CHAPTER SEVEN
A FEW MINUTES LATER they were shown into a hall that stretched up several stories. Barnabas was still reeling from what Henry had told him outside. Well, he’d known that Henry had something spurring her on, but he hadn’t expected to learn her sister had slit her own throat.
Was Henry’s sister the oldest story in the book: a pretty, young working class girl gets seduced by a handsome lord and convinces herself he’ll marry her? Then when she learns her dreams are naught but delusions, takes her own life?
Or had she?
The manner of her death was too similar to Jane Redding’s to dismiss out of hand. The proximity to the recent murder was worrisome, also.
He hadn’t wanted to press Henry for more details when she was trying so hard to get her emotions under control. Somehow her unwillingness to cry made him admire her that much more.
But her tears had been real. Unlike someone who was crying for effect, she’d done her best to wipe them away before they fell. Unlike a suspect he was trying to break, he wanted to comfort her. But she’d pushed away from him.
So he’d walked the horse as slowly as possible the last few yards to let her regain her composure.
“Harlows of Dorset.” He drew out a card, folded the corner, and handed it to the servant. His mother’s maiden name would better assure his welcome, but he was off his game. “With my apologies for disturbing the morning, but I am here on official business and will require audiences with Lady Avondale and anyone who was with her in London the night of February twenty-fourth.”
The servant turned toward Henry.
She stiffened, her eyes widening. She clutched her reticule tightly. Had she no calling card to give?
Barnabas reached out for her elbow. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel more discomfort. “Miss Brown is here to transcribe the interviews.”
The servant gave a bow and turned to the broad sweeping staircase.
At a loss at how to ease her when anything he said might be overheard by a lurking servant, he reached into his greatcoat pocket, pulled out his notebook and pencil, and held them out. The more things she had to hold the better.
She almost snatched them from him and opened the pages of the notebook. Perhaps she wanted to distract herself.
Her chin tilted up and her blue eyes widened. “This isn’t the same notebook you had in the pub the other night.”
Had she expected to read his notes? The world tilted a little under his feet. Did she think she’d find proof that he’d somehow overlooked?
“I have several notebooks on this case.” Some detective he was. He was so eager to have her along, he hadn’t pushed to uncover her true motives. He’d been willing enough to believe she was concerned about her friend, but he should have pressed her harder before asking her to accompany him.
“Where are the others?” she demanded.
In his cavernous greatcoat pockets.
“At home,” he lied. A sour taste rose in his mouth. He would have to ease her away from the investigation. Henry was on a vendetta, not an investigation. Her feelings were understandable, but he wasn’t in the business of revenge. He would hate to lose her insights, though. Maybe after today he could just keep her at a distance from the work on the ground.
The servant returned and took their coats. “Sir, Miss, Lady Willingham will receive you in the morning room. If you would be so good as to follow me.”
Barnabas guided Henry up the stairs. Her awestruck gaze darted around and her jaw dropped. He tried to see what she saw. Was it the artwork, the ornate molding, the murals on the ceiling that amazed her? He secured his hand on her back in case she tripped because she certainly wasn’t watching where she trod. Yes, that was why he did it, he mocked himself. Didn’t have anything to do with wanting to touch her.
Whether it was her lightning quick changes of mood or her quick thinking, he was drawn to her. After this case was over, he could continue their friendship. Just because she was too close to this investigation didn’t mean she couldn’t be an asset in the future.
The servant announced them.
Two women occupied the room. One dozed on a chaise longue. The thin throw over her didn’t hide the mound of her belly. So that was Coleraine’s pregnant neighbor, Lady Avondale. The other woman, Lord Avondale’s sister, Lady Willingham, sat in a chair on the far side of the room, a piece of embroidery in her lap. She looked vaguely familiar to him and his stomach sank. His mother wouldn’t like this.
Henry jerked to a halt, distracting him from his mission. He had to ignore her and focus on what he’d come here for. Often as not, getting information from the aristocracy about others of their ilk was like trying to extract teeth. His family was better than most at locking their skeletons away in the cupboards.
“I apologize for intruding on your morning, ma’am.” Sidestepping Henry, he headed for the woman in the chair.
“Please have a seat,” said the woman. “I do believe I know your mother. She’s Lady Emily Harlow, correct?”
Henry gasped.
Just his luck. He gave a short nod in confirmation.
