“Are you Detective Baker?” The man’s accent was French.
“I am. And you are?” Michael unlocked his door as the young man stood and gathered his coat and hat.
“My name is Antoine Verite. I have some concerns about a recent death in my family, and I believe you were the investigator of note.”
Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “Mr. Verite. Is your sister, Mrs. Marie Radcliffe, the family you speak of?”
Mr. Verite’s eyes clouded, but he firmed his chin and nodded. “I am hopeful for your help.”
“Please, come in.” Michael turned on the wall sconces and shivered. “Allow me to adjust the heater; it will take but a moment. Have a seat.” He indicated the chair across from his desk. After adding coal to the heater, he removed his coat and hat and then took a seat. “That should chase away some of the chill.”
He studied the young man—mid-twenties at most—and saw a familial resemblance between him and his late sister. “Tell me about your sister, Mr. Verite.”
Mr. Verite took a deep breath. “Detective Baker, I do not believe my sister’s death was an accident, nor did she take her own life.” His voice trembled, but he shook his head firmly. “She was happy, so happy with her husband and her new home. Here—I have the last letter she wrote to me and Maman, only two days before her death.” He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a folded missive.
“May I?” Michael took the letter, opening it along folds that showed wear from continual folding and unfolding. The script was in a lovely feminine hand, and although Michael’s French was not excellent, he deciphered enough to realize Marie had indeed expressed happiness in her life, mentioned her husband by name, and promised to visit within a week with exciting news.
“Do you know the nature of the news she planned to share with you, Mr. Verite?” Michael carefully folded the paper and returned it to him.
He shook his head. “Marie was an excellent lace maker, and she had been searching for a quality boutique to sell some of her pieces. We wondered if that was her news.”
Michael disliked the next question he was compelled to ask. “Forgive the intrusiveness of the question, but you never heard your sister express a desire to end her life? She did not confide such a thing to you or to your mother?”
“Mais non. Detective, my sister was full of life. She had married a man of means who doted on her, fulfilled her every need. He made certain she always had pin money and resources to visit us in Marseilles as often as she wished. She wanted for nothing. She had found ‘a man for the fairy tales,’ she said. That she would meet such a horrible end . . . It is awful, and I cannot rest without imploring you to investigate, please.”
“How does your mother feel about your visit here?”
“Ah, but she does not know. I mean to spare her the pain should my efforts come to nothing.”
“A personal question for you, Mr. Verite. Do you or your family hold religious beliefs that would forbid an autopsy of the body?”
Mr. Verite’s brow wrinkled. “Non, we do not. Why would you ask? Mr. Radcliffe told us the police had found it unnecessary.”
“I am afraid Mr. Radcliffe told you an untruth. We wanted very much to perform an autopsy but refrained for the sake of your mother and her ‘religious convictions.’ Mr. Radcliffe claimed it would distress her to an uncomfortable degree.”
The young man’s face reddened. “This is a lie!” He shook his head. “Maman, she never trusted him, but I believed he was good for my sister. I supported Marie’s decision to marry Mr. Radcliffe, and I convinced my mother that her reservations about him were silly. That she was too protective.” He closed his eyes briefly and paused. “Is it too late to perform an autopsy? Perhaps Mr. Radcliffe will not allow it, but she is buried in our family plot. Does that mean”—he swallowed—“that she is again in our care?”
Michael was reluctant to answer. “The husband is still the one to govern her affairs, but if he were to voice protest, especially now that we are aware he lied about family objections to the procedure, he would look suspicious, indeed. I’ve a feeling he would avoid such a thing at all costs.”
“I have a room in town, at an inn. Shall I give you the address?”
Michael studied the man, thinking. “I think it best if Mr. Radcliffe is unaware of your visit. Return home, Mr. Verite, and I give you my word I shall contact you directly with any new information. Feel free to wire here with any questions you might have, in the meantime.”
Mr. Verite paused, his brows knit.
