Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  “That’s presuming Wheeler wasn’t trying to divert us from his guilt by poisoning his own drink. An excellent question. On the face of it, all they have in common is their youth. And membership at the Thieves’ Den. Miss Hardinge was twenty-two, Bickley twenty, and Wheeler is twenty-three.”

  “How does one get hold of cyanide anyway?”

  “One can sign for it at a chemist’s, although that would be far too convenient for me, wouldn’t it? It’s found in common fruits’ seeds and pits. Plant roots. The French used the gas version without much success in the war, and some manufacturing processes rely upon it—electroplating, printing, mining, photography, even textile production. If one is determined and has the right connections, it’s not impossible to find. But,” he paused, raking back his hair, “it’s not easy to make someone ingest enough of it to die. I understand the taste is terrible. One must conceal it in something else with strong flavor. ”

  “Like the cocktail Cee had.”

  “Yes. Except that cyanide wasn’t used this time.”

  “Thank God.” Addie picked up her cup and took a sip. The coffee was cold. If one was terribly thirsty from dancing, one might bolt a drink down without noticing anything odd at first.

  Mr. Hunter cleared his throat. “One more thing. I must warn you—some real thieves have made themselves at home in the Thieves’ Den. Have you heard of the Forty Dollies?”

  She laughed. “That sounds like a children’s story.”

  “If only they were so innocent. We’ve been arresting members of this female gang for quite a while. I grilled Freddy Rinaldi last night—he’s the manager of the Thieves’ Den—and he admitted several of his members might not be on the up-and-up. I think he knows more than he’s admitting, and I intend to put some pressure on him. But you’ll have to be very, very careful. Keep your wits about you the whole time.” He sighed. “I don’t like any of this, Lady Adelaide.”

  “Thank you for caring about me,” Addie said.

  “Gag. I’m going to be sick.” Rupert pretended to throw up into a sterling silver cachepot on the mantel. Addie noted it was tarnished, and would have to get after Beckett when she returned.

  “Of course I care! After last August—” He swallowed. “We were lucky. Very lucky. As much as I want to solve these crimes, the thought of you in danger makes me ill.”

  “Join the crowd. Maybe he’s right, Addie. Go on back to Compton Chase. You can’t get into too much trouble there. What’s the worst that could happen? Snagging your stocking on a hedgerow? Stumbling into a rabbit hole? Snoring and drooling during that idiot Rivers’ sermon?”

  “Nonsense. I’ll be fine.” She hoped so, anyway. It was too bad Inspector Hunter couldn’t disguise himself as a maharajah and escort her, but there were too many people who had seen him at work. The thought of him in robes and paste jewels was rather intriguing, however.

  But she didn’t have time to be silly. Which of the eight was guilty? Could any of them be acting with a partner? She might enlist Lucas’s help for a few of the nights ahead, not telling him anything meaningful, however. The same for the prince. It was hard to believe him to be a poisoner, but then she didn’t know him, did she? Maybe he’d been turned down by rich and rackety Penelope Hardinge and he’d sought revenge. Maybe he’d been turned down by Tommy Bickley! Although after that kiss, Addie was fairly sure Prince Andrei was interested in women, not young men. But one could never quite tell.

  Of the lot, Addie knew Lady Lucy the best. Beneath her haughty sarcasm, she had been wounded by the war as much as her poor dead brothers. It must be galling to lose one’s position in society. It was too bad she and the prince couldn’t make a match—they had similar problems and would understand each other. But with no money between them, it was impossible.

  Was Lucy capable of murder? So far, her sharpest weapon had been her tongue.

  The Deans were ordinary upper-middle-class, pleasant, polite, polished. Sent to the right schools. Wearing the right clothes. Pip’s future was more clouded than her brother’s; she needed to marry well. But Addie couldn’t see either one of them slipping cyanide crystals into drinks unless they possessed a streak of madness that was hidden beneath their healthy, hardy fronts.

