“Did he become abusive?”
“No. Not at all. Frankly, it was all over quite quickly. However, he made it obvious that he was not pleased. The conversation was short. I gave him his ring back and he left.” She was still dithering on whether to reveal the anonymous note, the details contained in the missive, and her interview with the contact who had confirmed the information.
She took a sip of tea and continued. “For some unknown reason, he arrived again at my home last evening and requested an audience.”
“Had he sent word ahead of time?”
Amy shook her head. “No. I was not expecting him.”
“Go on.”
“When I entered the library, he was nowhere to be seen. After checking the drawing room to determine if he was there, I returned to the library, and then noticed the French doors to the patio were open, so I thought perhaps he had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.
“However, I went as far into the garden as I could with the lack of light and then returned to the library. After taking only a few steps into the room, I stumbled over something and fell to my hands and knees. It turned out to be Mr. St. Vincent’s body.” She shuddered.
“Dead?”
“Yes. Very dead.”
When he’d finished with his note-taking, Mr. Nelson-Graves looked up at William. “And how do you figure into this, my lord?”
William cleared his throat. “I had arrived to bring a book to Lady Amy that she had asked to borrow. As I entered the home, I heard a scream and hurried to the library, from where the sound had come. I found Lady Amy staring at the dead man—who I later learned was Mr. St. Vincent.”
“And Mr. St. Vincent had a knife stuck in him?”
“Yes.”
The door opened and Stevens stepped into the room. “My lord, the men from the Bath police department have arrived.”
Mr. Nelson-Graves tucked away his notepad with his scrawled notes and pulled out a clean pad. “Lady Amy, I advise you to look to me when the detectives ask you questions. I will nod if you should answer and interrupt if I feel you are incriminating yourself.”
Amy broke into a sweat. Incriminating herself? Good lord, this was real. Not one of her books that she plotted and took such joy in writing, but a real murder. And she was a genuine suspect. Truthfully, if she were not a member of the aristocracy, she would most likely right now be finding herself in prison. Just the thought of such a dreadful place raised gooseflesh on her arms.
The two men from the previous evening entered the room, and Amy’s mouth dried up. She shifted in her seat so she was closer to William, which Papa took note of with raised eyebrows. William reached out and patted her hand.
After the men had been seated and declined an offer of tea, the one who had introduced himself the night before as Detective Ralph Carson leaned forward. “Are you ready to confess now, Lady Amy?”
CHAPTER 5
All the blood drained from Amy’s face, and her heart began to pound. Sitting on her lap, Persephone must have sensed her fear, because she growled in the detective’s direction. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Carson?” Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly.
Mr. Nelson-Graves shifted in his seat, glaring at the detective. “I request that you not harass my client by asking such provocative questions. If you care to make reasonable inquiries, I will be happy to instruct Lady Amy which ones to answer. On the other hand, we will call an end to this session entirely if you do not abide by the rules of common decency.”
Carson smirked. “I take it you are the barrister?”
“Yes. My name is Mr. Nelson-Graves, a barrister from London. I have been retained by Lord Winchester on behalf of his daughter, Lady Amy.”
Amy offered the horrible detective a tight smile. “Would you care for some tea? I can send for another cart to be brought in.” And then pour the hot beverage over your head.
Ignoring her offer, Detective Marsh studied her carefully. “Perhaps my partner was a bit premature in his questioning.”
“Sir, perhaps before you begin questioning my daughter in my home, or make premature, ridiculous assumptions, I would know who you are.” Lord Winchester spoke softly, with all the power and dignity of his station. He reclined in the comfortable winged chair, his arms resting casually on the armrests, his gold-and-ruby ring with the family crest passed down from centuries of Winchester ancestors catching the light coming through the window.
Carson blanched and wiped the smirk from his face. “I apologize, my lord. I am Detective Ralph Carson, and this is my partner, Detective Edwin Marsh, from the Bath police.”
After a few moments’ pause, Papa dipped his head slightly at their introduction, and everyone turned their attention to the barrister, who cleared his throat.
“I must warn you that Lady Amy will answer no questions I feel are inappropriate, self-incriminating, or unnecessary. Furthermore, I want it noted that I find your initial question to be crass and unfounded.”
Although Detective Carson flinched at the barrister’s terse words, he glanced briefly at Papa and said, “Hardly unfounded, Mr. Nelson-Graves. Lady Amy was discovered in the library last evening with a dead man at her feet.” Carson leaned in closer to the barrister. “The man in question was her fiancé.”
“Ex-fiancé,” Amy whispered.
Carson waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “No matter. The point is, she broke their engagement and he showed up, possibly to discuss the situation, and ended up dead.”
“And why do you assume my client is the guilty party? What is your proof?”
“Her shoes were wet.”
Nelson-Graves continued to stare at the man. “And?”
Detective Marsh jumped in. “According to what we have ascertained from our investigation last evening, Mr. St. Vincent apparently left the room through the French doors and descended to the garden. There he was attacked with the knife, stumbled his way back up the stairs to the patio, through the doors, into the library, where he collapsed. The grass was damp and so were Lady Amy’s shoes. It follows that she was in the garden also.”
