—From “Essays on Eternal Bliss” by Miss A. Hampton,
The Marriage Gazette
Amelie, no. I am striking this paragraph.
See me in my office.
—Editorial notes in the margins by Miss Sally Hampton
Amelie watched the detective leave with a sense of disappointment. She’d not had the chance to ask how he’d managed to get her from Mr. Stern’s rented rooms, to a carriage, and then into the hospital. Her appetite for story and detail were unquenchable, and yet she’d been unconscious for all of it. Perhaps she would write a card to him, thanking him for his gallantry—assuming he had shown some.
She wondered if he’d nearly run himself into the doorframe just then because he had been affected by her goodbye wave, or by something else. Could be one of dozens of things, really, because the man had a full schedule, and—
“Amelie,” Sally said firmly.
Amelie blinked and realized Sally had been trying to capture her attention. “Yes, sorry?”
Sally studied her, eyes narrowing, and Amelie wondered if she would always squirm under her aunt’s close regard.
“He is handsome. Detective Michael Baker.”
Amelie lifted her shoulder. “One might say so. I do not suppose I see him in such a light as we have been working together as colleagues.”
“Of course, of course. Tell me, dearest, if you were to describe him to a potential Gazette subscriber who was looking for a good match, what would you say?”
“Oh. Well, I do not presume to know much about his life aside from the professional.”
“Come now, at the Gazette you’ve worked with less information than you must have by now on the detective.”
Amelie sighed and frowned, and then frowned some more because the action exacerbated the pain from her head wound. “I would describe the detective as professional, serious, and dedicated to his duties.”
“I see. What else?”
“I did not realize it at first, but he does possess a sense of humor, which is a delightful surprise. He also notices details about one’s character and is very intuitive. He senses things without being told.”
Amelie thought of the night before when Detective Baker had slid the food from her plate because he saw she was too nervous to eat while seated beside Mr. Radcliffe.
“There are few things more refreshing than an intuitive man.” Sally sat back in her chair.
“I suspect most officers of the law possess a great intuition, wouldn’t you think?”
“You believe Detective Baker’s positive traits are a result of his professional training and not inherent.”
“Not at all, I . . .” She paused, troubled. “I suppose I . . .” She huffed a sigh. “He does not believe that Romeo and Juliet is the greatest classic work of romantic literature.”
Sally chuckled. “You do not care for Romeo and Juliet either, my dear, and you are a supporter of romance in any fashion.”
“Hmm. Well, be that as it may, he is . . . he is rough around the edges. I do not believe he possesses the soul of a poet. Gentle traits are those that identify a man as truly a gentleman.”
Sally smiled and folded her hands comfortably in her lap. “What sort of literature does Detective Baker feel constitutes ‘romantic,’ then?”
Amelie felt her face growing warm. “The Count of Monte Cristo, if you can believe.”
Sally laughed.
Amelie scowled. “Why does that amuse you?”
“Only because I have heard you profess the very same thing.” Sally’s laugh faded, but the smile remained. “I do not mean to tease. I thought I sensed an affection between the two of you, that is all.”
Amelie’s face grew warmer still. “Surely not,” she said, trying to laugh but managing only an awkward cough. “We are colleagues who’ve not spent much time together. Why, I do not even know if he has a sweetheart.” The thought stopped her cold. “He did say once he is not married, nor has he been. He did not mention any other sort of attachment, however.”
“As it happens, I’ve met another gentleman who is interested in calling upon you in a rather more serious vein. He visited two days ago at the Gazette. It was late in the evening after you had already left for the day. Said he had visited Hampton House once, unofficially, but sought to introduce himself to family.”
Amelie’s heart beat faster, and she licked her lips. “Mr. Radcliffe?”
“The very one. Now there is a man who seems to have the soul of a poet, would you agree?” Sally watched her closely.
