shoulders. “We shall be circumspect now.”
“I didn’t know we weren’t being ‘circumspect.’” Of course nobs had rules that were indecipherable to the masses. Perhaps Barnabas was more conversant with those rules.
“Is that a complaint?” His lips twitched. “I will endeavor to be more indecent with you when we are done here. But I cannot keep my arm around you, hold your hand, or kiss you as much as I should like to.”
That he was thinking about kissing her sent a warm tendril coiling through her belly. “And here I thought I was entirely safe journeying with an upstanding member of our police force.”
“Henry, if you want to be safe, you will be.” He cast her a hungry look. “But I do hope you’ll reconsider.”
His look went through her right down to her curling toes. She didn’t know what to say to that, but a thousand chastisements rang in her head. She should tell him, but then she didn’t want to interfere with his doing his job. Or turn off the spigot of his smoldering glances, which made her feel warm and womanly.
She forced her attention back to the reason she was here—to learn everything about the investigation while she could. “Why are we interviewing Lady Avondale?”
“Her children, cousin, and London staff, too.”
“That wasn’t an answer,” she pointed out.
“Before the papers revealed that Jane Redding had been murdered, they left London rather abruptly.”
Surprise flowed through her. Criminals often fled after committing a crime. “You don’t think they were involved in any way, do you?”
“Their only connection to Jane Redding seems to be through Lord Coleraine. I want to know if any one of them saw him arrive home that night.”
“I don’t suppose you’re hoping they saw him dripping in blood.” She pursed her lips. “That could explain a sudden flight from the city.”
“That would be useful information, but I don’t decide what I shall hear before I hear it.” His voice was tight.
He didn’t want to hear they’d seen Coleraine covered in blood. She could hear it in his tone. She stared at him. “You want them to corroborate his alibi.” Her words came out in a high pitch. How could he still believe the man was innocent? “You don’t believe he’s guilty.”
He exhaled. “I want to know the truth, and I never ignore any unusual behavior no matter how peripheral it might be.”
He was trying to placate her.
“I don’t believe you,” she muttered.
He waved his arm around. “Why are you so certain Coleraine is guilty?”
“How many woman have to go missing before you are suspicious?” Her heart pounded and she folded her arms to still it. “I am certain he murdered Redding because he is a horrible man. He murdered his wife, he probably murdered Kathy, and...I just know he’s guilty.”
She’d been over it again and again. While Barnabas was looking only at Mrs. Redding’s murder, she was tracking down people of the same name as Coleraine’s previous house guests and learning the women were missing—vanished—probably dead. Family members—husbands—hadn’t heard from the missing in years. Then there was whatever he’d done to Rachel. Every time she thought of what happened to her sister it was as if the razor were slicing her again and again. If she could at least see some justice for Rachel, perhaps losing Barnabas’s regard wouldn’t hurt so bad. Perhaps she could forgive herself for leaving her sister alone when Rachel most needed her.
He watched her, his brown eyes glowing with interest she wished he’d turn elsewhere. He took his time before asking, “What is the real reason?”
How on earth had she betrayed herself? She scowled at him.
He merely lifted his brow.
She rolled her shoulder. She couldn’t tell him that she was a reporter, but she could at least tell him the truth about what happened to Rachel. It wasn’t something that she normally would tell anyone, but if he knew that Coleraine had a part in her sister’s suicide, maybe he’d take off his blinders and see the evil that resided in the earl’s black heart. “I don’t know what he did, but he did something to Rachel that destroyed her.”
For a tiny piece of a second his eyes widened. “What? How did he destroy her?” He drew the horse to a halt and turned toward her. “What did he do?”
A lump grew in her throat. Her nose tickled and her vision became blurry. “She didn’t tell me.”
His forehead furrowed. “Henry?”
“All I know is I caught her coming out of his house crying. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I took her home, drew a hot bath, then went to get our mother. By the time we got back, Rachel was gone.”
The words came halting at first and then in a torrent. The pain wasn’t so gentle. Her chest felt constricted with a tight painful knot in the center. “Blood all over. The bathwater was red with it.” Damn it, her eyes were leaking. She retrieved her handkerchief and scrubbed at them. “She slit her throat because her wrists hadn’t been fast enough. I shouldn’t have left her alone. I should have insisted she tell me what was wrong. I should have known what she intended when she told me to tell Mother she was sorry.”
“Hey.” Barnabas caught her and pulled her against his chest. “It’s all right.” He rubbed her back as he held her. “It wasn’t your fault. You were trying to help.”
She leaned into him, because he felt warm and solid. But after half a second, she pushed back. “I’m sorry.” She drew in a deep breath and fought for composure. “That is why I hate him.” And hated herself, too. “That is why I know he killed Mrs. Redding. He all but killed Rachel, and I’ll never forgive him.”