  Nadia Sanborn was a cypher. Quiet compared to her flamboyant cousin, she was pretty, although not as pretty as Andrei. Fluent in Russian, Andrei mentioned she had a job as a translator working for the British government. How she was able to party her nights away and get up in the morning was a mystery. Was she a Communist spy tasked to murder the children of capitalists? Unlikely.

  Addie would have to make an effort to get to know Kit Wheeler and Gregory Trenton-Douglass. They had been friends since their school days, and seemed to do everything in tandem. Divide and conquer, if she could.

  And that left Bernard “Bunny” Dunford, who appeared as harmless as the animal he was nicknamed after.

  “How well do you know our suspects?” Mr. Hunter asked.

  “Not well at all, except for Lady Lucy Archibald. But I promise you, that will change.”

  Across the room, Rupert groaned.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday

  “What fun to catch up! My treat, of course, as I said when I called.” Addie smiled above the luncheon menu. She and Lady Lucy Archibald were seated in the magnificent arched Reading Room in Claridge’s, a solicitous waiter hovering nearby. “Shall we order some champagne?”

  “What is there to celebrate?” Lucy asked, a sour twist to her pretty mouth. She wasn’t wearing lipstick, didn’t need to. Her lips were naturally coral and Addie almost felt jealous of the younger woman.

  “Why, I should think Cee’s recovery,” Addie said after a startled moment.

  “Of course. How stupid of me. You said on the phone she was doing well.”

  “Yes. I spoke to her this morning, right before I rang you up. My mother is at Compton Chase with her, which gives me more time in London.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I am lucky,” Addie agreed. “Almost too lucky. With the exception of my husband’s death, of course.” Although that might be a matter of opinion.

  Lucy flushed. “I’m sorry. You must think me the rudest person in the world, and usually I don’t mind the title. I’ve sought it out and earned it. But I didn’t mean to offend you. I—I forgot.”

  “You’ve had your own troubles, I know. And I’m not wearing black as a reminder anymore. What a relief.” Addie waved the waiter over and ordered the champagne. Not the most expensive. She didn’t think Lucy was quite worth it, and as she didn’t plan to drink much of it herself, it wouldn’t matter. “How are your parents? My mother sends her best.”

  “My mother is wearing black, on the few occasions she goes out. I don’t think she’ll ever get over my brothers’ deaths. It’s been ten years.”

  Addie recollected the Countess of Marbury’s sons died early on in the hostilities, only a few months apart. The elder had been married, leaving behind a pregnant wife. Fortunately for the earldom, she’d borne a son. Unfortunately, she’d remarried after the war and moved to Canada, taking the child with her. It was one more blow to the countess and her husband.

  “Grieving is such an individual process. Bad enough to lose a spouse, no matter how difficult they might have been. But to lose a child—to lose two, it’s just unthinkable.”

  “She still has me,” Lucy said with some force.

  “I bet your mother is like my late father. Sons are always more important to some people than daughters. My father would never admit to it, and loved us to pieces, but Cee and I know he would have given anything for a boy to carry on the family name.”

  “The title will go to my nephew, not that he’ll care in Toronto. There’s nothing much else left. The house is gone except for the foundation, and my father sold off all the acreage that wasn’t entailed ages ago. One has th
e gatehouse, of course, if one wants to camp out with the mice and the pigeons.” Lucy gave a bitter chuckle.

  “Not that our circumstances are similar, but you know my cousin Ian inherited and is at Broughton Park. He means well, and is kind to Mother, so I have no complaints.” This really was a fib—Addie saw no reason why as the eldest daughter she could not have inherited. Though Cee would be even more difficult if Addie had more to lord over her.

  Ah, well, she’d have to take it up with Parliament. She understood the principle of keeping estates intact for succeeding generations, but she didn’t have to like it.

  The champagne was delivered, opened, tasted. They placed their lunch orders—filet of sole meuniere for her and lobster mayonnaise for Lucy. Addie kept the conversation light, asking to be updated on all the goings-on while she and Cee were away. Lucy was a remarkably astute and cutting observer of Bright Young People, and Addie found herself reluctantly laughing over many of Lucy’s somewhat malicious descriptions.