Barnabas ignored Henry’s gaze boring into him and the way it made him want to run a finger under his collar, which inexplicably was too tight. He wasn’t under any illusions she thought well of the upper classes. Even if he didn’t consider himself one of them, his mother was, and his maternal grandfather had been an earl. He’d probably fallen into a deep pit in Henry’s regard.
Hell, if she’d wanted to know more of his history, she shouldn’t have filibustered during the train ride. Then again, perhaps he hadn’t shared because he suspected her view of blue blood wasn’t flattering.
While he’d been amused by her nonstop chatter about places she’d never seen, he assumed her filling every minute of the trip with words was a tactic to prevent him from learning too much about her. He’d been willing to play along—for a while. But then he’d learned more than he’d bargained for in the drive. He cast a glance at Henry because he couldn’t seem to not look at her.
“I shall have to drop her a line. It has been an age since I last talked with her,” Lady Willingham said with just the slightest flattening of her mouth.
God help him if Lady Willingham complained to his mother about him doing his job. Wasn’t as if his mother could find a new argument to dissuade him his work. She’d already tried everything. “I’m sure she would enjoy that.”
“Shall I give her your regards?” Lady Willingham’s gaze moved pointedly to Henry, who was impersonating a statue just inside the door.
“By all means.” Tightness knotted his spine. The last thing he needed was Lady Willingham writing his mother about his assistant. “But I did just speak with her a couple of days ago. She and my father were up to town for a visit.”
What conclusions they would draw about Henry he didn’t want to think. His father would at least know him well enough to know he wouldn’t bring a mistress along on an investigation—but no telling what his mother would think. She might prefer he was that ill-mannered to his courting a woman of the working class.
Barnabas moved to stand in front of a sofa halfway between Lady Willingham’s chair and the chaise containing the reclining Lady Avondale. He beckoned Henry—discreetly. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Did your butler relay that I must speak with everyone who was in London recently?”
Henry was rooted to the spot by the door. Would he have to corral her so he could take a seat? She clutched the notebook to her breast as if it were a lifeline. Her eyes looked ready to pop out of her head. She probably was out of her depth. Somehow that made his lips twitch. She seemed so sure of herself up until now. Not that he wanted to laugh at her, but finding an area he might be more knowledgeable about was a bit of a relief. But she couldn’t have any idea of the undercurrents of the conversation he was having with Lady Willingham. Nor was she likely aware of how her actions in the next hour might create another wedge in his personal life.
“He did say. The children are being summoned.” Lady Willingham tilted her head. “Miss Brown, do have a seat.”
“Thank you, my lady.” As if he would protect her and unwittingly signaling how ill at ease she was, Henry quickly sat down in the middle of the sofa too close to where he stood.
He would have to work on her before he introduced her to his parents. Tell her to say ma’am instead of ‘my lady’ like a servant.
His thoughts screeched to a halt. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t have any intention of introducing her to his parents. At least not until he knew her much better. It was far too soon to be thinking about her in that way. And thinking about her was interfering with his concentration on his case. He gave her a disparaging look as he took his seat as close to the edge of the sofa as he could without looking rude.
She cast back a belligerent look.
So he wasn’t successful.
“What does your mother think of your profession?” murmured Lady Willingham, reminding him that he and Henry weren’t alone.
Not much. “She would have preferred I become a barrister or a soldier, but my interests were different.”
“I suppose you will become the commissioner of the police department one of these days.”
He hoped not. He didn’t want to become mired in the administration of Scotland Yard. “Just so,” he concurred, though.
Explaining his desire to solve crimes wasn’t something most people understood, not that he ever gave the real reason. Nor did they understand why he was willing to rub elbows with the worst of the worst.
Lady Willingham rose and he followed suit. Henry popped up beside him like a jack-in-the-box. He gave a tiny shake of his head and pushed her shoulder down, so she’d take her seat again. Her unease in a social setting would be reported, and she didn’t need any more strikes against her when he brought her home.
He startled.
Hadn’t he just decided they need a much longer and deeper acquaintance before he would consider taking her to meet his parents?
She looked up at him, her blue eyes clouded as she sank back down. Pulling his gaze away from hers was more difficult than it should have been.
Lady Willingham crossed to the chaise and shook Lady Avondale’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to wake you, dear, but Mr. Harlow is here to ask you some questions.”
