A Lady's Guide to Gossip and Murder

by Dianne Freeman

  She hesitated. Then, with a sad smile, raised her eyes to mine. “No, if Mr. Evingdon has the courage to go inside, and possibly even live here, how can I do less?”

  I gave her arm a squeeze. Charles was endearing, but had Mary really become so attached to him in so short a time? Or was Louise just wishfully thinking? I followed her over the threshold and into a small foyer that led in three possible directions—left and upstairs, forward to the back of the house, or right into a comfortable drawing room. Louise and I turned right. The gentlemen had already moved on through the house so we were alone. I surveyed the room, trying to get a sense of Mary from her furnishings and belongings.

  It was an in-between room, neither large nor small, clean nor cluttered. The furnishings were worn but not shabby. I took a seat in a wingback chair and continued my survey. The décor—art, lamps, and the few knickknacks—was interesting, but not expensive. If not for my father’s foresight in setting up an account for me when I married, I would consider myself lucky to live in such a house.

  I think I understood Mary’s choices a little better for having been here. This was her home, not the family home of her late husband, and not the home of her sister’s husband. Hers. I knew that feeling. My house was mine. I wasn’t required to please other people in order to remain there. I didn’t have to worry I was imposing on someone’s good nature or their privacy. Or worse, worry the invitation to stay would someday be withdrawn. A woman would give a great deal for that sense of independence and self-sufficiency.

  Mary chose a way to support herself by making use of her skills. She could write a clever line and had access to gossip. I might not approve, but I certainly understood. And I was in no position to condemn.

  A parlor-sized piano stood against the far wall. Louise seated herself at the bench and rested her fingers on the keys. The piano emitted a pleasant tinkle.

  “I wasn’t aware Mary played,” I said.

  “The piano was part of the house when she and Jasper bought it.” She stretched her fingers and played a few chords. “I never thought about it before, but it seems the two of them cherished their independence. They were living very comfortably in the family home, had their own set of rooms, but they decided to move out on their own.”

  She turned back to me and smiled. “Mary told me she wanted to find someone to give her lessons, but in the meantime, she was attempting to teach herself. I have no idea how far she progressed.”

  I remembered the daily lessons when I was young. Learning an instrument as an adult must be difficult, which made me admire her even more. She wasn’t frightened by a challenge.

  Which brought my thoughts to the note Lottie had opened at dinner.

  I know who you are!

  What did that mean? Was it written when Mary had been the author of the columns? Was it from her killer? Or was it someone we’d mentioned briefly in the current columns? If the former, we’d need to pass it on to Delaney, though I had no idea what he’d do with it. If the latter, we should tell Mr. Mosley. If this was a threat, it might be followed up by the writer visiting the newspaper offices.

  Whoever wrote it might be Mary’s murderer. And poor Mr. Norton’s, too. I kept forgetting about the editor. I wondered how Inspector Delaney was getting on with that investigation. Perhaps any progress in his case would shed some light on Mary’s.

  We certainly needed something to come to light. Some clue or lead.

  Restless, I stood. “I’m going to see how the gentlemen are finding the house.”

  Louise waved her hand absently, and I stepped back out to the entry, wondering where George and Charles had got to. Moving down the hallway to the back of the house, the next room in my path was a small library. I heard the murmur of their voices before entering the room. Peeking through the doorway, I could only feel relief that Louise hadn’t decided to join me.

  Mary’s desk drawers were empty, the entire contents tossed onto the writing surface in a heap of paper, string, pens, and pencils. “You are supposed to be searching the house, not ransacking it,” I said in a low voice.

  Charles stepped forward, slipping on a fallen sheet of paper. He clutched the desk to steady himself while George watched with a rather weary aspect on his face. “We did not create this mess,” he stated, his voice low. “I don’t know if the police left it in this state, or if Archer, or someone else, managed to get inside under the constable’s nose.”

  “Weren’t you watching the house last night for just such a possibility?”

  “I couldn’t watch it all night, Frances. For part of the evening I was at your home, and though I was here for several hours, I am human, you know. I do need to sleep from time to time. Besides, it seemed the constable had everything under control. And as I said, for all we know, the police may have left the room in this state after their search.”

  “I suppose we can check with Delaney about that. Have you been in here this whole time? Have you found anything of interest?”

  George started sorting the papers on the desk into stacks. “No, we entered just a few minutes ahead of you. Evingdon has already checked the upstairs rooms, and I searched the kitchen area downstairs.”

  “What did you hope to find there?”

  “Mary was no fool. If she wanted to hide something, what better place than inside bags of flour or among the onions?”

  “Well, her previous cache was under a loose floorboard, not among the vegetables.”

  “We found no other loose flooring.”

  “Did you find anything in the kitchen?”

  He looked abashed. “No.”

  “Nothing upstairs either,” Charles added. “This, however”—he swept a hand over the desk—“appears to be a good possibility.”

  George shook his head. “Hate to disappoint, but if it was a good possibility, it wouldn’t still be here in plain sight. The police picked it over and decided to leave it. Archer may have done so as well.” He tapped the edges of a stack of paper against the desk and stuffed them into a briefcase.