  They finally got around to the Thieves’ Den over coffee and éclairs.

  “I’m thinking about joining,” Addie said, touching up her lip rouge. In public. Lady Broughton would be horrified at her oldest daughter’s boldness.

  “You? Really?”

  “Why are you so surprised? I’m not dead yet, even if Rupert is.” Addie took a quick look around the dining room and was grateful he wasn’t counting the napkins or pinging the glassware at the wait station. “I hope you don’t think I’m too old.”

  “Oh!” Lucy blushed prettily. Light brown curls gilded by strands of gold, sky blue eyes, and peachy skin, she really was an English Rose, but with a few thorns still attached. “Of course not. I’m just not sure you’d like the usual crowd there. You’re a marquess’ daughter.”

  “And you’re an earl’s daughter! Why do you go?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not a member, you know, just a guest. Bunny insists on dragging me there nearly every night, and one goes along to get along.”

  “There. You must find it amusing.”

  Lucy glanced at the cleared table next to them for a moment. “Sometimes. But mostly not.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, are you and, um, Bunny serious?”

  Lucy rolled those sky blue eyes. “He thinks so.”

  “He seems very nice.” The kiss of death for some girls. Bad boys were far more appealing. Everyone thought they could reform a bad boy. If asked, Addie was here to tell them it was difficult, if not impossible.

  “Yes, he is nice. And rich. And reasonably good-looking. The answer to my family’s prayers, in fact.”

  “I hear the ‘but.’”

  “He’s too good for me,” Lucy said, her smile twisted. “And he’s thick as a brick not to know it after the way I treat him.”

  “So, I won’t be hearing wedding bells?”

  “Who knows? I hear anything can happen in 1925, even Lady Adelaide Compton joining the Thieves’ Den.”

  Addie laughed. “Well, you can expect to see much more of me! I’m bringing the paperwork over this afternoon. Cee will be jealous when I tell her.”

  “How long do you think you’ll stay in Town?”

  “I’m not sure. Originally, I couldn’t wait to get to Compton Chase, but now that my mother is there taking care of Cee, I’d be superfluous. London is lovely in the spring, all the parks waking up. Window boxes in bloom.”

  “Rain. Fog.”

  “Well, we have rain and fog in the Cotswolds, too. I say! How would you like to go down to the house for a few days? It would do Cee a world of good to see some friends. She’s apt to be very bored with only Mama for company.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I cannot leave my mama. She depends on me, even if I am second-best.”

  “Oh, well. It was just a thought. Maybe I could talk to your mother and plead my case.”

  “No!” Lucy pushed back almost violently from her chair. “No, thank you. In fact, I’ve been gone too long as it is. She’ll be worried. It was a lovely lunch, but I’d best be going.”

  “If you give me a minute to settle the bill, my taxi can take you to Bloomsbury.”

  “No, that’s all right. Thank you again.” Lucy moved as if the devil himself was after her.

  “Huh.” Rupert materialized in Lucy’s vacated seat. “That was quite the exit.”

  “I knew you were here somewhere.”

  “Could you feel it in your bones? I confess, I can’t feel much of anything anywhere, which is just as well. So, what did you learn?”

  Addie covered her mouth with one hand. “I can’t talk to you out loud here! I’ll look like a madwoman.”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at the flat.” In the bat of an eyelash, he was gone.

  “So dreadfully unnerving.”

  “Pardon me, Lady Adelaide, is everything all right? Lady Lucy left in rather a hurry.” It was the maître d’, with an appropriately concerned expression on his face. He’d obviously overheard her talking to herself, too. Madwoman indeed.

  “Uh, yes. She remembered an appointment. Took me by complete surprise. I was…unnerved.”

  “Everything else was to your satisfaction?”

  “Oh, absolutely! Lovely, as usual. Could you put the bill on my account, please?”

