“What is the meaning of this?”
The thunderous voice cut through the room, and Lily thought her heart was going to stop before she realized it was the voice of a woman, not Percy Wyatt returned early. Anna shrank back from the door, stiff with terror, her eyes fixed on the woman who filled it. Gray haired and clad in a simple but well-made gown, she would have been a comforting, motherly sort of figure if she hadn’t been looking at them with wide-eyed fury. “No women are allowed in this establishment! Edna, what is the meaning of this?”
The girl cringed. “I found them here, Mrs. Davies,” she said quickly. “They must’ve let themselves in the front door. I was just about to call for you.”
Lily would have been appalled at the unblushing speed with which the girl lied if she hadn’t been so impressed.
“Return belowstairs, Edna,” Mrs. Davies snapped. “I will deal with this.”
Lily almost wanted to set the record straight on principle. But she had no desire to get the girl sacked, especially when she was the one who had bullied Edna into breaking the rules. So she kept her chin high as the maid scampered off and Mrs. Davies rounded on her.
The landlady looked her up and down, taking in her mourning clothes and the make of her hat. From the way her eyes narrowed, she was the sort of woman who could assess another person’s financial means directly from their clothes. Her eyes darted to Anna, who was hovering nearby silently, and her expression said instantly that she didn’t like the puzzle of what she saw. Lily was clearly a lady of quality. But ladies of quality did not traipse around men’s lodging houses.
When she finally spoke, Mrs. Davies’s voice was cold and sharp. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”
The maid Edna had said she’d found them in the room, and Lily had already decided not to get the girl in further trouble by revealing her lie. So she sighed, trying to sound weary but not too offended. “Of course, I understand that you must ask,” she said. She produced the card that she had shown to Edna, holding it out between her fingers with a bored expression. “I am Mr. Wyatt’s aunt. It was he who gave me a key.” She smiled at the stunned expression on Mrs. Davies’s face. “I must say, I am reassured to see how respectable an establishment you run—”
“Balderdash.” Mrs. Davies’s face was growing almost purple with outrage. “I have seen Lady Wyatt, and however respectable you may try to look, young woman, you are not she.”
Lily tried to think of a good reply, but her mind came up blank. It was all she could do to continue meeting the landlady’s eyes without trembling. She didn’t dare glance at Anna, but she could feel her maid’s panic even without looking.
Mrs. Davies wasn’t done. “I’ve held my tongue as Mr. Wyatt comes and goes at all hours of the night. I’ve forborne to comment on the reek of feminine company that clings to him when he returns. Gentlemen are a law unto themselves, and one does not run a lodging house for fifteen years without accepting that every man will have his foibles and pleasures. But I will not—I will not—have such business conducted in my establishment. I don’t care what arrangement you and Mr. Wyatt have; you will remove yourself from these premises or I shall summon a constable. And you may tell Mr. Wyatt that if you ever appear here again, he can find himself a new place to live. Do I make myself clear?”
Lily was still trying to come up with a reply when strong hands grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the door. “Yes, Mrs. Davies,” Anna said quickly. When Lily tried to hang back, Anna hissed, “Don’t argue,” and continued to drag her down the steps and out the front door, hurrying them down the street until they were finally out of sight of the lodging house.
“Why did you do that?” Lily demanded. Her hands were shaking, she realized, along with the rest of her. What if Percy Wyatt had come back? What if Mrs. Davies had summoned a constable? “I could have—”
“Got us both arrested?” Anna demanded as they finally slowed to a more sedate pace. Cavendish Square Gardens was before them again, the circle of green lawn filled with children and their governesses, with men sitting on the benches talking and women strolling arm in arm. Anna dropped her grip on Lily’s arm, falling back a proper step, though her eyes were still wide and panicked. “Heavens, Mrs. Adler, what were you thinking?”
