“Sorry, sir.” Pierce didn’t look one bit sorry, the sod. “Detective Chief Super wants you to take this. Police in Richmond telegraphed. A bishop dropped dead at a fancy garden party in the middle of a load of toffs. They think it’s foul play, and they want a detective from the Yard. They want it handled with kid gloves, and they specifically want you.”
Fellows scrubbed his hand through his hair, finding it stiff with blood. “If they want kid gloves, why do they want me?”
“I suspect ’cause you’re related to a toff—a duke, no less.”
Since the day it had come out that Fellows was in fact the illegitimate son of the Duke of Kilmorgan, he’d gotten hell from his colleagues. They either looked at him with contempt or went so far as to bow to him mockingly in the halls. Laughter was always present.
Fellows decided he could either play superior officer and quell them, or he could look the other way. He’d gained back his respect by making a rude gesture when he bothered to notice the jibes, then completely ignoring them. Fellows also worked hard to show he was damn good at his job, better than most, and did not let his accidental aristocratic blood hamper him.
Sergeant Pierce went on, “I suspect that if we do have to arrest one of the nobs, the Richmond boys would rather it be one of us who does it. They have to go on living there while we can scuttle back to Town.”
“They want us to do the dirty work, in other words.”
Pierce grinned. “On the nose, sir.”
A jaunt to Richmond to clear up a problem among the upper classes was not what Fellows wanted at the moment. He’d meant to finish his report, go home, bathe, sleep, pack, drop in at his mother’s to say hello and good-bye, and then board a train. He had a week’s leave coming. His half brother, Cameron Mackenzie, had suggested Fellows stop in at the races at Newmarket next week. Fellows, though still uncomfortable with his newfound family, didn’t mind the horse races. Any man might enjoy himself at a racecourse. He’d planned to go to the seaside and stare at the water a while, then make his leisurely way to Newmarket for the racing meet next Monday.
But he was a policeman first, and if he had to postpone his trip, then he did. Policemen didn’t get days off.
Fellows rubbed his hair again. His face was already dark with new beard, and then there was the blood all over him. He didn’t feel in any way fit to face a house party of people convinced a man who’d died of overeating and apoplexy had been murdered.
But there was nothing for it. “We go,” Fellows said in a hard voice. “It’s our job.”
Sergeant Pierce lost his grin. “We?”
“I’ll need my dutiful sergeant for this one. Let me go wash my face, and we’ll be off. Fetch your hat.”
Fellows took some grim satisfaction from Sergeant Pierce’s crestfallen look as he headed off to the washroom to make himself presentable.
***
“He’s dead, all right,” Sergeant Pierce said an hour or so later.
He and Fellows knelt next to the body while a doctor called Sir Richard Cavanaugh stood nearby and gave them his medical opinion in the most condescending way possible.
“Histotoxic hypoxia,” Sir Richard said. “See his blue coloring? Prussic acid, most likely. In the tea, I would think, a fatal dose. Would have been quick. Only a few moments from ingestion to death.”
Fellows disliked arrogant doctors who presumed ahead of the facts, but in this case, the man was probably right. Fellows had seen death by prussic-acid poisoning before. Still, he preferred to hear conclusions from the coroner after a thorough postmortem, not to mention a testing of food and drink the victim had taken, than speculations by a doctor to the elite.
Fellows ordered Pierce to gather up what was left of the broken teacup with the liquid inside, and also the full teacup that stood next to the pot on the table. He had Pierce pour off the tea still in the pot into a vial for more testing. Fellows scraped up cream from a pastry that had been smashed on the ground, and the remains of the plate that had held it, handing all to Pierce.
He left Pierce sealing up the vials with wax and had a look around the tea tent. Unfortunately too many people had trampled in here; the place was a mess. The grass was filled with footprints—ladies’ high heels, gentlemen’s boots, servants’ sturdy shoes—all overlapping one another.
The local police sergeant stood well outside the tent as though washing his hands of the affair. Fellows approached him anyway. The fact that the local police had sent no one higher than a sergeant meant the chief constable wanted to keep well out of the way. He wondered why.
