“About what?”
I tucked the newspaper under one arm and looped the other through hers, then led her back to the drawing room. “I’d prefer to wait to explain everything once the others arrive. I have only the slightest grasp on this theory, and if I start going over it now, I may lose even that.”
Fortunately, we didn’t have long to wait. George and Petrov arrived within minutes, and I waved them into the drawing room. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I was afraid you’d still be at Newgate with Bradmore.”
“I’ve just returned,” George said. “What has you so distressed? Something in that newspaper?”
“No, but there’s something in here I need Mr. Petrov to look at.” I held the paper out to him, folded to reveal Stoke-Whitney’s picture. “Does this man look familiar to you?” Recalling I was speaking to Petrov, I asked again in French.
He studied the picture for a long time. With a frown, he glanced up at me. “Perhaps? I think you are asking if this is the man I saw following Irena.” His pursed lips disappeared behind his whiskers. “It could be, but I usually saw him at the theater when it was dark. I never got a good look at him.”
Bother! “Could be” was not enough, but now that I thought of it, he wasn’t the only one to see the man.
George took the paper from me. “Arthur Stoke-Whitney? Why?”
I had everyone sit while I explained about our search into the archives of the Daily Observer. “He and his first wife, Jane, were part of a delegation to Saint Petersburg to visit the Russian royal family in seventy-four, when Alexei was still in Russia. They stayed for several weeks. Nine months later, Jane Stoke-Whitney died giving birth—right on Miss Teskey’s birthday. Is that just a coincidence?”
George narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like one to me.”
“I realize this is only loosely tied together,” I continued, “but it does tie. Jane was in Saint Petersburg with Alexei, and she died nine months later, the very day the child was born and pressed onto Alexei. It could easily be coincidence. That’s why I showed that picture to Mr. Petrov. I’d hoped he might recognize Stoke-Whitney as the man who’d been following Miss Teskey.”
Petrov’s brow furrowed as he tried to follow the conversation in English. “If you think this man killed Irena, I will recognize him.”
Well, well. The words were slow and heavily accented, but Petrov had a better grasp of English than I’d thought.
“It doesn’t work that way, old chap,” George said. “We can’t manufacture evidence. It’s a good theory, but we have no proof.”
I smiled. “Not yet, we don’t. That’s why I asked Inspector Delaney to come by with the threatening letters, which I will compare with the letter I just received from Stoke-Whitney.” I dangled it from my fingertips.
A range of emotions passed over George’s face. I was sure he was running all the bits and pieces through his mind. At least I hoped he was, because the end result was a brilliant smile. “I think you may be onto something,” he said.
Aunt Hetty sat back with a smile. “Good work, Frances.”
Petrov still looked confused. “Why would this man murder Irena?”
“Because she dared to come to London—his world. She made no secret about being Alexei’s daughter. Somebody might recall these little scraps of information I dug up and put them together. And for all he knew, Miss Teskey knew exactly who her mother was and might be willing to make it public. After all, it would seem Stoke-Whitney sent her away in the first place to avoid a scandal. Her being in town might dredge that scandal back up to the surface. With his political ambitions, he couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“You are a genius, my dear,” George said. “I think this calls for a toast.”
I basked in the praise for only a moment. “Shouldn’t we wait for Delaney?”
“Gad, no. We’ll have another when he gets here.” He stepped over to the drinks cabinet and returned with four glasses and a bottle of brandy. Hetty must have replenished our supply. Once the glasses were filled, we held them aloft. George frowned. “Not sure what the proper toast would be.”
A good point. Irena was still dead, whether we’d solved the case or not. “To justice,” I said. “That’s all we can claim in this case. We didn’t stop the crime, and we can’t bring her back, but with any luck, the culprit will face justice.”
A perfunctory knock preceded Mrs. Thompson’s entrance. “Inspector Delaney and Mr. Gilliam to see you, ma’am.”
I glanced at George, who placed his glass on a table and stepped forward to greet the two arrivals.
