They had found no indication of Radcliffe’s involvement in Stern’s death anywhere in the house. He had, of course, denied any knowledge of the crime and said that night in the parlor was the first time he’d ever met “The Great Prospero.” The name “Jacob Stern” meant nothing to him.
As the coffin continued its rise from the earth, Mrs. Verite let out a quiet sob, and Michael regretted the necessity of the somber task. The morgue’s waiting carriage maneuvered closer to the deep opening, and Mrs. Radcliffe’s remains were placed carefully inside.
The ride back to the morgue was quiet, and Michael appreciated the comfortable silence between himself and Winston. He was a good partner, smart and easy to get on with. He was also private in a strangely subtle way. Although Michael felt he was getting to know the man better, deeper reflection showed he actually knew little about his personal life.
The Verites went home after leaving the graveyard, and Michael and Winston were invited to observe the autopsy. The atmosphere was professional, and the doctors worked in silence for a long time. Michael maintained enough of a distance from the table to avoid seeing more than he wanted to. Winston stood even further back, and paced, not looking at the proceedings once. Michael took note; it seems he was learning bits and pieces about his new partner after all.
Michael motioned to Winston, and the two of them left the room. “Suppose we speak with the Verites while the doctors finish their work?”
Winston was pale, and he cleared his throat. “Splendid.”
Mrs. Verite’s home was stylishly classic, with a neatly trimmed garden and a parlor filled with leather-bound books and paintings of family and landscapes. She welcomed them in, summoned Antoine, and served them tea.
“We would like to ask some questions about your daughter,” Michael said in French to the matriarch. “I deeply regret the circumstances.”
The woman nodded, sniffling into a lacy handkerchief. Her eyes were tired, and her thin shoulders drooped. “She was lovely, and a devoted daughter. She played the violin beautifully. She wanted to be a mother.” Mrs. Verite smiled. “She said she could not wait until the day I became a grandmother.”
Winston nodded. “She sounds like a delightful daughter. And a wonderful sister.”
Antoine smiled sadly. “She was a wonderful sister. Others at school complained about their siblings, but I never could, because Marie was my friend. I feel responsible; I told her that marriage to Mr. Radcliffe seemed perfect. He was charming and amusing, and he showered her with love.”
Michael nodded. Radcliffe’s penchant for charm was, it seemed, his crowning jewel. “And when we spoke earlier, Mr. Verite, you told me that Marie had been looking forward to visiting soon, and that she had exciting news to share?”
“Yes. I only wish now she had written it down in the letter. We will never know.”
Winston frowned. “Forgive the indelicacy of my question, Mr. Vertie, but did your sister ever express any thoughts to you about her husband?”
Mrs. Verite’s face darkened, and Antoine looked down at his clasped hands. “She said he was so wonderful to her that she could scarcely believe it, but there was something that bothered me from the first time I laid eyes on him.”
Mrs. Verite placed her hand on Antoine’s. “This one, he tortures himself for encouraging the suit.”
“How would you describe his behavior when he arrived with her for the burial?” Winston asked.
“He shed tears, but they seemed like false tears. He said all of the correct things and wept for our loss, but I learned afterward from our family solicitor that Mr. Radcliffe had approached him concerning the remainder of Marie’s dowry that had yet to fund. She was not even cold in the ground, and he was thinking of her money.”
“He would have had the entirety of it at once had he been patient,” Antoine muttered. “He said he could not wait another moment to become Marie’s husband, and so they wed after only two months of betrothal. Marie was much sought-after. She was being courted by three other gentlemen of good standing when she met Mr. Radcliffe at a dinner party held by a mutual friend. After that, she had eyes for nobody else.”
Michael frowned. So rather than risk losing Marie to another suitor, Radcliffe had forfeited the opportunity of collecting Marie’s entire dowry at the outset.
Winston glanced at him, and the two shared an unspoken thought. Winston had done some digging in London and had located two insurance companies that had provided Mr. Radcliffe with hefty payouts after the untimely death of his young wife. When Winston had asked the insurance agents whether the purchase of two policies on such a young, healthy wife was common, they had both commented that, while it had seemed odd, it was not unheard of.
Added to that was Radcliffe’s behavior upon settling the transactions; he had been brusque to the point of rude, condescending, and insistent that the insurance money be applied to his bank accounts immediately. Michael and Winston hadn’t found evidence of excessive debt on the part of Mr. Radcliffe, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any hidden somewhere.
They finished tea with little more conversation, and Michael and Winston left with promises to share whatever information they received from the coroner.
Once back at the morgue, Michael and Winston slipped into the autopsy room in time to hear one of the doctors exclaim in surprise.
The man stood at a microscope, eye fixed to it, one hand arranging a slide and the other scribbling notes on a piece of paper. He mumbled something Michael couldn’t discern, something about the Thames.
“What is it? What did you find?” Michael asked.
The doctor tapped his papers and looked up at them wearily. “I will not have the official report ready until tomorrow, you understand. It must be typed and copied before I can give it to you. I can tell you our findings, however. I found distinct bruising patterns on her neck.” He demonstrated by placing his hands around his own throat, thumbs at the front. “Also lacerations to her arms, bruising on her torso, and evidence of burst blood vessels in her eyes. Perhaps most distressing is the fact that the victim was with child. Approximately three months, by my best estimate.”