The sleeping woman blinked her eyes.
“She hasn’t been feeling well,” Lady Willingham explained. “This is Mr. Harlow, or I should say Inspector Harlow, and his secretary, Miss Brown.”
“Nice to meet you, Lady Avondale. I wish it were under better circumstances.” Barnabas nodded in her direction.
“What is this about?” Lady Avondale demanded.
Inside he winced, although he kept his expression neutral. Her shrill tone suggested a difficult interview.
Lady Willingham took her seat again. “You remember the inspector’s mother, Lord Stalbridge’s daughter, Lady Emily.”
Henry shot him an incredulous look.
He patted the shoulder that was still under his hand and sat down on the edge of the cushion. He should have taken his hand off of her sooner. So much for being circumspect. “I do not know if you have been following the news from London, but the night before you left a woman was murdered. A woman who had an association with your neighbor, Lord Coleraine. I must ask if you saw him that night.”
Lady Avondale blinked as if she’d had far too much to take in.
He’d just rushed his fences and taken a tumble ass over head. He never blurted out so much information before beginning his questions. Henry was far more of a distraction than he’d anticipated. Of course he hadn’t thought she might become the subject of a letter to his mother. Perhaps he should write his mother first—or wire her. Wiring her would make Henry seem too important. And why the hell was he dithering on the state of his relationship with Henry? He jerked his focus back to the investigation.
“Returning home or leaving home?” he prompted, while trying to keep Henry out of his peripheral view. “Lord Coleraine?”
Lady Avondale sniffed and sat up stiffly. “We don’t associate with him.”
The door opened. Two girls and two maids came in. Barnabas stood and placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder long enough to keep her seated. He ignored the temptation to let it linger there.
Lady Willingham performed introductions to the Misses Avondale. The older girl looked on the verge of having her skirts lowered to the ankles in acknowledgment of reaching marriageable age. The larger gap between the younger girl’s high-top shoes and the hem of her skirt signaled she was still in childhood.
“I certainly would not allow my girls to even notice him.” Lady Avondale continued, “What kind of a mother would I be if I allowed them to interact with such a fiend?”
The older girl scowled. The younger just looked confused.
“Of course you would not allow any interaction between your daughters and his lordship. I just want to know if one of them observed Lord Coleraine’s movements”—Miss Avondale startled, then looked down at the floor, almost stopping him mid-sentence—“through a window on that night. I am only asking if any person in your household witnessed anything.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong thing to have said. In drawing room doublespeak what he’d said could be interpreted as a warning to avoid being named a witness in a murder trial. Even Henry, who a minute ago seemed clueless about social niceties, frowned at him. But he’d been caught up in watching the older girl’s odd reaction.
Lady Avondale shuddered. “I am certain my girls did not see him on that night or any other. I have told them they must never even look in his direction. He is a horrid influence, as was his father before him. If we could have him removed as our neighbor we would. Now he has brought a murder investigation to our door.” She turned toward her daughters and with an imperious tone said, “Girls, tell the inspector you didn’t see that man—I wouldn’t even call him a gentleman—then or at any other time.”
Understanding dawned on the younger girl’s face and she shot a glance at her older sister before answering, “Yes, mother.”
His stomach churned. Damn, he’d botched this. He stretched out his fingers that threatened to ball into fists.
“We take no notice of him, do we, girls?”
The older girl’s lips flattened. “No, Mother,” she answered dutifully with her sister.
Henry scribbled in the notebook, but she continued to look at the room’s occupants.
The older girl knew something, he was certain of it. If he could just get a moment to question her without her mother present, he could get it out of her.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late to salvage this. “Ma’am, if it would not be too much trouble, I would ask that I speak with each of your daughters alone and then with each of the servants.”
“You’ve heard my girls have nothing to say, Mr. Harlow. I can’t imagine that they could possibly know anything that would be useful in your investigation. As their mother, I have no wish for my daughters to be called to testify if it came to a trial. Run along, girls.” She shooed her daughters towards the door. “Go help with your brothers. I am certain that their maids being called away has left your aunt’s staff overburdened.”
Lady Willingham’s mouth twisted to the side, but she made no comment.