“Don’t be too happy to see me, Hazelton.” Delaney moved toward him and held up his hand with thumb and index finger a hair’s breadth apart. “I’m this close to having you arrested.”
George grimaced and backed up toward me. “Ah, yes. I suppose this is about a particular document, isn’t it?”
“You know very well it is.” Delaney glowered. “You’ve pushed the line many a time, but taking evidence right off my desk crosses that line. You may find yourself right next to your friend Bradmore.”
“I have the document, Inspector.”
I retrieved my bag from the hall table and handed the folded page to him. “It proved helpful in discovering some new information about the case, and when we tell you, you may find yourself releasing Bradmore rather than locking up Hazelton.”
We all took a seat, and I ran through everything I knew, including the fact that Petrov had been unable to identify Stoke-Whitney as the man he’d seen following Irena.
“Might I see that picture?” Gilliam said. “I saw the fellow around the theater a few times, as well.”
“Of course.” I indicated the newspaper on the tea table, then watched as Gilliam wrestled with his conscience for several minutes, before tossing the paper back on the table. “I’d like to say he’s the one, but the best I can say is he could be.”
“This is a poor photograph, so that’s understandable. That’s why I asked Inspector Delaney to bring the threatening letters that were sent to Miss Teskey. I’d like to compare the handwriting on them to the letter I just received from Mr. Stoke-Whitney.”
“Lady Harleigh, you never cease to surprise me.” Delaney pulled the letters from his coat pocket and smoothed them out on the table. I held my breath and placed my letter beside Delaney’s. The writing was as close to identical as I could hope for.
Delaney leaned back in his seat, working his jaw. “This proves he wrote these letters, but it doesn’t place him in your garden at the time of her death.”
I sank back in my chair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Delaney came to his feet. “It helps. It’s enough to authorize an interview with the man.”
“Your constable interviewed the neighbors,” George said. “Did none of them report a stranger on the street?”
The inspector made his way to the hall. Unwilling to let him leave without an answer, George and I followed.
“I’ll review Constable Martin’s report again,” he said, “but I don’t believe so. Most of the residents of the street were either away from home or keep to themselves.”
He paused with one hand on the door handle and the other held up to stop us. “This is a good lead, but now you two need to step back and allow us to follow it.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Mrs. Thompson was just bringing in the tea service when George and I returned to the drawing room. She placed the tray on the table and, noting the increase in our numbers, left to fetch more cups. I took a seat and poured for Gilliam, Hetty, and Petrov while George paced behind the sofa.
Hetty turned her gaze first on him, then me. “Well, why aren’t you two celebrating? Isn’t this good news?”
“I’m not completely exonerated just yet, and neither is Bradmore,” George said. “And we won’t be unless Stoke-Whitney falls apart and confesses under Delaney’s questioning.” He stopped pacing long enough to give Hetty a doubtful look. “He’s been a politician lo
ng enough to know when to speak out and when to keep quiet. Delaney is good at getting to the truth, but Stoke-Whitney is an expert at twisting it for his own means.”
Hetty peered over her cup at him. “But if the inspector has the letters, Stoke-Whitney can hardly lie about having written them.”
“Can’t he? Even if he does admit to it, threating someone and carrying out the act are very different things. He could have one of his assistants say he was working at his office at the time of the murder. We have no way of placing him here. No one saw him.”
“Where is Jackson when we need him?” I busied my hands, refolding the newspaper. “What good is having a busybody in the neighborhood if he misses important things, like murderers lurking about?”
George leaned on the back of the sofa between Hetty and Gilliam. “I suppose even Jackson devotes part of the day to his duties.”
“I suspect he considers gossip as one of his duties. Do you know he told Mrs. Chiswick about the gate connecting our gardens?”
His eyes narrowed. “How would he know that?”
“From snooping. As I said, he’s a busybody.”