  “Of course, my lady. May we send you home with a box of treats for your tea later?”

  That sounded too tempting to resist. Addie knew her way around the kitchen in a manner of speaking, depending upon who was doing the talking. Her cook and housekeeper at Compton Chase frowned upon too much interference or democracy, so Addie’s forays into the kitchen were limited. She depended upon Beckett to keep starvation away when they were in Town. Since her plans tonight involved getting dolled up for the Thieves’ Den without the maid’s assistance, it would be nice to have some sustenance until the club’s indifferent midnight supper.

  A few minutes later, she was armed with a box stamped with the Claridge’s logo. The doorman procured a taxi for her from the queue. She asked the driver to wait while she stashed her goodies in the kitchen and got the membership form and its accompanying exorbitant check from her desk at Mount Street, then journeyed on into Soho.

  Addie half-expected the club to be shuttered in the middle of the afternoon, but she was pleasantly surprised to find the door unlocked.

  What she didn’t expect was to find Freddy Rinaldi, sprawled facedown on the floor in his dressing gown.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I can’t stay here.” Freddy Rinaldi made an attempt to throw off the hospital sheet and drew a sharp breath in pain.

  “You have three broken ribs and a possible concussion, Mr. Rinaldi,” Dr. Paul Kempton replied mildly. “Not to mention those black eyes that will frighten anyone with eyes of their own. I can’t stop you, but I dare say you won’t get very far by yourself.”

  “Who’s going to open up my club?”

  “I imagine your staff is there by now. I’ll have Bob drop by and let them know of your…accident,” Dev said.

  “Tell Trix she’s in charge. Temporarily. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow,” Rinaldi growled. “But not a word of what happened. Tell them I tripped.”

  Dev had seen enough domestic abuse cases to know all the excuses. But what had happened to Freddy Rinaldi was not domestic abuse.

  Bob had his orders, and would wait for Dev to turn up to interview the employees. He didn’t expect to glean much information from them, but he would try. Kempton left them alone, a nurse at the other end of the ward in case of emergency.

  Rinaldi cradled his ribs. “I got nothing to say.”

  Dev raised an eyebrow, but put his notebook away as a gesture of good faith. “Nothing at all?”

  “Not to a copper.”

  “Freddy, we know about the mill theft.”

  The man looked genuinely blank.
“What mill?”

  “Brown and Sons Textiles. Not only were bolts of cloth stolen, but chemicals, including a small amount of cyanide, as well.” The company had ceased day-to-day operation, and was in receivership. It had come as quite a shock when the bankers inspected the building this morning and found it ransacked. There was no telling the exact date of the crime, which was highly inconvenient—no one had been on the site for months. But Dev was convinced it had bearing on the murders.

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “You do know that cyanide was used to poison two of your club members.”

  “It ain’t got nothing to do with me, I swear! Like I’d kill off my own business.”

  Rinaldi was getting progressively more agitated. Dev pulled a chair up to his bedside and settled in.

  “So, no idea who’s behind this robbery?”

  “How would I know? I admit, when I was a kid, I ran with the wrong crowd. I’ve kept my nose clean for decades. Worked hard. Saved.”

  An operation like the Thieves’ Den must have required quite a lot of saving. The building had been redecorated from top to bottom in an approximation of good taste. “You have no silent partners?”

  Rinaldi flushed beneath his bruises. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Isn’t it? You know, originally I was very impressed with your record-keeping. Trix makes a list every evening of your members present and their guests. Don’t you find it odd that sometimes a member comes home to find their house has been robbed while they’ve been out? Not too much taken, just the odd diamond pin or silver candlestick. In fact, the member might not even notice. Or think they simply misplaced the item. Accuse one of the servants unjustly.” Dev had been reviewing some recent thefts—one of his hunches was bearing some fruit.

  The victims all belonged to the Thieves’ Den.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you? It’s come to my attention there have been more than several break-ins since your club opened. The word on the street is that the Forty Dollies are responsible.”