His stomach burned as self-recriminations echoed in his mind. Never did he let an interview get away like he had this one. Nor would he get anything useful out of loyal servants in front of their mistress, not if she didn’t want them to be forthcoming. If they knew anything. “I should leave you to your rest and question your servants below stairs.”
“There is nothing you cannot ask them here,” Lady Avondale said.
Revealing his displeasure to Lady Avondale wouldn’t serve him.
“Then I will make it quick.” He turned to the two maids who had entered after the Misses Avondale left and no doubt overheard most of the exchange. They stood awkwardly near the door. His heart sank. “Did either of you look out a window and see Lord Coleraine the night before you left London?”
The two wide-eyed maids shook their heads. “We didn’t have time to go looking out the windows. We had to get the children packed.”
Without hesitation, the other maid nodded. “It was busy that night with the little ones feeling poorly.”
No signs of anything other than honest answers in the maids. And that was that. He’d come all this way to be thwarted by his own inability to focus and Lady Avondale’s unwillingness to allow her children to become involved. He’d wanted to ease Henry’s concerns by showing her he was investigating thoroughly, but he’d botched that too.
Although his hope of clearing Coleraine had just about flickered out, there was a missing member of the household. “That is all I have, then,” he said. “Thank you so much for your help, Lady Avondale. If I could speak with Miss Hall, then I will be done.”
“Miss Hall is in London,” snapped Lady Avondale.
Odd that she would leave her cousin behind. And not good that he didn’t realize that when he interviewed Lord Avondale’s staff. His only excuse was that he may have been off kilter by Henry’s conviction that Coleraine was guilty. But he needed to provoke a reaction to judge Lady Avondale’s sincerity, so he left off good manners and pushed. “Do you often leave your cousin alone in London with your husband?”
Lady Willingham looked out a window, distancing herself from the subject, but she didn’t seem particularly tense or interested in the answer.
Lady Avondale’s eyes widened, and then she bristled. “She was ill and I didn’t wish her to pass her contagion to the children.”
The children who had already been ill. The status of this poor relation was interesting, but there was only a small chance she might have seen anything. Thus far, Lord Coleraine’s servants were the only ones to offer him an alibi. Barnabas hadn’t found a single patrolman or coachman to confirm they’d seen his lordship that night. Not between ten and eleven when, according to him, he was walking home. Nor between midnight and four in the morning when Jane Redding was murdered. People who were used to seeing him in the early morning hours hadn’t seen him at all on the night in question. Which meant he was incredibly lucky to have not been seen or he’d been telling the truth.
“I see.” His temples starting to throb, he stood and gestured for Henry to stand. He wouldn’t get anywhere today with Lady Avondale. Perhaps if she felt well, she might be more accommodating when he approached her again. Better to cut his losses now than to risk access to the family being denied later. “Thank you again for your time. I do hope you will feel better soon, ma’am. Good day.”
“I will have you shown out,” said Lady Willingham.
*~*~*
Henry tugged on his sleeve as they headed toward the door. She whispered, “That’s all?”
What did she expect him to ask? He cringed, expecting her to point out how badly the questioning had gone. “For now, yes.”
Not every interview went well, he reminded himself. He often interviewed critical witnesses several times. He would have to find a way to question the older girl later. Now that she knew the night was significant, anything she had seen would fix in her mind.
A footman shut the door behind them. “This way.”
Henry opened her mouth.
He gave a slight shake of his head and put a finger over his lip to silence her. Of course it didn’t work.
“We’re just going to leave?” she hissed, hanging back from the footman leading them to the entry hall. “That older girl knows something.”
“I know,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll talk about it outside.”
Since Miss Avondale wasn’t yet out, she would be well chaperoned. It may be easier for a woman to approach the girl whilst she was shopping or walking in the park. A shame he couldn’t let Henry continue to help him.
She barely made it to the tilbury before she rounded on him. “I can’t believe you came all this way trying to find evidence that he didn’t do it.”
“Or that he left again, or returned home covered in blood,” Barnabas replied as he climbed in the rig. Frustration burned in him.
The answers could have gone either way. But Henry was right. He’d hoped to have corroboration of Coleraine’s alibi. It would make it so much easier if he could eliminate Coleraine as the primary suspect.
She shook her head. Her brows drew in a vee and she bit her lip. She didn’t even acknowledge his answer. “She knew your mother,” she said like it was tantamount to being a devil himself. “Who the bloody hell are you, anyway?”