Mrs. Thompson returned with the extra cups as George rounded the sofa. He stopped and allowed her to pass to the table but kept his eyes on me. “Jackson certainly keeps watch over the street, but he can hardly see through buildings. How would he know about the gate?”
“Somebody must have told him.” I shrugged. “He visits with you from time to time, doesn’t he, Mrs. Thompson?”
Mrs. Thompson straightened from her task and faced me with an expression of wounded pride. “He does, my lady, but surely you’re not suggesting anyone in this house would share that kind of information with an outsider? If you and Mr. Hazelton use that gate to come and go between your houses, that’s your business.”
“There you have it,” George said. “Your staff wouldn’t have told him, so how would he know?”
“Does it matter?”
He held out a hand. “Come with me.”
Intrigued by the glint in his eyes, I let him lead me through the library, out to the garden, and over to the Wilton Mews gate.
“You told me you keep this locked, correct?” he asked.
“Yes. From the outside, one needs a key, but from this side, one simply turns that knob to drive the bolt home. Mrs. Thompson opens it for deliveries. Perhaps Jackson stopped by while the coalman was here.” I raised a brow. “You’re still trying to determine how he managed to see our passage, aren’t you?”
“Indeed.” He turned me around and set my back against the gate. “Look toward my garden and tell me if you can see the gate.”
I couldn’t.
With a hand on my shoulders, he walked me forward. “Keep your eyes focused on the wall and stop as soon as you see the gate.”
I was surprised by just how many steps I had to take. First, my house blocked the view, then the tree, then finally—
“Now I see it.” I glanced around to see we were standing next to the bench where Irena was killed.
“Jackson would have had to walk more than halfway across your garden, which is usually kept locked.”
“It is always locked. Petrov managed to climb over the wall, but Jackson is nowhere near his size, nor can I imagine him exerting himself to that extent. How did he get in here?”
“Shall we go find out?”
“You mean to question him?” I pressed my fingers to my temples, as if that might help to organize my thoughts. “I am completely lost now. Did Jackson have something to do with Miss Teskey’s murder?”
“I don’t know, but this is a loose thread, and I mean to tug at it. Are you coming?”
Within two minutes, we stood at the service entrance of Colonel Perkins’s house, knocking on the door. A thin young maid in a stained apron answered, took one look at us, and ran back in, calling for Jackson. Since she’d obligingly left the door open, we stepped inside.
The short hallway led to an open area, probably the servants’ lounge, where Jackson was rising from a chair at the worktable. His expression was an array of conflicting instincts. Outrage at our audacity at letting ourselves into his domain, and the ingrained manners that demanded he greet us with polite deference.
“Mrs. Chiswick is not home at present, sir, my lady.” Jackson nodded at us both in turn.
“We’re actually here to see you, Jackson,” George said. “We’ll only detain you a moment.”
The butler glanced around the room and spotted the little maid hovering in the doorway. Another servant peered over her shoulder. “You may go about your business.” They scattered as he intoned the words, and he returned his attention to George. “How may I be of assistance, sir?”
“It’s a sticky situation, Jackson. You see, there’s been an accusation made against you, and I’ve come to find out if it’s true.”
Indignation stiffened Jackson’s spine. “I can’t imagine what you might have heard.”
“I’m afraid you’ve been accused of trespassing, specifically, in Lady Harleigh’s garden.”
The butler relaxed enough to give us a tight smile. “I don’t know who told you that, sir, but it is a falsehood. I have never set foot in Lady Harleigh’s garden. Perhaps you can give me the name of your informant, so I may set him to rights.”
“Hmm. That’s where the situation becomes ticklish, since the informant is Mrs. Chiswick. It seems you’ve told her something about Lady Harleigh’s garden that you couldn’t possibly know unless you’d been there yourself.”
Jackson’s hand slipped to the back of a chair. He leaned heavily against it. Something was going on behind his blank stare. George’s line of questioning was beginning to make sense to him.
“Considering what so recently happened in that very garden, you must understand this leads me to wonder why you were there. And when.”