Michael took in a deep breath. That must have been Marie’s “good news.” He wondered how he was going to relay the news to the family.
The doctor continued, “You said she drowned in the Thames?”
“We presumed drowning, but were uncertain.”
“My official cause of death would be drowning, as her lungs were full of fluid. She did not die in the river, however. The water was fresh with traces of lavender and oil. Detectives, Marie Verite Radcliffe died in her bathwater.”
As told by Aesop all those years ago,
“Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true.”
—Miss Torrence’s Guide to Raising
Well-Mannered Children
Amelie had never been proficient at remaining still for long periods of time, let alone a whole week, and she missed being out and about in Town. Eva and Charlotte resumed their work schedules Monday morning, but Amelie remained in bed, under doctor’s orders, which Sally enforced to the letter. When Amelie so much as tried to move around on her own, Mrs. Burnette appeared as though she’d been waiting just outside the room.
Eva and Charlotte spent every possible moment with her in the evenings, spoiling her with attention and little gifts. Her first night home, they snuggled up next to her until she fell asleep; she didn’t even remember hearing them leave.
She informed Mrs. Burnette that if a small, grubby visitor going by the name of “Sammy White” arrived, she was to be told immediately. Amelie thought of the boy daily and wondered if his vigilance had saved her life. He’d hailed a constable, she learned, and raised a hue and cry so desperate that her attacker had fled.
The brightest spot of the week was when Eva informed Amelie that Sammy had indeed shown up at the servants�
� door. Having been warned, Mrs. Burnette had allowed the boy entrance but made him stand just inside the door. She sent Katie Wells to find him some new clothing, then Mrs. Burnette fed the boy and forced him into the washroom where she instructed him to fill the copper tub and wash from hair to toes.
She’d sent him back twice to finish scrubbing behind his ears and at the ring of dirt around his neck. When Katie returned with clothing borrowed from a neighbor whose stable boy had grown too big, Sammy’s face had been one of shock and delight. He’d been quite proud of his “respectable shirt, trousers, and suspenders.” A new pair of shoes procured from Davie, the houseboy-of-all-trade, completed Sammy’s new ensemble, and the difference in his carriage was marked.
Eva immediately took the boy under her wing and proclaimed him her new photography assistant. “He is quite smart,” Eva confided in Amelie after he had been with them for two days. “My intention was purely to be kind, but I’m finding his help truly useful!”
When Amelie asked where he was sleeping, she learned he’d been given the tiny bedroom in Mrs. Burnette’s suite. She was determined to keep tabs on the boy to prevent “thievery or shenanigans.” For Amelie’s part, she was relieved that one thing seemed to be going well.
At times, she wondered if the bump on her head had knocked aside her ability to remember where she placed items in her room. She occasionally found things on her dresser knocked askew or items in her clothing drawers slightly mussed. For all that she was absentminded, she was particular about the state of her clothing, especially stockings, which had a penchant for snagging. When she asked Katie Wells if the schedule for laundry day had changed, Katie had frowned as though Amelie were daft.
Meanwhile, Mr. Radcliffe called on her each day, and each day left flowers for her with Mrs. Burnette, who stood sentry at the front door and refused to let him in.
One evening, after Mr. Radcliffe’s latest delivery, Eva joined Amelie by the fire and took her hand.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“I am feeling much better,” Amelie said with a smile. “Why do you ask?”
“I feel as though something has been weighing on your mind. Something, perhaps, to do with Mr. Radcliffe.” Eva nodded at the flowers Mrs. Burnette had placed in the foyer.
Amelie took a breath, unsure if she felt prepared to talk about what had happened that night in the hospital. But Eva had always offered a listening ear in the past.
Amelie slowly recounted the events she remembered—the sound of someone opening and closing the door, the feeling of someone watching her while she slept, the reticule that had been moved to the floor.
“And you think Mr. Radcliffe deliberately entered your room? While you were sleeping?” Eva shuddered.
Amelie felt cold at the memory. “As soon as he left, I asked the nurse about the constable at the door. She said he had received a message from Detective Baker to meet him on the front steps immediately. He was gone for about five minutes before returning, claiming that the detective was nowhere to be seen.”
“The same five minutes that Mr. Radcliffe was speaking to you, I imagine,” Eva noted.
“The constable telegrammed the Yard to verify the message, only to learn it had not been sent by them. Detective Baker was not even at the office at that hour. I learned later that he was not even in London.” He hadn’t told her he was leaving for his work, and while she may not have been an actual colleague, her feelings were bruised.
Eva gasped. “I am so grateful that Mr. Radcliffe did not return, and that you were safe in your room.”
“As am I,” Amelie said. She was unsure if she could lay the blame for the constable’s disappearance on Mr. Radcliffe, but it did seem the only likely solution. “And to think I had encouraged Miss Franklin to accept a dinner invitation with him.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, sick with the thought that she might have led Miss Franklin into danger.