The barrister raised his eyebrows. “My good man, did you not consider that she went into the garden to see if Mr. St. Vincent was there?”
Ignoring his question, Carson turned to Lady Amy. “I would have you answer a few questions.”
Lady Amy looked over at Mr. Nelson-Graves, who nodded at her.
Detective Carson leaned forward, his focus on Lady Amy. She began to perspire, and somewhere in the back of her mind she told herself to remember this so she could show true emotion the next time she wrote an interrogation with a suspect. She unclenched her hands when Persephone let her know she was grasping the poor dog like a lifeline.
“Let’s start at the beginning again. Why did you end your engagement with Mr. St. Vincent?”
“I felt we no longer suited.”
“Why is that?”
Lady Amy hesitated. “Personal reasons.”
“A reason, perhaps, to kill him?”
Nelson-Graves frowned at the detective. “Do not answer that question, Lady Amy.”
Detective Carson continued while Marsh scribbled answers. “Why would Mr. St. Vincent return after you already broke your engagement?”
“Reading others’ minds has never been one of my talents, sir, so I could not tell you why he would return.”
“Did he come back for his ring, perhaps?”
“No. I had already returned it.”
Detective Carson studied her carefully. “Were you aware of the fact that the deceased was involved in the opium trade?”
It seemed she didn’t have to hold on to that information to save St. Vincent’s reputation after all. “It had come to my attention, yes.”
Papa shifted in his seat and sat forward. She didn’t look at his face but imagined his surprise.
“Is that the reason you ended your engagement?” Carson fired the question so fast while Marsh continued to scribble that she was beginni
ng to feel a bit dizzy.
“Yes.”
Carson allowed her to take a sip of her tea, where she noted her hand shook, and then continued with his questioning. Obviously feeling the tension in her mistress, Persephone jumped from her lap and trotted close to the fireplace, where she proceeded to walk in a circle and then collapse on the floor, ignoring the humans in the room. “How did you find out about St. Vincent’s opium connection?”
“I received a note with the information.”
Marsh jumped in. “From whom?”
Amy patted the perspiration on her upper lip with a napkin. “I don’t know. It was unsigned.”
“Where is the note?”
“I lost it,” she blurted. She’d never been good at lying, so she hoped glancing down at her tea would hide the untruth in her eyes. She’d kept the note and had every intention of keeping it until she decided it would be more beneficial in the police’s hands. Right now she wanted whatever she could get to help her solve this mystery on her own. These two men were so sure of her guilt that she didn’t trust them to uncover the truth.
“Now let us talk about the night he was killed,” Marsh continued.
Her breathing increased, but she stiffened her shoulders, ready to take on the detectives. “Very well.”
“Describe for us exactly what happened from the time you learned he was here to speak with you.”
Lady Amy turned to the barrister, who nodded.
“I was summoned from my bedchamber by our parlormaid, Lacey. I had been expecting Lord Wethington, who was loaning me a book. However, when I mentioned that, my maid informed me Lord Wethington was not my caller, but Mr. St. Vincent. I told her to put him in the library and when his lordship arrived to put him in the drawing room.” She glanced over at William, who gave her an encouraging smile.
“Tell us, step by step, what happened once you left your bedchamber.” Both Mr. Nelson-Graves and Detective Marsh held pencils poised over notepads. She felt as though she stood at the front of a classroom, ready to read her essay to the class while the teacher stood at the ready, prepared to write her comments—and in Amy’s case, mostly criticism.
Once more she recited the events that led to her finding St. Vincent in the library. She was already weary of telling the story, but she knew that over the next few weeks she would have to do so many more times.
Once her narrative was finished, Detective Carson turned his attention to William. “Please tell us what happened when you heard Lady Amy scream.”
“I followed the sound down the corridor with the man at the door on my heels. We entered the room to see her ladyship staring at something on the floor. It was not dark in the room, but a bit dim, so I turned on a few gas lamps on my way to her and looked down.
“Mr. St. Vincent was lying on his back, his eyes open and a knife in his chest.”
The detective reached into a satchel resting next to him and withdrew a large knife. “Is this the knife?”
Amy closed her eyes at the sight of the bloody knife, all the tea she’d consumed ready to make a reappearance.
“I believe so,” William said.
“Wait one minute.” Mr. Nelson-Graves stood and walked to the detective, looking closely at the weapon. “I want Winchester’s cook to look at that knife.”
The detective glowered. “Very well.”
Papa walked to the brocade bell pull by the door and yanked it four times. “I suggest we take a minute to give my daughter a respite while we wait for our cook to arrive.”
Amy took a deep breath and relaxed. Fool, her. Even with her background on writing murder mysteries, she hadn’t thought to ask Cook if the knife belonged to them. But then again, the coroner had taken it, along with the body, and she had not been in any frame of mind to think of that while they waited for the police to arrive.
“You summoned me, milord?” Cook entered the drawing room, glancing at the somber-looking group and immediately tensed.
“Yes. The detectives from the Bath police wish to ask you a question.” Papa spoke in a calming tone, which appeared to put Cook a bit more at ease.
