The Sign of Death

by Callie Hutton

  Mrs. Burrows looked up at Amy, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid not.” She began to wring her hands, and her lip quivered. “I received a letter from someone just two days ago who said he had Mr. Harding’s records and he was going to continue to collect the blackmail money.”

  Amy leaned forward and took the woman’s hand. “How terrible. Do you have any idea who this person is?”

  Mrs. Burrows shook her head. “No. Mr. Harding never had anyone else with him each time I met with him. What is so distressing is what I’m being blackmailed for is something I had no control over. I’m just glad I was able to escape without having it held over my head.”

  “Mrs. Burrows, I would like you to know that we ask these questions of you not out of some sort of morbid curiosity or because we want to do you some harm, but as my friend Lord Wethington mentioned during our last visit, he is the one the police are convinced was Mr. Harding’s killer.”

  Mrs. Burrows drew in a deep breath. “How terrible for him.” She shook her head. “I can tell just by looking at his lordship that he would never do something like that.”

  Although Amy enjoyed the woman’s confidence in William’s innocence, her statement was borne more out of emotion than fact, since she knew nothing about William.

  “I appreciate your faith in Lord Wethington. However, the police don’t seem to agree.”

  Mrs. Burrows handed the two hats to Amy along with a slip of paper stating the total price for the merchandise. Usually Amy had bills sent to her house for payment, but since she had not set up an account with this store, she fumbled in her reticule to come up with the needed money.

  Almost as if reading her mind, Mrs. Burrows said, “I will be happy to open an account for you and send a bill.”

  “I would like to set up an account, actually—I really do love your work. But I have the money with me today to pay.” Amy placed the coins on the table.

  She rose to leave, happy, both with her hats and with the friendship she’d made with the woman. “Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Burrows, and I will be back to buy more hats and hopefully let you know Lord Wethington and I have been successful and your concerns about blackmailing have ended.” She moved toward the door.

  What I’m being blackmailed for I had no control over.

  The words kept repeating in her mind. If Amy could find out why the two women were being blackmailed, it might help in their investigation. Especially now that someone had the records and knew their secrets.

  “God bless you,” Mrs. Burrows said, as Amy opened the door, the light tinkle of the bell ringing in her ears.

  After a slight pause, Amy said, “Mrs. Burrows, do you by chance know a Miss Gertrude O’Neill?”

  Mrs. Burrows’s eyes grew wide. “Gertie? Oh goodness, don’t tell me she’s being blackmailed too.”

  * * *

  William rose in the morning with a sense of excitement, feeling that very shortly something great would happen in their investigation. The ride he’d taken the day before on Major had done a lot to clear his mind. He’d purposely avoided places he would meet people he knew, as he wanted time to think and see if he could make sense of what they had so far.

  His first order of business after his valet shaved and prepared him for the day was a hearty breakfast to begin what he hoped would be the last of the investigation into Harding’s death.

  The clue he’d received from his own mother that Patrick Whitney was an actor, and a fine one at that, had immediately given him hope that the illness and grieving Patrick had presented were an act, merely his way of giving himself an alibi for when Harding was killed.

  His acting might also have been a way for him to pass himself off as a messenger or some other sort of daily worker in order to gain access to his house and Amy’s house.

  William hated to think so, but it was conceivable that Patrick had killed Mrs. Johnson also, if he’d thought she was going to hinder his alibi. He must have been one of the people sitting in the corner at the pub the night he and Amy visited and Mrs. Johnson told them to meet her the next day.

  It was possible that Patrick had indeed been enraged at the thievery committed by Harding with his stepmother’s trust. However, since he was friends with Mrs. Johnson, it wouldn’t have been too difficult for him to learn about Harding’s other nefarious activities and his habit of collecting from his victims at the King’s Garden. Kill the man; step into his shoes as a blackmailer. To do that, he would have needed to get his hands on the ledger.

  If what William had begun to put together was true, it would have been Patrick who broke into Harding’s home before them and attempted to steal the ledger, then shot at them.