“I realize I am asking you to do something difficult. Please know my word is not given lightly or to placate. I will see this investigation through to its conclusion; in fact, I have never stopped. I have a scenario already in motion that I believe will reveal some crucial information.”
“You will discover the truth of my sister’s fate?”
He smiled grimly and stood, motioning his guest to the door. “My partner and I are of a similar mind concerning the fate of your sister, sir. Again, I ask for your trust. Do I have it?”
Mr. Verite stood and shook Michael’s hand. “You do. Mr. Radcliffe killed her, Detective. I know he did.”
What a glorious situation in life to hold the attention of more than one gentleman; in such an instance, however, a woman must manage her response to the attention by striking a balance between proper encouragement and behavior best described as “coy.”
—The Care and Keeping of Girls and
Young Women by Miss Hortence Strongberry
My Dearest Miss Hampton,
It is with every ounce of my heart that I hope to see you in attendance at the Misses Van Hornes’ social event this Friday evening. I did so enjoy our tea two days ago, and I hope I am not inappropriately bold when I repeat that I should love to further our acquaintance. At some point in the near future, perhaps I might meet your aunt, Miss Sally Hampton, to express my interest in calling regularly upon you, if indeed you would welcome such a thing.
Until Friday, I sincerely hope,
Yours ever,
Mr. Harold Radcliffe, solicitor
Dear Mr. Radcliffe,
I am thrilled to receive your correspondence, and I am planning to attend the ladies’ social event this Friday evening. I shall be accompanied by my cousins, Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell. I have also extended the invitation on behalf of the Misses Van Horne to Detective Baker, whom I am hoping will also attend. I do believe the detective spends an inordinate amount of time and energy on his vocation, and he would benefit from healthy diversions. I was pleased with the outcome of his efforts at our society book group meeting and appreciate greatly your overtures of friendship.
In reference to my aunt, Miss Sally Hampton, I am certain she would be happy to make your acquaintance and extend the best wishes of our family.
Until Friday,
Most sincerely,
Miss Amelie Hampton
Amelie arrived at the Misses Van Hornes’ residence with Charlotte and Eva for the much anticipated Evening of Entertainment. All three had rushed to return home from work, freshen, and change clothing for the evening. Amelie had been looking forward to the event all week as a delightful opportunity to see Mr. Radcliffe again, and had been happy to exchange correspondence with him. She was uncertain as to the level of his intent, and as such had avoided offering an official introduction to Sally until Mr. Radcliffe’s intentions became more serious. If they became more serious.
The thought of such a thing sent a nervous thrill through her. She still had not quite reconciled her heart between hoping Mr. Radcliffe was a true gentleman and knowing Mr. Baker was investigating him for a horrible crime.
She had looked forward with equally as much anticipation to Detective Baker’s presence at the event. She couldn’t account for it, as she certainly was not as interested in him as she was in Mr. Radcliffe. Perhaps her
growing affection for the detective was simply a burgeoning friendship, a natural consequence borne of time spent on a common task.
As she and her friends stepped from the cab and took in the grand facade of the elderly ladies’ home, she spied Mr. Radcliffe, who was speaking to Detective Baker just outside the front door.
“Who is that with the detective?” Eva asked. “The third man?”
Amelie frowned. “I do not know. A friend?”
“Does he have any of those?” Charlotte eyed the detective with a frown. “He’s rather . . . unfriendly.”
Amelie lifted her shoulder, feeling oddly defensive of Mr. Baker. “I doubt he has much time for friend sorts of things.” She had deliberately mentioned the detective in her letter to Mr. Radcliffe, hoping to further an association between them that would convince Mr. Baker of Mr. Radcliffe’s harmlessness. Regrettably, the detective’s insidious suspicion lurked in the back of her mind like an unwelcome guest.
The three gentlemen at the door turned at their approach and smiled.
“Ladies, how beautiful you all are this evening.” Mr. Radcliffe lightly kissed each young woman’s fingers, lingering over Amelie’s, which had her blushing.
She glanced at Detective Baker, whose face remained impassive, but a muscle worked in his jaw.