“Your thoughts, Sergeant?” Fellows asked the local man.
The sergeant shrugged, but the man had a keen eye and didn’t look in the least bit stupid. “The doc says poison in the tea, and I don’t disagree. The young lady they think did it is in the house—my constable’s on the lookout up there. She’s an aristo’s daughter, though, so the lady of the house didn’t want the likes of us questioning her. Says we had to wait for you.” The sergeant gave Fellows a dark nod. “Better you than me, if you don’t mind me saying so, guv.”
He meant better Fellows lost his job for arresting a rich man’s spoiled daughter, which was exactly what could happen. Fellows’ Mackenzie connections might be able to save him from a lawsuit by the girl’s father, but his career could be over.
Not that Fellows wanted to go begging, hat in hand, to his half brothers for their charity. An invitation to the races was one thing. Owing a monumental obligation to Hart Mackenzie was another.
“Go help Sergeant Pierce,” Fellows growled at the man. “I’ll need statements from everyone. Who was where and what they saw—in minute detail. Understand?”
The sergeant did not look happy, but he saluted and said, “Yes, sir.”
Fellows left him behind and made for the house and the aristocrat’s daughter. He reflected as he approached the large house that running down a killer six feet three and weighing eighteen stone was much more satisfying than having to face a silly girl who probably didn’t understand what exactly she’d done. She likely felt herself perfectly justified in poisoning a man who’d annoyed her. She’d be highly strung and more than a little mad, or else too stupid to realize the consequences of her actions.
Fellows looked up at the giant brick house trimmed in white, strategically positioned for a view to the river at the bottom of a meadow. The very rich lived here, the sort who existed in their own world, with their own rules; no outsiders need enter.
He climbed the marble steps at the rear of the house and stepped into the dim coolness of its interior. Mrs. Leigh-Waters, the lady of the house, hurried toward him from the front hall. She was a large-bosomed woman with hair pressed into tight, unnatural curls, and was garbed in a gray bustle gown that made her look a bit like a pigeon.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Chief Inspector,” she gushed. “They’ve always spoken highly of you, which is why I told the chief constable to telegraph you. The local constables can be a bit . . . hasty . . . and she needs a bit of sympathy, doesn’t she?”
“Of course,” Fellows said, forcing his tone to be polite. “I will keep the interview brief.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters sounded relieved. “I’m certain she will thank you too.”
She led Fellows through the cool, high-ceilinged hall whose draped window at the end cut out most of the light. Mrs. Leigh-Waters tapped on a door halfway along and opened it to a sitting room with back windows overlooking the garden and the view.
Two women rose from the sofa to face him. Fellows halted three steps inside the room, unable to move.
The features of the two red-haired women were heartbreakingly similar, the younger a little taller than the older. The older wore a gown of bottle green with black buttons up its bodice. The younger woman’s gown had a blue and brown striped underskirt, the blue overskirt folded back to reveal a lining of blue and brown checks. Her bodice was buttoned to her chin with brown cloth-covered buttons. Fellows noted e
very detail even as his gaze fixed to her face.
The older sister, Lady Isabella, was married to Lord Mac Mackenzie, one of Fellows’ half brothers. The younger sister, Lady Louisa Scranton, had petal-soft skin, lips that could kiss with heat, and a smile that had been haunting Fellows’ dreams since the day he’d met her.
Louisa stared back at him, as frozen as he, her lips slightly parted.
Isabella unlinked herself from Louisa and came forward. “Thank heavens you’re here,” Isabella said to Fellows, both relief and worry in her voice. “They’re claiming Louisa did this, can you imagine? You’ll clear this up and tell them she didn’t, won’t you?”
Chapter Four
Isabella spoke, but Fellows could see only Louisa. Louisa looked back at him, fixed in place, her face as white as the plaster ornamentation on the cornice above her.
The other two ladies in the room faded, as did the sound of voices outside the windows, the sunshine, the fine afternoon. Fellows could be alone in a whirling fog, where nothing existed but himself and Louisa.