  William greeted his mother with a kiss on her cheek and took a seat across from her. “You are looking lovely this morning.” He added toast, eggs, kippers, bacon, and beans to his plate. Excitement at the possibility that he would soon hand the true killer over to the police had spurred his mood and appetite.

  “And you are quite cheerful yourself.” She beamed at him. “I have the menu worked out for our dinner party. I would be pleased to have you review it to make sure there isn’t anything that our guests would not enjoy.”

  The dinner party.

  The devil take it. He’d been so busy the last few days meeting with his barrister, solicitor, and man of business as well as trying to clear his name as a suspect that he’d forgotten about the blasted dinner party.

  “If you will place it on my desk, I promise upon my return later today I will look it over. As soon as I finish breakfast, I am off again.”

  “My, you are certainly busy these days. I hope you can clear up that murder nonsense before the dinner party.”

  William almost laughed. His mother wasn’t concerned that he was a suspect in two murders—only in how it would affect her dinner party. “I am trying my best, Mother.”

  She patted his hand. “That’s good, dear. And thank you so much for the extra gardener you sent. He did a wonderful job with that part of the flower garden that was looking quite sad.”

  “Extra gardener?”

  “Yes. A lovely man—even did some arrangements in the house for us.”

  He had no idea what Mother was talking about, but with more important issues to deal with, he dismissed her words.

  His first trip of the day would be to the Principal Probate Registry, which had copies of every will proved in Somerset County. He wanted to see for himself if Patrick Whitney had in fact received a great deal of money from his father, as he had stated.

  The clerk at the Registry was a pleasant young man. He handed William a paper to fill out to see a copy of the probated will. Within minutes the will was placed in front of him.

  He flipped through the pages, taking notes. When he was finished, he thanked the clerk and left the building with very interesting information.

  Patrick had inherited one pound from his father. There had been a notation in the will that Mr. John Willingham Whitney, being of sound mind and body, was leaving his son one pound because that was all he was worth.

  Apparently there had been no love lost between father and son. The next thing of note was that Mr. Whitney had left his entire estate to his wife, Mrs. Carol Swain Whitney, in trust, with Mr. James Harding acting as trustee.

  Feeling more confident than he had in weeks, William made his way to Mrs. Johnson’s house for a bit of surveillance.

  There was a tea shop across the street from the house. William checked his timepiece. Two o’clock in the afternoon. He ordered tea and a sandwich and was fortunate enough to find a table at the front of the store, with a full view of Mrs. Johnson’s house.

  He took his time eating his food and drinking his tea. When nothing happened after about an hour, he paid his bill and left. He then entered an ale house three stores down. The window in the pub was small, but if William stood against the wall, he could watch the house.

  After another two hours and one more watered-down ale, he left the pub and head
ed for home. As he slowly rode his horse back to the townhouse, his thoughts were in a jumble. If Patrick was indeed the talented actor Mother seemed to think he was, he was certainly capable of convincing William that he was ill, then grieving, the two times William had seen him.

  He decided to stop at his club and have a decent drink before he returned home and was again subjected to his mother’s enthusiasm about the dinner party. Also, there was a good chance one of the members who was familiar with the law might be able to answer a few questions for him.

  The club was more than half-full. He viewed the area and walked toward Mr. Adam Richards. The man was a solicitor. William had sought his advice before when his own solicitor was unavailable.

  “Wethington, haven’t seen you in a while.” Richards stood, and they shook hands.

  “Yes. I’ve been busy.” William waved at a footman to bring him his favorite brandy.

  Richards lowered his voice. “I heard some rumors that you are being looked at by the police as a suspect in a murder? That can’t possibly be true.”

  William nodded his thanks at the footman and poured brandy into the glass. “I’m afraid it is true. My man of business, Mr. James Harding, was found floating in the River Avon. For some bizarre reason, they have placed their focus on me.”

  “Whyever would they have come to that conclusion?”

  “They have confiscated the man’s files, and unfortunately, Harding was doing some finagling with various businesses and forged my name on some documents that made it look as though I was involved.”

  Richards let out a low whistle. “That’s not good.”