Amelie cleared her throat. “I believed so, once. I do wonder if his gentlemanly exterior extends into his heart. There are instances that, upon reflection, could be best described as ‘put on.’ I do not know if that even sounds sensible.”
“As a matter of fact, it does sound perfectly reasonable, and I trust your judgment. He certainly knows his way around home decoration trends. He made a point to tell me how much he likes the décor at Hampton House. He appreciates the new-old approach to the Arts and Crafts movement.”
Amelie nodded. “He was complimentary about the house, and he seemed quite keen to meet you.”
“Yes. He was effusive in his praise of you, and his developing affection for you.”
Confusion washed over Amelie, and she suddenly felt exhausted and dejected. What would have once been the most exciting news of the year for her was now fraught with doubt and worry.
She still was not convinced Mr. Radcliffe had killed his wife, but she also no longer believed he was the paragon of gentlemanly virtue she’d ascribed to him at first.
Had the Misses Van Horne’s Evening of Entertainment ended only a handful of hours ago? It felt like an eternity.
“You rest, dearest, while I speak with the doctor. We shall sort out this suitor-and-detective business later. If you wish it.”
Amelie tried for a smile. “I do not know that there is much to sort, really. It appears one wishes to work with me, and the other wishes to court me.”
She considered telling her aunt about the connection between Detective Baker and Mr. Radcliffe, but she decided it could wait. It was enough for now that Charlotte and Eva shared that confidence. Besides, it wasn’t as though Mr. Radcliffe was going to ask to marry her tomorrow. She didn’t even imagine she’d see him for several days. Her doctor would probably prescribe bedrest for a while.
The nurse returned with Sally and administered a dose of laudanum to help with the pain and ensure she rested. Amelie was certain she was tired enough to sleep without the sedative, but the stabbing pain in her head was relentless. Perhaps she would benefit from a short—very short—sleep.
She settled back into the pillow and wished she was in her comfortable bed in her room at Hampton House. She began to think she would never fall asleep, even with the laudanum, but slowly she began to feel as though she were floating. Aunt Sally whispered in her ear that she was to remain overnight in the hospital, but there was a constable stationed just outside the room as a precaution. There was no need for worry.
Sally smoothed her hair gently and whispered, “I love you, dearest.”
“I love you, Aunt Sally,” Amelie mumbled, reaching up to touch her aunt’s soft cheek.
Amelie vaguely registered Charlotte and Eva’s visit later in the day, but the next truly conscious thought she had was confusion. The room was dark, and she couldn’t say what had awoken her. A scent? A rustle of fabric? Perhaps simply a feeling that she was not alone in the room. She tried to remember what Sally had said—something about a constable keeping watch—and figured perhaps he had made a noise just outside the door.
She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and reached over to the bedside table where a small kerosene lamp burned a low, blue flame. She turned the knob, and the flame danced higher inside the glass. It hurt her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, shie
lding them with her hand. The pain in her head still throbbed, and she wondered if she’d be able to return to sleep without another dose of laudanum.
Another sound near the door startled her, and she squinted around her fingers, trying to sit up in the bed. There was something off about the room, as though a door had been opened then closed, a puzzle she couldn’t put together. The more she grasped at the wispy thought, the quicker it blew away.
But something was clear: someone was in her room. She sucked in her breath, trying to still her racing heart.
“Oh dear, Miss Hampton, how wretchedly clumsy of me.” Mr. Radcliffe stood just inside the doorway with a bouquet of flowers and a chagrined expression. “I am so sorry to have startled you! When I learned from your aunt that you’d been injured, I was sick with worry. I’ve been caught up at the Chancery all day and was unable to visit sooner.” He paused. “I’ll leave these flowers for you at the nurse’s desk and visit again tomorrow. Forgive me.”
“No,” Amelie said, gasping as she shoved herself fully upright. She winced as she bumped her arm against the side table. “Please, I should hate for you to make a return trip.”
