“Meanwhile, Jacob Stern also returns to England and tries to establish himself as an actor. The Van Horne sisters become his patrons, and he occasionally entertains their guests as Prospero. One day, Jacob spies Harold in a London cafe but does not confront him. Instead, he writes to Reverend Flannery to ask if Harold Smith has returned to London, and . . . ” Amelie paused. “Asks to borrow money?”
Michael shook his head, more pieces clicking into place. “Extortion. He attempted to blackmail Reverend Flannery.”
Amelie’s mouth dropped open. “Of course! His career is floundering, and he is lacking funds. Perhaps, planning to claim ignorance and deny his own involvement in covering the crime, he threatens to blackmail the reverend about his involvement in Vivien’s death and disposal. Meanwhile, Harold sees Jacob at the Van Horne’s Evening of Entertainment and realizes he’s been recognized. He confronts Jacob, knocks him unconscious, stuffs him in the sarcophagus and stabs him.” Amelie shivered. She quietly added, “It is more sobering in reality than reading about it in a book.”
Michael looked over the graveyard, which was quickly becoming enveloped in fog now that the rain had stopped. “Let’s return to the train station. We’ve done all we can here for today.” He glanced at her askance and smiled. “Good work, Deputy.”
“Why, thank you, Detective. You shall have my written report by tomorrow.”
He chuckled and grasped her hand. They walked carefully back through the graveyard, avoiding the largest patches of mud.
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” She handed him the small sack from the shop. “This is for Alexander. Hallie had a jar of treats on her counter, and I thought he might enjoy them.”
He took the sack from her and cleared his throat around the lump that had formed. “Thank you,” he managed. On impulse, he stopped, pulled her close, and kissed her soundly. He then pulled back and said, “I’ve a feeling things will get messy before they get resolved. Mr. Smith will not go down easily, and now my worry for you has tripled.”
She smiled. “I promise I’ll not take another trip on a train without you.”
“I suppose that is a start.”
They wound their way back onto the main street and boarded an omnibus scheduled to return to the train station in ten minutes. Michael’s worry that had begun as a tickling irritant was growing into something much bigger. He settled Amelie next to the window and sat next to her, no longer bothering with pretense. He put his arm on the seat back behind her, and she relaxed into his side.
For all his days spent worrying over the pain he would cause his loved ones should he come to a premature end, he had never considered the reverse. He rested his chin against Amelie’s hair and closed his eyes.
There was no turning back now.
Dear Diary,
Some time ago, I wrote a piece for the Gazette where I rather ignorantly castigated one who falls in love and is surprised by it. I am forced to eat my words, because I fell in love and have been surprised by it. I am in love with Detective Baker—Michael—and my heart is full of affection for him. Each day I count the moments until I will be with him again.
That I once fancied myself experiencing such emotion for Harold Radcliffe, now revealed to be Harold Smith, is not only laughable, it makes me ill. I feel as though the gauze has been stripped from my eyes, and I see the wolf in sheep’s clothing. My challenge now is to continue feigning an interest in him in order to somehow find proof of his crimes.
Amelie was nearing the end of her workday when the front desk receptionist summoned her with the news that she had a visitor.
Charlotte grinned and raised an eyebrow at Amelie, and Eva mimed applause. Amelie rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that quirked at the corners of her mouth. She had told her cousins all about her day trip to Wickelston with the detective, and they had squealed with delight as they all sat in the middle of her bed and ate leftover dessert.
She followed the receptionist to the front of the building, and her step faltered when she saw Harold Radcliffe waiting behind the counter.
Her heart pounded. She’d known this moment would arrive but hadn’t decided how best to behave. She had told Michael she wasn’t going to discourage Harold entirely, but that she would make excuses to be unavailable when he called at Hampton House.
The coroner in Marseilles was scheduled to deliver their laboratory results on Mrs. Radcliffe’s autopsy, but until they did so, the Yard were leery of tipping their hand. Mr. Radcliffe had disappeared before, and they feared he would do so again. She had to make him believe that nothing unusual was occurring until they had evidence enough to place him under arrest.