“Detective Baker,” Eva said, “would you introduce us to your companion?”
Amelie took a closer look at the man who stood next to the detective. He was tall with blonde hair, brown eyes, and he sported a neatly trimmed moustache. He seemed, like Detective Baker, to likely have been better suited to other, more exciting activities than enjoying an evening of unspecified entertainment at the home of two eccentric octogenarians.
“Ladies, my partner, Detective Nathaniel Winston. These are Miss Duvall, Miss Caldwell, and Miss Hampton.”
“How lovely,” Amelie said, smiling but darting a glance from Detective Baker to Detective Winston. “You are also an aficionado of the arts?”
Detective Winston returned the smile, but it was tight. “Indeed. And when Baker described the company he keeps these days, I insisted he bring me along.”
Mr. Radcliffe chuckled. “I certainly understand the motivation.”
The very air around them felt strained, and Amelie was relieved when Detective Baker held out his hand and indicated for the women to proceed through the door. The awkwardness of the conversation faded when Amelie caught sight of the impressive front hall.
The home looked as though someone had picked up a grand building in Cairo and plunked it down in the middle of Mayfair. Egyptology had been all the rage for nearly a century, with fads coming and going depending on the decade, but this was something else altogether.
“Is that a sarcophagus?” Charlotte murmured at Amelie’s elbow.
There was indeed a large sarcophagus standing nearby, guarding the foyer, complete with gold inlay and crossed arms. “My goodness,” Amelie began.
“Oh, my,” Eva breathed as she entered behind Amelie. “Do you suppose there’s still a mummy inside?”
They drifted slowly farther into the hall, joining others who stared, mouths agape, at the lavish decor. Amelie’s eyes traveled from the ornate coffin to the high ceiling, where the walls were painted in an exact replica of Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they had hosted a mummy unwrapping decades ago. They are quite the event, I’ve heard. My former school instructor attended one ages ago hosted by Dr. Pettigrew, himself.” She secretly wished to be invited to one—she’d never seen an actual mummy, not up close, anyway. The odd traveling exhibit that crossed through Frockshire years ago hardly counted.
“I have never understood the reasoning. I’d not like people gaping at my remains,” Eva murmured. “Would it not be better to give the poor deceased a proper burial afterward, at least?”
A lady next to them laughed. “Now, what fun is that? We would never be able to look at it again! It is still in there, you know.” Amelie recognized Mrs. Blakestone, who sporadically attended the Cheery Society Book Group. “Besides, it isn’t as though the dead require a Christian burial, after all.” She waved impatiently at the girls. “Come along, you must see the spectacular parlor. I am a frequent visitor of the Misses Van Horne, so I know the house quite well.”
Amelie looked over her shoulder at the gentlemen, who all watched Mrs. Blakestone with blank expressions. Mr. Radcliffe recovered himself first and smiled grandly, offering his arm to the lady. She heard Detective Winston mutter something to Mr. Baker, but it was lost as the group was whisked along with the tide of people entering an enormous room.
Adjoining the front hall, in equal splendor, was the parlor. Amelie could scarcely believe they were still in London. Tall palms graced the corners, lavish sofas and settees of colorful and intricate designs provided multiple seating groups, and a string quartet sat near the hearth.
Miss Trunsteel joined the group and smiled broadly at them all, her gaze finally resting on Mr. Radcliffe. “Is it not amazing?” she said, eyes sparkling. “We needn’t dream of traveling to Egypt anymore—the Van Horne sisters seem to have brought the whole of it to us!”
“It is remarkable,” Charlotte agreed. “One wonders where to look first.”
“What are we to expect at this Evening of Entertainment?” Detective Winston asked.
“Dear assembled guests,” a voice called, and Amelie saw the Van Horne sisters at the front of the room. One of the sisters—Ethel? Margaret?—was dressed in silks and satins of red and gold. “My sister, Margaret, and I welcome you to our humble home, and pray you will enjoy this evening’s entertainment.”