Mr. Radcliffe’s face darkened. “Miss Hampton, when the police find the fiend who did this to you, I shall have a go at him, myself.” He indicated the chair next to the bed. “May I?”
“Of course,” she mumbled, her world finally beginning to come into focus. The edges of her reasoning were hazy, but for the first time in what must have been hours, she felt more like herself. “What is the time?” She squinted at the clock on the opposite wall.
Mr. Radcliffe pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “It is half past eight in the evening.” He smiled apologetically. “Dreadfully early for a regular Saturday evening, but dreadfully late if one is laid up, I imagine.”
Amelie looked at the side table for the teacup, only to find it empty. She was thirsty and frustrated at her inability to move freely and without pain. She’d never been a patient sick person, even as a child.
She managed a half smile for Mr. Radcliffe, who still held the bouquet of flowers. “I presume those are for me?” It was funny on some level, she supposed, that having moved past her short-lived infatuation with the man, she was no longer worried about saying the wrong thing. He was still as handsome as ever, still saying the right things and bearing flowers, for heaven’s sake, but something subtle had shifted. Changed.
As he chuckled and made a self-deprecating remark, she tried to reason through her disquiet.
“I’ll set the flowers here,” he said as he laid them carefully on the side table.
She looked at the door, and realized it had everything to do with her confused brain. A click, a quiet whisper, the door opening, the door closing—she closed her eyes and tried to figure out why it was important. At any rate, it was closed now, which was highly improper.
“Mr. Radcliffe, I wonder if you would open the door and summon the nurse? I’m sure the flowers would appreciate some water. I, too, am quite parched.” She nibbled on the inside of her cheek despite her attempt to appear calm.
Even though he had spoken with Aunt Sally about calling upon her with more regularity, for him to assume such familiarity was presumptuous in the extreme. Perhaps she possessed more of the scandalous Hampton family traits than she’d realized, because her anger surged. Even had her aunt, or her mother, or the Queen herself given him permission to sit in her hospital room with the door closed, she didn’t want it.
He hesitated for a moment, but it was enough of a delay to send her pulse racing again. “Of course, of course, my apologies, again.” He rose and quietly opened the door, peering out into the hallway before opening it more and returning to his chair. He perched on the edge of it, however, indicating a clear intention to leave sooner rather than later.
Amelie looked out into the hallway where an empty chair sat just outside her door. “Did you see a constable when you arrived?” she asked Mr. Radcliffe. “It’s silly, but my friend, Detective Baker, is quite protective, and he insisted someone sit guard through the night.” She smiled, hoping she looked pathetic enough to elicit continued sympathy. The last impression she wanted to leave with him was one of accusation.
“I did not see anyone at all,” Mr. Radcliffe said, his brow creasing in a frown. “I shall speak with the nurses at the front desk. If someone is derelict in his duties to protect you, the constabulary will hear from me about it.” He leaned forward. “All I have heard of your accident is that you were accosted. Dear Miss Hampton, whatever happened?”
She weighed her options. She could maintain a sense of honest innocence and gauge his reaction, or she could lie and he would know she was keeping something from him. She was all but certain that someone would have told him by now exactly where she’d been attacked that morning.
“The truth is somewhat mortifying,” she said with a delicate frown. “I suppose you have heard about the awful happenings last night at the Van Horne residence after you left?”
He nodded. “Indeed. Ghastly business. I wish I’d have remained to help quell the fear you and your cousins must have experienced.”
“We learned the man’s true name, and I took it upon myself to visit his rented rooms this morning. I had hoped to meet family, or friends, or someone who might have known him. I felt . . .” She shrugged, looking down at her hands. “I felt so horrible that he had died and possibly left behind loved ones. I wanted them to know he was charming and had spent his last night on earth entertaining people who enjoyed his talents.”
She remembered Mr. Radcliffe’s stiff reaction to the Great Prospero and hoped he thought her naive or stupid enough to have missed it. After all, it had been Charlotte who asked him about a possible connection to the man, not Amelie.