She pasted a smile on her face to disguise her dislike of him and made sure to keep the counter between them. “Why, Mr. Radcliffe! What a surprise.” She extended her hand to him across the wooden surface, and he took it, kissing her knuckles while maintaining eye contact.
“Miss Hampton. Delightful to see your lovely face. I missed you over the weekend. I trust you had an enjoyable time of it?”
She nodded. “I quite enjoyed myself. I bought some accessories, visited my favorite bookshop, and spent leisure time with my cousins. And you?”
“Oh, I was very busy. I spent my time answering correspondence, visiting acquaintances. Each spare moment was spent poring over dull documents.” He continued to look at her directly, unblinking, and then smiled. “Are you available for tea this evening?”
She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I am afraid I am otherwise occupied. My cousins and I have a prior obligation.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
She nodded. “Yes, perhaps. And again, it is lovely to see you and thank you for taking the time to stop by. I know how busy you are.”
“Never too busy to visit a cherished acquaintance.” He leaned closer and spoke in an undertone as though performing a stage whisper, “Besides, I must restore myself to your aunt’s good graces. She seems to have misunderstood my visit to you in the hospital.”
Amelie tipped her head. “Oh? She’s said nothing to me.” That much was true. She had told Sally about Harold’s nocturnal visit, and Sally had expressed her displeasure, but then stated she would take care of the matter. Amelie had had no idea what that meant.
“She believes my intentions were less than proper, and nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, she has informed me that you are no longer interested in seeing me socially. Can you imagine why she would claim such a thing?”
Amelie frowned. “I certainly cannot imagine it. I did not express such sentiments to her.” That much was also true. Sally knew nothing of Amelie’s plan to keep Radcliffe on the hook to gather information from him.
“Such an unfortunate misunderstanding.” He smiled again and straightened. “I shall call on her soon to make things right.”
Something about his tone sent chills down Amelie’s spine. “Allow me to speak with her. I am certain she will understand my wishes when we have had a chance to chat.”
“Of course.” He turned to go, and then, as if in afterthought, said, “I believe tomorrow evening is the date for our book group, so perhaps I shall see you there.”
Amelie nodded. She had forgotten about the meeting.
“You’ll bring your detective along, of course?”
Amelie managed a tight smile. She felt like a mouse being deliberately toyed with by a cat. “If he would like to attend, I am certain he shall.”
“Excellent. I look forward to another opportunity to cross literary swords.” He tipped his head, placed an impeccable-looking hat on his impeccable hair, and left.
Amelie stared at the closed door and breathed slowly, intentionally, in and out. Her heart thumped. How did he know? Had Reverend Flannery contacted him? It had been two days since her trip to Wickelston, and the post could certainly have delivered a letter in that time. Or perhaps the reverend had s
ent a telegram, warning him that a detective and young woman with a photograph of him were asking questions.
She returned to the back offices and sat woodenly in her chair. “It was Radcliffe,” she told her cousins. “He knows we were asking questions about him.” She thought of Hallie, the shop owner, and winced. Radcliffe had no reason to suspect the woman of sharing information, but all the same, Amelie was concerned. Would he ask around the village, trace Michael’s and her footsteps?
She needed to alert Michael immediately. “I must send a telegram to the Yard,” she said to Eva, who was proficient in all gadgetry. “Will you help?”
“Of course.” She led the way to the telegraph machine, and they relayed a simple message for Detective Baker: Smith knows.
Charlotte put an arm around Amelie’s shoulders. “Everything will be fine. Shall we go home?”
Amelie nodded. “Is Aunt Sally in her office?”
Charlotte shook her head. “She hasn’t returned yet; she’s still in the meeting with a distributor. We’ll speak with her at length about all of this in the morning.”