“Well, what was the likelihood of that woman actually having seen Lady Wyatt before?” Lily asked, though she had no idea why she was arguing. Anna was entirely right, but Lily was so shaken that she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut. “The maid certainly believed me.”
Anna gave her employer a narrow-eyed look, clearly seeing straight through Lily’s bravado. She shook her head. “Did you at least find what you wanted?” she asked.
Lily sank onto a nearby bench, staring at nothing as she thought through what she had seen and heard. “I found out something,” she said slowly. “But I’m not yet sure what it means.”
Percy Wyatt had lied about where he was the night of his uncle’s death. But as Mrs. Davies had revealed, he could just as easily have been in the company of a woman as enacting murder. But those letters …
Lily turned the thought over in her head as Anna sank onto the bench beside her, too used to her employer’s moods and bouts of thoughtfulness to interrupt and clearly glad for the chance to sit and recover from their ordeal.
One thing was certain: Percy Wyatt was not quite what he seemed to be.
CHAPTER 12
Simon had expected to meet resistance when he asked to be readmitted to the Wyatts’ home. To his relief, the butler apparently had orders to let him in. But he was left cooling his heels in what was, judging by the outdated and slightly shabby decor, the lesser of the family’s two downstairs parlors. When nearly ten minutes had gone by without a member of the family showing their face, he was nearly ready to growl with frustration. But he was used to these petty games and demonstrations of power. The upper classes played them with each other as well. And he had no intention of being ignored into leaving.
Instead, he did a slow circuit of the room, examining the books on the shelf, the newspapers on the table, looking for any more insights into what sort of people the Wyatts might be and what else they might be concealing. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. And when he went to examine the writing desk tucked under the window, carefully sliding open the drawers, he found that it had been emptied of anything personal. Only unused writing implements remained.
Frowning, Simon stared absently out the window, his mind working. The room was a public place. It made sense that no one would keep private papers there. But for there to be no personal effects at all …
Simon’s train of thought was interrupted as he realized what he was looking at. A door from the basement of the house opened into the space below the window—likely from the kitchens, which were belowstairs. And Frank Wyatt, who should have been on his way to the parlor, was standing there, talking to a man who was clearly neither a servant nor a neighbor. Simon hesitated, then took a quick step to the side so that he was partly obscured by the curtains.
The sandy-haired man below was dressed tidily but not well, in clothes that had been carefully pressed and mended but whose wear and age were visible even from where Simon stood. He had the broad shoulders of a man who worked with his hands for a living, and he held a squashed hat of an indeterminate brown that might once have been another color entirely. The gesture was respectful, but there was a tension to his posture, and his chin jutted forward belligerently as Frank Wyatt spoke.
Simon could just make out the line of a scar tracing its way down the man’s cheek. Combined with his uncommon bulk, it gave his face a sinister appearance.
The window was closed, so Simon couldn’t hear what the two men were saying, and opening the window even a crack might draw their attention. But he could see Frank gesturing firmly, then offering the man an envelope.
The man took the envelope, then glanced inside. When he did, his head snapped up, and there was visible shock on his face. Simon had only a moment
to wonder whether the shock was of the good or bad variety when the expression folded into a thunderous frown and the man began speaking rapidly, shaking the envelope.
Frank shrugged, said something short, and held out his hand, as if asking for it back. The man hesitated, then shook his head, tucking the envelope into his jacket. But the look he gave Frank was pure venom.
Frank seemed unconcerned, crossing his arms and making a brief, dismissive gesture with the fingers of one hand. The man hesitated, then jammed his cap back on his head and turned away, his steps quick and heavy with anger.
Frank watched him go, holding his dismissive posture until the other man was out of sight. Then he slumped against the door frame, looking shaken and unhappy, his eyes closed for a moment as he took several deep breaths. At last he straightened, shook out his shoulders, and stepped briskly back inside.
Simon stepped away from the window, frowning in thought.
* * *
After another fifteen minutes of waiting, Simon was finally rewarded with Frank Wyatt’s appearance.