Margaret wore equally resplendent silks and satins colored in purple and silver. She picked up the introduction as smoothly as if it had come from the same person. “Please find a plate of refreshments and a glass of something that sparkles from one of the servants now circulating with trays. Or find a seat and they will come to you. We’ll begin our program in a few minutes’ time.”
“We’ve a special guest from Budapest who will soon join us,” Ethel finished with a smile.
Amelie took stock of the small gathering around her and wondered where they would sit, and whether she could discreetly elbow Miss Trunsteel aside to claim a spot near Mr. Radcliffe.
Charlotte threaded her arm through Amelie’s, and they moved toward the hearth where two large sofas sat at right angles with a settee and other chairs completing the ensemble. It was the largest grouping in the room, and the best to accommodate their growing number. Amelie was unsure how Charlotte managed it, but she soon found herself on the inside corner of one of the sofas, seated next to Mr. Radcliffe. Detective Baker sat on the inside corner of the other sofa, bumping Amelie’s knees with his own as he sat.
“Apologies,” he mumbled, but loudly enough that Amelie was certain Mr. Radcliffe heard it. She glanced at the detective, her eyes narrowing. He was not the clumsy sort—far from it. And for all that he looked out of place in formal settings, he seemed particularly out of sorts this evening. She wondered if his odd demeanor was a consequence of his companion, who sat beside him and barely managed a tight smile for the others as the refreshment trays circulated.
Charlotte had neatly insinuated herself on Mr. Radcliffe’s other side, leaving a frowning Miss Trunsteel to choose a settee with Eva. Mr. Radcliffe handed Amelie a small plate of treats, which she took with a murmur of thanks even as her stomach turned over. She would never be able to eat a morsel of food seated so close to the man with only scant inches separating them!
She swallowed and turned her head away, suddenly unable to bear the sight of the fois gras and crackers on her plate. She gritted her teeth in frustration as much as discomfort; she’d not had such appetite aversion since childhood when Stephen had brought ’round his friend, Bertram Grassley, who had quite captured her heart. She’d not been able to manage
a meal in his presence until he’d laughed at something odious Stephen had said about her, at which point her appetite had returned with a vengeance.
The detective caught her eye. “Are you unwell, Miss Hampton?”
“Oh,” she said, trying to chuckle, “I ate a quick dinner earlier and find myself quite full.”
He looked at her face, and he must have seen her discomfort because he subtly took the plate from her fingers. He quickly slid most of her refreshments to his plate and returned hers with one small cookie and some crumbs. Mr. Radcliffe was conversing with Charlotte, and Amelie offered Detective Baker a smile.
He winked at her, something she would have ordinarily found outrageous, but instead took comfort in the strange sense of friendship she felt. He made quick work of the extra food on his plate, and Detective Winston looked at him with an unspoken question before shaking his head and turning his attention to Mr. Radcliffe.
“It is good to see you out in society so soon, Mr. Radcliffe,” Detective Winston said, and Amelie noted the sudden tension in Mr. Radcliffe’s demeanor.
“Thank you,” Mr. Radcliffe said, tipping his head in acknowledgment. Amelie looked at his face, which was lightly flushed.
Amelie eyed the detective with a surge of anger. What was the man implying? That Mr. Radcliffe was socializing too soon after the death of his wife? Was the black armband he wore around his coat sleeve—admittedly invisible against the black fabric of the sleeve—not enough?
Detective Baker glanced at his partner and lightly cleared his throat. Detective Winston did not seem deterred. “Where is your family, Mr. Radcliffe? Remind me where you spent your youth before coming to London.”
Amelie swallowed a gasp and leaned forward to catch Mr. Winston’s eye. She whispered, “Mr. Radcliffe’s family died in a horrible accident when he was young, and I am certain he does not wish to discuss it.” What had Detective Baker been thinking to bring the man along?
Mr. Radcliffe patted Amelie’s hand and said, “Thank you, dear Miss Hampton, for your valiant defense. I am certain the detective bears me no ill will.”
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 10