Amelie nodded and gathered her things, frustrated that her happy glow had been dimmed by a man she not only was no longer attracted to but by whom she was now repulsed. The girls bid goodnight to the other employees and left for Hampton House.
At dinner than night, Amelie’s stomach was in knots, and she barely registered the conversation flowing around her. The house’s elderly gentlemen residents, Mr. Frost and Mr. Roy, were in attendance at the meal, which was a rarity and usually provided a fair amount of entertainment as they argued over whose pet had done the most damage to their shared upstairs hallway.
“I am fine,” Amelie said as she climbed the stairs with Charlotte and Eva. “I am tired, and my head occasionally aches. I am merely in need of a good, peaceful night’s rest.”
Eva pulled her close when they reached the common area. “We will stick together like bread and jam. Yes?”
Amelie smiled. “Yes. Raspberry jam, though. Blueberry will turn our teeth purple.”
Charlotte hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek. “Sleep well, darling.”
The three separated to their own rooms, and Amelie closed her bedroom door with a sigh. She divested herself of jewelry, hairpins, waistcoat and tie, and was turning to enter the dressing room when she spied a bright red paper on her white pillowcase.
Hoping it was something left by either Katie or Sarah after making the bed for the day, she walked forward slowly, her lip caught between her teeth. Her name was scrawled across the red envelope in heavy, black ink.
It was not from one of the housemaids.
Suddenly fuming at the thought someone had violated her personal space, she snatched the envelope from the pillow and turned it over, her heart tripping at the large R stamped into the wax seal.
She ripped it open, trembling, and unfolded the ivory paper inside.
Dear Miss Hampton,
Imagine my surprise to learn from an old friend that you paid him a visit with your old friend. Naturally, I do not appreciate the inconvenience this presented for my friend, and in the future, I would have you address me personally with any questions or concerns.
I do hope you consider seriously my quest for your hand. I have decided that you and I suit beautifully, and your devoted aunt will be a valuable resource for us in the future. I think, perhaps, you are unaware of her true financial holdings, but I am not. You may not realize that as a solicitor with access to records public and some private, I have a wealth of information at my fingertips. You must convince your good aunt that your interest in me has grown stronger than ever before.
And if you ask your housekeeper if this missive was left at the door, to be delivered to your rooms, she will tell you honestly that it was not. I have delivered it here, to your rooms, myself, because I would have you know I can be anywhere at any time.
And now, my dear Amelie, for I must grow accustomed to addressing you familiarly, I must leave your beautiful bedroom and speak with you at the Gazette, where I expect you will be finishing your workday. I anticipate the thrill of looking into your eyes and seeing for myself the truth of my old friend’s allegations.
Yours ever,
Harold
Amelie sank down hard on the floor next to her bed and stared at the letter until the words blurred. Suddenly the strange anomalies she’d begun noticing after her return from the hospital made sense. He had been in her bedroom before. He had likely looked through her jewelry boxes and clothing drawers. Had he found and read her diary? Trembling, she reached up and yanked open her nightstand drawer and grabbed the small yellow book inside.
She leaned against the bed, feeling tired. Her head ached, and her bruised arm hurt, but most of all, she was angry. Who did he think he was that he could enter her room, uninvited?
She remembered sneaking into Jacob Stern’s rooms not long ago and reassured herself that she had been there searching for clues to his killer, not creeping about and leaving threatening letters on his pillow.
How would she ever sleep soundly again? How had Radcliffe gained access to her room in a house that was always occupied? She wished desperately for Michael to be there, wanted to sit next to him and lay her head on his shoulder. She had to tell him about the letter, but she was afraid to move even though she knew she was alone in the room.
She was uncertain of the amount of influence Radcliffe truly held. Would she have to marry him to keep him from ruining the people she loved? The more her thoughts twisted around, the less she was able to formulate a logical course of action. What could she do?
She heard the distant sound of someone knocking on the front door, and then the heavy tread of Mrs. Burnette’s footsteps as she made her way into the foyer. Suppose it was Mr. Radcliffe?