Detective Carson held up the knife. “Do you recognize this knife?”
Cook stepped back, her eyes wide as she looked from Papa to the detective and shook her head. “No. I have never seen that knife before. It is not one of ours.”
“You are certain?” Carson looked annoyed.
“Yes, sir. Not one of ours.”
After a quick curtsy, Cook left the room, mumbling to herself, and the questioning continued for what Amy felt was hours. They went over and over the same information until she wanted to scream. They had her retrace her steps for them. Then had William do the same. From her own research, she knew it was a way for the police to trip up a suspect. Ask the same question to see if the answers were different in any way.
Finally the two detectives stood. “We are finished for today.”
Amy was embarrassed to realize her underarms were wet and she probably smelled. All she wanted to do was take a nice long bath, followed by lunch and a nap.
“Detective Marsh,” Mr. Nelson-Graves said. “I assume there is no reason for my client to remain under suspicion. She has answered all of your questions.”
“Not so. She might have answered all our questions, but she is still the main suspect. She had reason, place, and time. No one saw her enter the library to note how long she was there before she screamed. Her shoes were wet, and one of your staff mentioned she had blood on her hands when he arrived at the scene.”
“We have established she went to the garden to seek Mr. St. Vincent, so her shoes would be wet. She fell on the body, so her hands would have blood on them. The cook has already stated the murder weapon did not belong to this household.” Mr. Nelson-Graves drew himself up. “I demand you continue your search for the actual murderer.”
“I suggest you conduct your legal representation and we will continue with our investigation. Do not be concerned, my good man. We shall carry on with a thorough search.” He turned toward Amy and pointed his finger at her. “Once again, I remind you not to leave Bath.”
Amy bristled under their command and stood to walk to the window as Persephone raced from the fireplace, her nap apparently finished, and jumped into her arms. She snuggled with the beloved dog as Detective Marsh looked toward Papa. “In all fairness, I must advise you that one of our men obtained a list of your staff members and conducted a search in our files.”
Papa’s brows rose, and he nodded at the detective. “Yes?”
“It seems your gardener, Mr. Albright, served time in prison for murder.”
“Has he been arrested?” Papa sputtered. Papa never sputtered.
Marsh shrugged. “No. He has not been located. However, he is your employee. Did you not know his background before he was hired?”
Everyone in the room swung their attention to Amy.
CHAPTER 6
“Who hired the gardener?” Papa glared at Amy, his face flushed bright red as the two detectives left the room. “I don’t remember engaging anyone for this house.”
Amy raised her chin, ready to do combat. Papa was correct. Since he was rarely, if ever, present in their Bath townhouse, she and Aunt Margaret had done all the hiring. “I hired him.”
“Did you check references?”
Botheration. She probably hadn’t. In fact, if memory served, Aunt Margaret was in London having new wardrobe items made when the necessity to hire a gardener had arisen, and Amy had asked one of the staff members—who no longer worked for them—to recommend someone. She’d been in the middle of a book that was giving her a great deal of trouble, and all her concentration had been taken up with that.
“Of course. What sort of an employer do you think I am?”
“The kind who finds out one of their employees is a murderer. Right after a murder is committed on the premises.” Papa stomped over to the sidebar and picked up the bottle of brandy to pour himself another drink. He looked over
at Mr. Nelson-Graves, who was shoving papers into his satchel. “Are you headed back to London?”
“Yes. I squeezed this visit in by putting off another appointment. I must hurry to make the new time arranged.”
“Wait and I will take the rail to London with you.”
Papa downed the drink just as Aunt Margaret entered the room. She sailed across the room and took the brandy bottle out of Papa’s hand. “Much too early, brother. Is the interview over?”
He looked longingly at the bottle. “Yes. It is. Were you aware of the fact that your gardener, Mr. Albright, spent time in prison for murder?”
Aunt Margaret sucked in a deep breath and covered her chest with her hand. She turned to Amy. “Murder?” For once her placid demeanor escaped her.
Amy nodded. “Apparently.”
“Did you check his references?” Papa asked that question of Aunt Margaret.
“Of course,” Aunt Margaret said quickly. She probably didn’t even remember that she had been out of town when Amy hired Mr. Albright. Since the man had his own rooms miles away, it hadn’t seemed like such a poor decision at the time to trust him with a few flowers and shrubs. He wasn’t likely to make off with the family silver. Or flowerpots.
No. Maybe just murder a guest.
Papa turned to William. “I have a number of matters in London that need my immediate attention. I did not expect to have to travel here to assist in a murder.”
Well, botheration. Perhaps the next time someone was contemplating murder in their library, he would ask the victim to wait until it was a convenient time for Papa.
“Will you assist my daughter in locating this gardener and see that he is fired—if he is not arrested first for murder?” Papa continued.
Annoyed that her father felt it was necessary to ask William to “assist,” which in his mind meant take over, she swallowed the words she wished to say. But then again, if she and Aunt Margaret had someone working for them with a murder in his background, Papa probably felt they did need the guidance of a man.
William nodded at her father. “Please do not concern yourself, my lord. I will do what I can to assist.”
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