“Not to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding his wife’s death.” Eva shook her head. “I hope you can rest tonight. I am sure Detective Baker will find the answers that can put your mind at ease.”
Eva patted Amelie’s hand, then rose and made her way to her bedroom. Amelie returned to her room as well, but instead of resting, she picked up her diary and a pen.
She felt as if her mind was filled with puzzle pieces, and if she could write them down, perhaps she could make sense of everything.
She tried to pinpoint exactly what it had been that had sparked her frustration with Mr. Radcliffe—other than the fact that she suspected him of spying on her in her sleep. As she reflected back on conversations with him, she realized that he had always been condescending, more veiled mockery than anything.
In contrast, Detective Baker always spoke to her as an adult. She never was left with the impression that he would just as soon have patted her head than shake her hand, and regrettably, that was the entirety of her impression of Mr. Radcliffe.
The detective hadn’t hesitated to step in when silly Mrs. Blakestone was in danger of the heavy sarcophagus, while Mr. Radcliffe had only watched with arrogant amusement. The detective asked Amelie for her opinions about things, while Mr. Radcliffe seemed more interested in Aunt Sally’s ownership of Hampton House than anything else.
The question remained: what was Amelie to do? She dearly wanted to continue helping the detective with his investigation, but if she rejected Mr. Radcliffe’s interest now, she would lose any opportunity to glean information that might be pertinent.
I must encourage his suit, she wrote in her diary, to learn once and for all if he . . .
She paused and tapped the pen against her lip. To put it into words—true words on the page in ink—was frightening.
If he killed his wife. Even though I no longer wish to be courted by him, I desperately hope he is not a murderer. I do not want it to be true that he has done such an awful thing.
She suspected Detective Baker believed Radcliffe killed Jacob Stern at the Van Hornes’ Evening of Entertainment, and she understood the reasoning, but the truth was, Mr. Radcliffe had seemed to have already left for the evening. Nobody saw him after the scavenger hunt began, not even staff. She knew from the interviews she had recorded that night that the murderer could have been anyone, including staff.
Her thoughts swirled, and she frowned. Such scenarios were much simpler in the novels she read. She knew that by the last page, she would have learned the identity of the killer, and the endangered heroine would ride into the sunset—or to a church altar—with the deserving hero. What if she never learned who killed Mr. Stern? What if Mrs. Radcliffe’s death was never fully investigated? She would be forced to live out her days not having the answers, and that was absolutely unthinkable.
Her resolve hardened, she nodded. She would encourage Mr. Radcliffe’s attention as a sort of undercover operation. She would be forced to keep that information from Aunt Sally, who had grown more disillusioned with Mr. Radcliffe since Amelie had been in the hospital.
Perhaps he believed Amelie was wealthy or that Aunt Sally was in some way responsible for Amelie’s monetary future. Either way, she was no longer lovestruck by him, and her heart was again safe. The fact that he might be pursuing her solely for a financial interest stung her pride, but not her emotions.
She was learning to accept the reality that true love did not always rule the day, and that many marriages were little more than business transactions. Charlotte had said it for years, but Amelie had believed her cousin was merely jaded. Perhaps Amelie was also becoming jaded with age.
She closed her diary with a sigh. It didn’t matter. She, Amelie Hampton, would marry for love or not at all. She would be happy with a man of her choice, or she would travel and work as Aunt Sally did, and she would find fulfillment in supporting herself. She shook her head. That line of thinking was so unconventional as to be downright scandalous. Aunt Sally had braved so
ciety’s gossipy storms and emerged all the more beautiful for it. Whether or not Amelie was strong enough for such a challenge was a daunting question she did not know how to answer yet.
By the end of the week, Amelie’s head pain was nearly gone, and the bruise on her arm, while turning several interesting shades of purple and green, wasn’t quite as tender. She informed Mrs. Burnette that she felt well enough to receive any and all callers in the parlor and that she would join the others in the dining room at mealtimes.
Her ability to play a part was put to the test when Katie summoned her at Mrs. Burnette’s behest. She went downstairs to see the housekeeper standing in the foyer, faint disapproval on her face.
“I’ll not agree that you should be out of the sickroom already,” the woman whispered, “but you have a guest, and as you demanded to be allowed to entertain callers, I am abiding by your wishes.”
Amelie inclined her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Burnette.” She accepted the calling card and saw the familiar raised script she’d seen once before. “Please send tea to the parlor for myself and Mr. Radcliffe.” She was proud of her firm, yet pleasant, exchange with the well-meaning but often bossy housekeeper. It was a small feather in her cap.
When she entered the parlor, Mr. Radcliffe, holding flowers, turned from the hearth where he’d been examining a print Aunt Sally had recently commissioned from a talented Arts and Crafts artist.
“Lovely, is it not?” she asked him, gesturing to the print. “My aunt is considering papering the wall with it. She likes the combination of birds and flowers.” She smiled. “‘Bold, but not overpowering’ is her assessment.”
Mr. Radcliffe smiled. “You quite admire your aunt, and I should say it is certainly justified. She is an accomplished woman, and the print is exquisite.”
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 17