At Christmas this year, Fellows had found himself alone in a hallway with her in Hart’s obscenely large house. Louisa had tried to talk to Fellows, bantering with him as she did the other young men at the celebration. Fellows had only heard her voice, sweet and clear, then he’d had her up against the doorframe, his mouth on hers, her body pliant beneath him. Fellows could still taste the kiss, hot and beautiful, and remember his need for her rising high.
She was the aristo’s daughter the doctor and local sergeant were convinced had poisoned the bishop. Lady Louisa Scranton, earl’s daughter, the woman Fellows dreamed about on nights he couldn’t banish thoughts of her any longer.
He’d have to pull himself from the investigation. He’d never be able to get through it, because anything Fellows found against Louisa he’d toss aside or try to pin to someone else. He knew he’d do anything to keep from seeing this woman led away in manacles, put into a cell, charged and tried, convicted and hanged until dead.
The proper thing would be to excuse himself, summon Pierce to take her statement, and tell the Yard they needed to assign another detective to the case.
Another detective who might find evidence that Louisa had committed murder. Fellows’ heart beat sickeningly fast. If he backed away, Louisa might be convicted for the crime by people too impatient to prove she could be nothing but innocent. That she was innocent, he had no doubt.
Now was the time to speak. To say good day to Mrs. Leigh-Waters and explain that Sergeant Pierce would take over the questioning of Isabella and Louisa.
Fellows opened his stiff lips. “It shouldn’t be too much to clear up, ma’am. I’ll need to speak to Lady Louisa alone.”
“Are you certain?” Mrs. Leigh-Waters fluttered. “Perhaps she should wait for her family’s solicitor . . .”
No solicitors. No witnesses. Fellows needed to hear what Louisa had to say without any other person present.
“A preliminary questioning is all, Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” he said firmly.
“Then her sister at least should stay with her.”
Mrs. Leigh-Waters was perfectly right to try to protect Louisa from an unscrupulous policeman, not to mention being alone in a room with a man at all. But Fellows couldn’t question Louisa in front of anyone, not even Isabella, not even Sergeant Pierce. He had to be alone with her, to get her to tell him what had happened, so he could keep her safe.
“Please,” Fellows said, gesturing to the door. “Lady Isabella, you too.”
Isabella gave her sister a look of concern. Louisa shook her head, the movement wooden. “I’ll be all right, Izzy.”
Isabella studied Fellows a good long time before she agreed. “Please send for me if I’m needed. Never worry, Mrs. Leigh-Waters. Mr. Fellows is a perfect gentleman.” Isabella’s look told Fellows he’d better be a perfect gentleman or face her and explain why not.
Fellows returned the look neutrally. He’d fenced with Lady Isabella before.
Isabella took Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ arm and led the reluctant woman from the room. He heard the door close, their footsteps in the hall.
When it seeped through Fellows that he and Louisa were alone, his awareness narrowed to her. How her body was a perfect upright, how the curve of her waist and bend of her arms softened her posture. Her striped gown made her look taller, her bosom a soft swell under all the buttons.
Lovely, lovely femininity. Fellows was no saint, but he hadn’t been with a woman in a good long while, not long enough to be able to look upon Louisa Scranton without wanting her.
No, it wouldn’t matter if Fellows came to her sated and exhausted from weeks of passion—he would still want her.
He gestured with a gloved hand to the sofa. “Please, sit.”
Throughout the exchanges, Louisa had remained rigidly still, as though turned to the biblical pillar of salt. Now she moved to the sofa, her movements jerky. Her face was paper white, her red hair making it whiter still. From this stunned face, her eyes burned.
Fellows knew he should not sit on the sofa next to her. He should pull a hard chair from the other side of the room and angle it away from her so he wouldn’t risk his legs touching her skirt.
But then he thought again about how they’d stood in the doorway of the empty room last Christmas, the revelry far away down the hall. How Louisa had flowed into him, her lips seeking his, her body soft against his. She’d instigated the kiss, and Fellows hadn’t been able to stop himself turning it into a taste of passion.