“Mr. Page.” The young man’s somber expression did not quite disguise his irritation. “I hope you’ve not been waiting long.”
“I don’t believe so,” Simon answered, setting aside the book he had picked up and standing. He refused to show any sign that he was irritated. “I hope Lady Wyatt is well today.”
“As well as can be expected,” Frank said, his mouth tightening into a brief grimace. “Was there something you needed to ask her? You may have to return another day; she’s not left her rooms since yesterday.”
“No, we needn’t disturb her at the moment,” Simon said, clasping his hands behind his back as he met Frank’s eyes. “I’ve actually come to speak with your brother.”
Frank went utterly still, his face going first blank, then pale, then slightly green so rapidly that Simon was worried he was going to be sick.
Only a moment later, though, he gave a bemused smile. “I beg your pardon?”
Simon didn’t move. “I said I’ve come to speak with your brother.”
“I expect you mean my cousin, yes? Percy?”
“No, I mean your brother, Arthur. The one your family prefers not to talk of.”
Frank’s expression slid from polite to outraged. “How dare you.”
“Have I been misinformed?” Simon asked mildly. “You do like to talk of him, then?”
“How dare you engage in gossip about my family—”
“I dare because it’s my job, Mr. Wyatt.” Simon drew himself to his full height, which wasn’t particularly tall for a man but enough that he could meet Frank’s eyes. “Or have you forgotten that your father was murdered? Is there some reason you don’t wish us to discover who’s responsible? Because that is the only explanation I can think of for your behavior.”
Frank visibly deflated in front of him. “Of course I want you to … But you must understand, we have worked so hard to protect our family from gossip. To protect Arthur from a world he cannot possibly understand.”
“I merely wish to speak with the boy, Mr. Wyatt, and see if he can shed any light on what happened the night of your father’s death. I’ve no intention of repeating anything he says or does as gossip.”
“But my brother would have had nothing to do with it, and I don’t wish to upset him. He doesn’t understand what’s going on,” Frank protested. “And in any case, he doesn’t exactly speak. He barely says a word to me.”
Simon was not dissuaded. “Then the interview won’t take long.” He gestured toward the door. “Lead on, Mr. Wyatt.”
Frank looked like he wanted to argue more, but a glance at Simon’s face must have told him it would be useless. Sighing, he shook his head. “Come along, then. But don’t expect too much.”
“Excellent.” Simon gestured for Frank to lead the way. “And as we walk, you can tell me about the blond giant who was so unhappy with you just now.”
Frank’s foot caught on the edge of the rug, and he stumbled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Common-looking man, scar on his face, looked like he wanted to break your arms a moment ago,” Simon said pleasantly, crossing in front of Frank to hold the door open, then turning back to meet the younger man’s eyes. “Who was he?”
Frank shrugged, pushing roughly past Simon into the hallway. “He was no one.”
“If he was no one, why were you paying him?” Simon said, making a shrewd guess about what had been in the envelope.
“My father …” Frank paused, then said very deliberately, “The man is a common laborer, and my father apparently hired him to do some work. I very generously gave him a token payment and told him he was no longer needed. He seemed to take it amiss.”
Simon paused at the foot of the stairs, refusing to move until Frank turned back and met his eyes. “That was all?”
“That was all,” Frank agreed, turning quickly away. “Do you still wish to see my brother, or would you rather discuss our household repairs further? Perhaps you would like to inspect the drains and the roofs?”
“In due time, Mr. Wyatt,” Simon said quietly, and there was enough warning in his voice that he could see Frank’s back stiffen ahead of him. “In the meantime, please do lead the way.”
* * *
Arthur’s rooms were on the third floor of the house, in what Simon assumed would have been the space for very young children with their nanny or a schoolroom run by a governess.