She looked up to see an image of perfect compassion on his face. It was mixed with something else, though. Relief?
He exhaled slowly. “Of course, you were seeking to comfort others in a time of loss. I would expect nothing less from a woman with such a generous heart. I do hope you have learned that you mustn’t do such things alone, however. A hard-learned lesson it is, to be sure.”
She managed a flicker of a smile as she nodded, resenting his didactic tone. He was not her father, or her uncle, or her grandfather, or even an official suitor. He was not even a police detective charged with public safety.
Knowing she’d flown from enamored to irritated in the space of mere hours made her feel fickle and ridiculous. Her sister, Deborah, used to yammer on incessantly about kissing enough frogs to find a prince, and Amelie had thought it not only disgusting, but silly. When two people destined to be together finally met, the stars would align and both parties would know in the deep recesses of their individual souls that theirs was a love fated for all time. No amount of frog-kissing should have figured into that equation at all.
And yet, she’d been convinced that Mr. Radcliffe was perfection itself. True, she hadn’t felt as though they were fated to spend eternity together, but she had certainly nurtured a hope. Believing now that he might be nothing more than a frog was discouraging. Worse, she was forced to admit Deborah might have been right.
A voice in the distance drew her attention, and Mr. Radcliffe abruptly stood. “You must rest, Miss Hampton. I shall immediately see about your missing constable and arrange for a vase for your flowers.” He extended his hand, and she placed hers in it, marveling that this time when he kissed it, she felt nothing but an urge to wipe it clean on the bedclothes.
“Thank you for the visit and the lovely flowers,” she said. “Perhaps I shall press one of the blossoms into my book of remembrance.”
He smiled grandly and put his hand on his heart. “To know you would do such a thing would be an honor.” He nodded to her in a light bow and left the room.
She leaned forward in the bed to watch him walk down the hallway. He quickly crossed the length o
f it and turned left at the end. If she wasn’t mistaken, the nurse’s desk was to the right.
She sat back against the pillow with a frown and chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. She heard voices coming closer, and she was relieved to recognize one as the nurse. As she looked toward the door again, her eye fell to her reticule. She had a hazy recollection of Charlotte telling her she would place it on the side table, but the reticule was now on the floor, and to her knowledge, nobody had visited since her cousins. Perhaps the nurse moved it? But she’d certainly not have put it on the floor.
Had Mr. Radcliffe gone through her reticule? Again, she felt the flash of irritation with a heavier dose of fear. What had he been doing in her room, in the dark, while she slept?
You may find as you continue searching for information that solving the mysteries of a case is not unlike fitting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
—Detective Handbook for Investigative Procedure
Rain pattered against Michael’s umbrella as he stood in a small, quiet cemetery in Marseilles. The crew were digging out the coffin of the late Mrs. Marie Radcliffe, and as much as he was not given to dramatics, the cold darkness and eerie stillness seemed to fit the moment.
Winston stood next to him, and Mr. Antoine Verite held an umbrella over his mother, Mrs. Verite, who watched solemnly as her daughter’s coffin was again exposed to air. Mr. Verite had returned home to France and informed the local authorities of his visit with Michael and the details surrounding Marie’s death. They agreed with him that Marie’s death seemed odd, given that she had no suicidal tendencies, and they had informed the Yard that the local law enforcement would be performing an examination of their own. London officers were welcome to observe.
Michael made a point not to mention it to Harold Radcliffe, and he was hopeful they could catch the man by surprise with the news that his late wife had been disinterred as part of a possible investigation into her death. He felt a sense of urgency about confirming something—anything—about the deceased’s final moments. Michael and Winston had visited Radcliffe to ask about his whereabouts when Jacob Stern had met his end, and Radcliffe’s alibis were confirmed by people at the Van Horne residence who had seen him leave.
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 16