He did not seek the other chair. He sat on the sofa with Louisa, putting at least two feet of space between them. Then he stripped off his gloves, took a small notebook and pencil from his pocket, flipped to a clean page, and wrote: Interview with Lady Louisa Scranton, witness.
“Take me through it, Lady Louisa,” Fellows said, not letting himself look up from the notebook.
“Take you through what?” Her voice was brittle. “How I watched the Bishop of Hargate die?”
Fellows kept his eyes on the page. “I need to know exactly what happened. It’s apparent he was poisoned, and I’d like to know how and by who. You went inside the tea tent . . .”
Louisa drew a sharp breath. “We had some tea. The bishop was talking to me about . . . about his recent travels to Paris. Then he looked ill, started struggling to breathe, and he fell. I thought he was choking, and I ran and fetched Sir Richard. By the time we returned, the bishop was dead.” Louisa shivered, her hands moving restlessly.
Fellows resisted the urge to reach over and give her a comforting caress. “Did you drink any of the tea?”
“No. I never had the opportunity.”
Fellows made his hand write the notes. “But you had a cup of tea. There were two cups—one broken on the ground, one on the table near a teapot. The cup on the table was presumably yours.”
“Yes, I poured it. But I didn’t want tea just then, so I set it down to drink later.”
“Why did you do that?”
When Louisa didn’t answer right away, Fellows made himself look up from his notebook.
Louisa was staring at him, no shyness in her. The light in her eyes was angry, very angry, but behind her defiance he saw great fear.
“Why didn’t you drink?” Fellows asked again, this time watching her.
“Because I did not want tea at the moment.” Louisa said every word slowly and deliberately. “I was speaking with the bishop. I didn’t want to spill anything.”
“You were eating tea cakes.”
“Profiteroles,” Louisa said. “Choux pastry filled with cream. I took two but I didn’t eat because I was having a conversation. I could not be very dignified stuffing cream and pastry into my mouth, could I?”
Fellows had a sudden flash of her licking cream from the profiterole, then taking a dainty bite. Her red lips would part as her teeth bit down, cream would cling to her lips, then she’d lick it away. Slowly.
Fellows tightened his grip on the pencil. “Contin
ue.”
“That is all. The bishop coughed and fell. I told you, I thought him choking or fainting. I had no idea he was dying . . .” She shivered again.
Fellows wanted to throw his notes to the floor, pull her to him, and enfold her in his arms. He’d stroke her hair, kiss her, shush her. It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.
He remained rigidly on his end of the sofa. “Then what did you do?”
“I rushed out of the tent looking for the doctor. Sir Richard said the bishop had been poisoned and looked at me as though I’d done it. Isabella brought me to the house.” Louisa opened her hands. “And here I am.”
Here they both were. The police had been summoned, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters, likely at the insistence of Isabella, had asked for Chief Inspector Fellows to come and take over.
Fellows closed the notebook and set it on the tea table next to the sofa. He folded his hands and leaned forward slightly, a posture he hoped didn’t threaten.
He was a master at threatening, had had many more than one criminal fling themselves at his feet and beg for mercy. But mercy wasn’t his job. Fellows’ job was to track down and arrest murderers, as he had earlier today, and bring evidence to their trials. Mercy was left to judge and jury.
But he’d do everything in his power to keep Louisa Scranton from standing in the dock at the Old Bailey, facing a jury who’d find her guilty of murder. He’d do anything to avoid the judge looking at her and voicing the awful phrase, Take her down.
Fellows held her gaze. “I need you to tell me the truth, Louisa. Did you poison him?”
Louisa’s eyes widened, then she was up and off the sofa. “No! Why on earth should I?”
Sincerity rang in her every word. She was innocent, Fellows knew it. But he was not who had to be convinced—the rest of the world must believe it too.
“Perhaps you didn’t mean to,” he suggested. “Perhaps you put something in the tea and didn’t realize what it was.”
The Untamed MacKenzie Page 3