Galvanized into action, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the fire poker from the hearth. Letter still clutched in her fingers, she dashed out of the room in bare feet, her hair in shambles, and shirtwaist open at the collar.
She flew down the stairs, fingers wrapped painfully around the fire poker, and stopped abruptly when she saw Michael trying to explain to Mrs. Burnette why he should be allowed to cross the threshold.
She cried out and dropped the poker to the floor, where it clattered heavily. Mrs. Burnette turned in surprise, and Amelie launched herself at Michael, a torrent of tears breaking free. She registered walking backward with her arms still locked tight around him as he entered and quietly closed the front door.
Before long, she heard footsteps on the stairs, and she lifted her face to see Charlotte and Eva, with mirrored expressions of shock. Sarah and Katie Wells and even young Sammy White had also run from the back of the house, and soon everyone stood in an uncomfortable silence as Amelie tried to calm herself.
Michael guided her to the parlor, and she heard him ask Mrs. Burnette for some tea. Charlotte and Eva descended the rest of the stairs and followed them into the room. They sat in chairs, leaving the sofa for Michael and Amelie.
Michael kept an arm around her shoulders, and when she realized he was trying to get information quietly from her cousins, she collected herself.
“I do not have a foggiest idea,” Charlotte was saying, and Eva shrugged, her worried gaze glued to Amelie.
Amelie thrust the letter into Michael’s hand, and he smoothed it on his leg. She felt him tense as his eyes raced over the paper. He quietly exhaled as he finished.
“He was in my room,” she murmured.
“Then he visited you at the Gazette? When he left, you sent the telegram to me?”
All three nodded, but Charlotte closed her eyes. “Amelie, did you say he was in your room?”
Michael handed the letter to the others, who read it, heads close together. Eva’s hand flew to her mouth, and Charlotte’s eyes narrowed in outrage. She stood abruptly and paced to the front wi
ndow.
Amelie leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. She buried her face in her hands and softly traced her fingers to the side of her head where the wound throbbed painfully. “I was an idiot,” she muttered, “to think I could somehow fool him, to tease out information with clever conversation.”
Michael rubbed her back and rested his hand at her neck, under her hair. He gently massaged for a moment, and she closed her eyes.
“I’ll send word to my director and Detective Winston immediately,” he said. “We’ll put together a plan. Two constables will monitor the grounds in shifts, day and night.” He took Amelie’s hand. “I’ll send a telegraph from Euston Station and return straightaway. I’ll not be gone longer than twenty minutes.”
Amelie nodded and looked at Michael, feeling rather pathetic for having collapsed. “I am sorry for such dramatics.”
He shook his head. “No apologies. I am glad you telegraphed from the Gazette. I didn’t receive the message until a short time ago and came straight here.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “The net is tightening, but try not to fear. We received the evidence packet from the coroner in Marseilles an hour ago. By tomorrow at noon, we shall be prepared to submit it to the crown prosecutor.”
Amelie nodded. He raised her hands to his lips and placed a quick kiss there before leaving the room and disappearing into the night.
BODY OF ENGLISHMAN’S WIFE DISINTERRED
Details shared by one in the coroner’s office who has knowledge of the circumstances suggests the autopsy results point to a suspicious death. Surely a thorough investigation is already underway, and many pointed questions shall be put to the husband in question.
—The Daily Journal, London
Michael jogged the short distance from Hampton House to Euston Station. He was furious and wanted a few moments to clear his head.
Radcliffe had entered Hampton House, had gone into Amelie’s bedroom. It had taken every ounce of self-possession to remain calm for Amelie’s sake, when all he’d wanted to do was find Radcliffe and pound him into the mud. The man was a coward who preyed on women, and Michael’s worry was compounded twofold. Radcliffe was determined to marry Amelie, and Michael couldn’t rule out the possibility that he would use coercion or force to accomplish his ends.
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