  I stepped forward to hold the case open. “If they are insignificant, why are you taking them?”

  “Because I’m not going to let the police do my work for me. It’s unlikely that they missed anything, but one never knows. Unfortunately, I can’t read all this while we’re here so we must take them with us. If Mrs. Carr even notices them missing, she’ll assume the police took them.”

  “And you just happened to bring an empty document case along with you today?”

  He smiled across the desk at me. “I don’t just happen to do anything, Frances. You know that.” With that he stuffed the last of the papers into his case and closed it. “We should get back to Mrs. Carr. To her mind, I’m sure Charles has had enough time to view the house.”

  We headed back down the hallway to the drawing room where Louise still tinkered with the piano. George and I hovered in the doorway but Charles stepped up to her and leaned against the instrument.

  “She was coming along in her lessons,” he said, smiling down at Louise. “She was determined to improve and practiced every day.”

  When she turned toward Charles, I could see her eyes were welling up. “Thank you,” she said. “If I could not be with her, I’m happy she had someone like you in her life.”

  He reddened and held out a hand to assist Louise to her feet.

  I was filled with emotion. Louise should not have had to suffer this loss. She should not have to cling to this man, who had only courted Mary for a few weeks, in order to feel closer to the sister she’d lost. In fact, Mary should be with us now. She’d simply been trying to earn a living. What could she possibly have written that was so wrong she must pay for it with her life? I felt such anger on behalf of the sisters, I didn’t just want to bring the killer to justice, I wanted to hurt him just as he’d hurt these two women.

  * * *

  We left Louise at her hotel, dropped Charles at George’s home, and headed on to Fleet Street, to the Daily Observer to deliver my
next two columns.

  “You are showing a great capacity for writing these columns, Lady Harleigh,” George said in a teasing tone.

  We sat next to each other in his carriage and I was tempted to give his arm a pinch. “Scoff if you will, but they’ve proven to be much more difficult to write than I’d anticipated, and I must say, without Lottie’s help they would hardly be worth reading.” I pursed my lips as I thought about her assistance. “In truth, she wrote most of the columns with a little help from me. Very little. Not much at all.”

  He gave me a smile that threatened laughter.

  “Truly, George. You cannot imagine how difficult it is to have all the facts in your hands while allowing only a hint of those facts to end up in the column. And to express them in such a way as to keep the readers’ interest.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “I take it the newspaper is concerned about lawsuits.”

  “They most certainly are! To such a degree I wonder they have a gossip column at all. Mr. Mosley edited our first efforts into mere nothingness.”

  “Considering the note you received yesterday, we must assume you’ve attracted someone’s attention. In fact, I’d be much more comfortable if you’d allow me to drop you at home and handle this task myself.”

  He gave me a hard stare, which I’m sure was meant to make me back down.

  “I have no intention of going home. We’ve placed several suggestions in these columns which I cannot allow Mosley to edit out if our plan is to be successful. And I don’t see how I’m in any danger with you at my side.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere in this case, Frances. The danger is if the writer of that note is also watching the buildings. I’m sure you don’t want anyone to know you have anything to do with the newspaper business. And they will if someone sees you coming and going from there. I don’t want the killer to know you are involved in any way.”

  “Nor do I, which is why I have a veil.” I demonstrated by pulling the black netting down from the brim of my hat. “This should do well in protecting my anonymity.”

  “Ah, yes, I barely recognize you,” he said, but made no further objection as we’d arrived at the newspaper office.

  We opened the door to an angry growl, and it took a moment to realize it was not directed at us. Young Mr. Ryan manned his post at the front desk, but an older man stabbed his index finger at a sheet of paper in the typewriter. He shot a glare our way and turned to leave.

  “You’ll have to do it again,” he shouted over his shoulder before disappearing through the doorway.

  Mr. Ryan, red-faced, showed us directly to Mr. Mosley’s office. No questions this time. George had a point. Perhaps I was disguised enough to go unnoticed, but the staff of the paper definitely recognized us. He might be worried about me, but I didn’t want the killer connecting him to the newspaper either. Perhaps we needed to find another way to deliver the columns, while still keeping Mosley and the rest of the newspaper staff ignorant of my identity.

  Mr. Mosley stood up at his desk as we entered his office, his posture defensive as he barked at the young man, “I thought we agreed you were to inform me first when someone is here to see me.”

  The assistant turned from Mosley to us and back. “But you said you were expecting them,” the young man stammered.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Mosley sighed and waved him away. I caught his arm before he could leave and pressed a paper-wrapped package into his hands.

  “My housekeeper made these rolls this morning, and I managed to save a few for you,” I whispered.

  A grin nearly split his face in two. He uttered a hasty thank you before rushing back to his desk.

  “Are you feeding random boys now?” George gave me a wink as Mosley ushered me into a chair. The second chair held a large stack of newspapers so George was required to stand.

  “He’s so thin. I’m inclined to believe he doesn’t get enough to eat.”

  Mosley waved a hand. “Don’t waste your concern, ma’am. And sorry for the confusion. We had an unwelcome visitor earlier today. Thus the new rules.”