“No, sir. I was never there. If you refer to a certain passage through a wall, it was Mr. Stoke-Whitney who told us about it. Actually, he told Mrs. Chiswick about it. I merely overheard.”
“Why on earth were Mrs. Chiswick and Mr. Stoke-Whitney talking about my garden?” I asked.
The butler looked chagrined. “Perhaps it was somewhat indiscreet, ma’am, but Mrs. Chiswick was telling him about the man who’d been on the street a bit earlier, conversing with a woman in an upper window of your house.”
So, someone had seen Bradmore and Irena.
“Mrs. Chiswick was shocked to have seen that because she considers that you conduct yourself with great propriety,” he continued. “She said as much to Mr. Stoke-Whitney. That’s when he gave her a wink and mentioned there was a convenient gate in the wall separating your garden from Mr. Hazelton’s.”
I parted my lips, but before I could speak, George squeezed my hand.
“When and where did he convey this information?” His tone was sharp enough to make me wince.
Jackson, who had clearly begun to add everything up, was shaking, though he clung to the chair. “The day the woman was murdered. Mr. Stoke-Whitney called on Mrs. Chiswick.”
“Why?”
“She’s a constituent and chairs a committee in which he takes an interest.”
“And to give himself an alibi,” I added. “In case anyone noted his carriage on the street.”
“This is terribly disturbing,” Jackson said. “Are you suggesting Mr. Stoke-Whitney entered your garden to murder that woman?”
“I’m saying you must tell this story to the police,” George said. “Terribly sorry, Jackson, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come to the Chelsea police precinct with me and give your statement to the inspector in charge of this case.”
Jackson looked completely shattered. “I’ll just go and get my coat.” He shuffled away, presumably to inform the maid of his imminent departure.
“I never thought I’d say this, but thank heaven Jackson was eavesdropping.”
George released a heavy sigh. “Delaney’s probably still at the precinct, obtaining his war
rant. I daresay Jackson’s statement will make it a little easier for him to do so.”
I leaned back against the wall. “I know the evidence was pointing this way, but it’s just now sinking in that Arthur Stoke-Whitney killed her. Will Jackson’s statement be enough for Delaney to arrest him?”
“Undoubtedly. I don’t think Stoke-Whitney stands a chance. That means we can get on with our lives.” He drew my hand to his lips, and I leaned into his shoulder.
“You should return home,” he said. “Once I deal with Jackson, I’ll come by to let you know what happened.”
I nodded and would have left, but he held on to my arms.
“It’s over, Frances. I know it’s been exhausting and upsetting. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you stayed by my side.”
I stepped back and touched his face. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
* * *
Petrov had abandoned us to return to George’s home, but Hetty and Gilliam still waited in the drawing room when I entered, eager to find out what had transpired. I ignored the now cold tea and poured a glass of brandy instead before taking a seat and telling them about Jackson.
“You must be so relieved this situation is over and the truth will come out at last.” Aunt Hetty reached over and patted my hand.
“It will be a relief not to have to worry someone will leave a room when I enter it or cross the street to avoid me. But I have to admit I’m disappointed in several people I thought were my friends. How quickly they turned their backs on me.”
“Well, if they are anything like Arthur Stoke-Whitney, I hope they keep their backs turned.” Hetty tsked in disgust. “It’s ironic that he ever worried about his wife causing a scandal. Not that she’s a model of propriety, mind you.”
“Now that I know more about her husband, I understand her choices a little better. And you’re right. The most sanctimonious man in London turns out to be a murderer.” I let out a bitter laugh. “After he’s charged, she’ll need more than my help in bringing out her daughter. She might do better to take Harriet to Paris for the season.”
Once I stopped to consider Alicia, I realized she’d suffer far more than George and I had. This scandal would ruin her and her daughter. And, heavens, she was in the country and didn’t even know yet. I stood up and returned my glass to the table. “I really should write to her. It would be too awful for her to find out from the papers.”
A Fiancée's Guide to First Wives and Murder Page 25