One of the maids Simon had spoken to during his first visit was up there, reading a book, while nearby a boy hunched over one of the school tables. He was dressed well enough, and though his clothes leaned more toward comfort than fashion, they were clearly well made. He seemed on the small side for a boy of sixteen, as Mrs. Adler had said he was, but it was hard to tell for sure, given his slumped posture. He didn’t look up as they entered, but the maid leapt to her feet, casting worried glances between Frank and Simon.
“Ellen, you remember Mr. Page from Bow Street,” Frank said, his voice clipped and his expression uncomfortable as he glanced toward his brother. Even the sound of his voice didn’t make the boy look up. “He has some questions for Arthur.”
Ellen nodded and swallowed, her eyes wide. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, glancing once more at Simon.
He resisted the urge to tap his foot. He could understand why the girl looked so timid and upset by his presence, even though, according to Mrs. Adler, she was the one who had come forward about her charge’s existence. And he knew impatience wasn’t the answer at the moment. “Will he speak to me?”
Frank snorted. “Doubtful. You’re wasting your time, I tell you.”
Simon ignored him, keeping his attention on the maid.
Ellen met his eyes, and he thought she looked grateful that he hadn’t simply accepted Frank’s dismissal. “It’s hard to say, sir,” she replied, still speaking in a soft voice. “He may not speak, but he’ll listen.”
Frank snorted again. “Forgive me if I do not stay to watch such a useless exercise. I cannot bear to see it. Ellen, take the Runner back downstairs when he has finished.”
They waited in silence until they heard his footsteps going down the stairs. Then, to Simon’s surprise, Ellen was the one to break the silence. “He has very mixed feelings about his brother, sir, and unfortunately, I think none of them are good.”
“Mixed?”
Ellen nodded. “I think he’s torn. On the one hand, he thinks having such a brother reflects poorly on the family and resents him. He especially resents how fond Sir Charles was of Arthur. On the other hand, he’s offended that he’s not one of the people Arthur will speak to.” She scowled briefly before she remembered to return her face to the emotionless mask that servants so carefully cultivated. “He wants it both ways, and that never works, does it?”
“Generally not,” Simon said dryly. “Why did you tell Mrs. Adler about your charge?”
Ellen bit her lip, glancing nervously toward the door, though her employer had already l
eft. “I hoped it was the right way to keep him safe,” she said quietly. “I hoped you’d come see him, sir, and see that he’d never hurt anyone.”
“Are you sure about that?” Simon asked, glancing toward the boy, who still had not acknowledged that there was anyone else in the room. Simon kept his voice carefully neutral, giving away none of his feelings, as he added, “People like him can be unpredictable.”
“How do you know what people like him are like?” Ellen demanded, growing agitated. “You haven’t even spoken to him. Sir,” she added, belatedly respectful.
Simon nodded, encouraged by both her outspokenness and her conviction. A parent could have a hazy-eyed view of a child, but servants generally cultivated honest opinions about their employers. It was a necessary survival skill in a world where they were so dependent on the goodwill of people with far more power than they had. If Ellen believed Arthur was unlikely to hurt someone, Simon would believe so too unless shown otherwise. But he still needed to speak with the boy. “Then let’s do so. You lead the way, young woman.”
Ellen looked panicked for a moment, but then she nodded firmly and turned into the room. “Please move quietly, sir,” she said, her voice gentle but not a whisper. “He doesn’t like to be startled or interrupted.” There was an empty seat next to her charge. She took it and, in the same gentle voice, said, “Arthur? The man I told you about wants to speak to you.”
Simon cleared his throat. “I’m hoping—”
He broke off as Ellen shook her head firmly, giving him a quick look over her shoulder that told him plainly to wait. She put one hand palm down on the table and stayed silent.
Arthur continued his work; he was drawing, Simon was able to see now that he was standing closer. The boy had a variety of wax crayons lined up on the table in front of him in a perfectly straight line, with a single empty space between two of them. As Simon watched, Arthur slid the crayon he was using into the empty space, then pulled another one out and began using it without disturbing the alignment of the others.
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