  “I thought you agreed to adopt new security rules when we were last here.” George folded his arms over his chest. “It took an intruder to make you see the sense of it?”

  “All part of the business.” Mosley shrugged his indifference. “Anything new on the case? I haven’t heard a thing from the police since they took poor Mr. Norton’s body and began the investigation.”

  “I’m afraid not,” George replied. “Though we have plans to speak with Inspector Delaney later this afternoon.”

  The man shrugged and sat behind his desk. “Spent a lot of years chasing down stories from the police. Now I’m stuck in the office all the time. Oh well. Old habits and all. I suppose you’ve brought me the columns?”

  Good heavens. Did nothing unsettle this man? “Yes, but what of your intruder? Was he here in relation to the column?”

  “Oh, him. Don’t know who he was, but he was angry about the Miss Information column, all right. Came in here spouting off about the filthy things this filthy rag chooses to print. Thought we were done with all this gossip, he says. Then it starts up again. Well, I ask him if he doesn’t like it, why does he read it, eh?”

  “Good point,” George said. “He could only note its absence if he’d been a regular reader. Rather hypocritical, I’d say.”

  “Exactly,” Mosley agreed. “People can complain about it all they want, but that column sells papers, so somebody’s reading it.”

  “Did he have a more specific complaint?” I asked. “Perhaps to the hints of upcoming gossip? Did he by chance mention anyone in particular?”

  “Naw, just wishing we’d shut it down. Stomped around the office a bit, shaking his fist. Then finished up with swearing to buy this rag if that’s what it took to stop the spread of this vicious gossip. As if I hadn’t heard that one before.”

  “What did he look like?” George asked.

  Mosley was still shaking his head in wonder. “Eh? What did he look like?”

  To our surprise, the man rumbled with laughter until his eyes shone with tears. “Like a toff disguised as an old-time highwayman, that’s what. He came in here with a kerchief tied around his face.”

  We stared at the man as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re joking,” George said at last.

  “Not me. I suppose the bloke thought if we recognized him, we’d write about his little antic in the paper. Not a bad idea at that,” he added, poking a finger at me.

  “Aside from his face, can you describe him?” George asked.

  “About your size or a little bigger. Middle-aged, fair hair just turning to gray. Well dressed.”

  George turned to me. “Well, at least this time Charles has an alibi.”

  I frowned. That could describe quite a number of gentlemen. But it could also describe Gordon Archer. “Is that all that happened? He came in to your office, shouted, and left?”

  “Well, he left after two of the gents from down the hall stepped in to see what the shouting was about. I thought he was riled enough to start throwing punches. Instead he just slithered out. Gave me a funny feeling.”

  “Yet you didn’t contact the police?”

  “What? Because some toff comes in and kicks up a fuss? Bah!” Mosley waved a dismissive hand.

  “Well, I’m pleased you decided to establish the new rules,” George said, “but for heaven’s sake, never say you’re relying on Mr. Ryan to keep intruders in the front office. Perhaps Delaney can post a constable here.”

  Mosley scoffed. “Never needed a guard before.”

  “I’m certain Mr. Norton would disagree with you. In addition, Mrs. er, Smith received a rather angry missive in the group of letters you gave me yesterday. Not threatening, but somewhat unnerving. We came here today, in part, to warn you.”

  “Sorry to hear that, ma’am.” Mosley did indeed seem regretful. “It does tend to come along with the business though.”

  “D
id Mrs. Archer receive angry or threatening letters?”

  “I’d be surprised if she didn’t. She might have mentioned them to Norton, but I never heard about them.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a large envelope. “Here are today’s responses.” He handed the envelope to me.

  “I think I should open them here. If you can spare us the time, that is,” I said to Mosley. “We have been dropping some provocative hints in the columns. You should be aware of who may be barging in to your office tomorrow.”

  He made a sort of “go ahead” gesture with his hand. “I won’t object to a word of warning.”

  Though it was clear a warning wouldn’t necessarily spur him to action.

  There were three letters. After reading each I passed them on to George. One was filled with praise for exposing the horrible acts of the upper class. Two were further pieces of gossip. I told Mr. Mosley what they contained in a general manner, without providing the details.

  “It never occurred to me that Mrs. Archer obtained some of her information in this manner. Do you know if that’s happened before?”

  “Probably. But Norton would have urged her to confirm the stories before we used them.”

  “I’d say this means the hints you dropped in the first column are what brought forth the angry man,” George said. “We should review those notes again to determine who Mary was talking about. Perhaps a tall, middle-aged man recognized himself.”

  Perhaps. But that still left us with the problem of determining if he was just a reader angry about a column, or if he was our killer.

  Chapter 17

  It was shortly after noon when George and I left the offices of the Observer. The sky threatened rain but for the moment we remained dry, and the clouds served to relieve the heat of the past few days. In fact, it was quite refreshing.

  “There’s one more task I’d like to accomplish before we meet with Delaney,” George said as he assisted me into his carriage. “If you don’t mind accompanying me, that is.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” I settled into the seat and busied myself with my veil. “But Lily and I have an appointment with the modiste this afternoon so I can’t spare more than an hour or two.”