  “Not at all. That leaves me with another mess to clean up, even after the murder charges are dropped. Based on that, the police have foolishly assumed we were partners in crime and I killed him to take over the businesses.”

  The man’s brows rose. “That is the best they can do?”

  There was no reason for William to share that their suspicion had been furthered when he’d been caught twice trying to get his files. “They have refused to look at other suspects and are spending their time trying to build a case against me.”

  “If there is anything I can do to help, let me know. It’s a very bad position they’ve put you in.”

  “Yes. However, there is one thing I wanted to ask you.” He paused. “If a man is a trustee for an estate, is it possible to transfer the trust to another person?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Given that it is quite hard to come by trustees because it involves a lot of work, transfers occur all the time. Considering the age of the beneficiaries of the trust, the responsibility could last a considerable length of time.”

  “How is a transfer done?”

  “As soon as the trustee has the consent of another person willing to step into his place, he merely files papers with the court transferring the trust.”

  “Does it involve an in-person interview?”

  “It may, depending on the court. Not usually, though, since as I said, it is hard to find trustees, so they generally just accept a notarized document.”

  “Thank you. That does help.”

  “You’re very welcome, and I hope you are able to clear up this mess soon. I take it you are doing your own investigation, since the police seem to have fallen short on their duties?”

  “I am. After a few weeks of stumbling around, I think I might have a solid suspect.”

  “Good for you. It’s a shame we pay the police to protect us, and then we find ourselves in a position such as yours where you are forced to do their work.” He took another sip of his brandy and shook his head.

  William nursed his own brandy, going over the facts in his head. He now needed to learn if a new trustee had been named on Whitney’s estate trust and when that had happened.

  Before or after Harding’s death.

  CHAPTER 31

  Amy yawned as she padded over to the cushioned box on the floor in the corner of her bedchamber. Persephone’s bed had always been at the foot of Amy’s bed, but the dog had been dragging it each day until it sat where it did now. When Amy had tried to move it back, her darling little Pomeranian had growled at her.

  She bent down to pet the animal and reared back. From what she could see, it appeared Persephone was going to give birth very shortly.

  Amy had scoured the Bath Public Library as well as the bookstore for books on dogs giving birth. One of the early stages of labor was the dog pacing and shaking. Persephone was just climbing out of her box, shaking like a leaf. She began to pace.

  Amy panicked.

  “Aunt Margaret!” She went flying out of her bedchamber and banged on her aunt’s door.

  After a minute or so, Aunt Margaret opened the door, tying the belt to her dressing gown. “For heaven’s sake, Amy, whatever is going on?”

  “I think Persephone is about to give birth.” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but she was afraid she hadn’t succeeded.

  Her aunt leaned against the doorjamb, smiling. “These are very natural things, darling. Don’t worry yourself. Persephone will be fine.”

  Amy shook her head. “No! She won’t. We have to do something.”

  “I am going to do something. Get dressed, eat my breakfast, and meet with my man of business.”

  Amy frowned. “You have a man of business?”

  “Yes.” She tapped Amy on the nose. “And I do not wish to be late, so I must get washed and dressed. Don’t be afraid; your little dog knew how to get herself into this situation without your help, so I’m sure she will know how to complete the rest of it.” With those words and a bright smile, she closed the door in Amy’s face.

  Aunt Margaret had a man of business. Perhaps Amy should have one too. Right now all her royalties went into the family coffers that her brother managed. It was time for her to be a grown-up and handle her own affairs. Or hire someone to handle her affairs.

  Panic again seized her when she realized Aunt Margaret was not going to help. She flew down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen. There was no point in attempting to get her papa or brother to assist her. Perhaps Cook or one of the few maids they employed would be able to help.

  “Mrs. Stover, I need your help.” Amy came to a sliding halt at the sight of Cook, busy assembling the family’s breakfast.

  The woman offered a cheerful smile. “Good morning, my lady. What is it you need?”

  “I need help for Persephone.”

  She scowled. “What has that animal done now?” She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her dress.

  “She’s giving birth.”

  “Ah. Well, as you can see, I am a tad busy right now. Your father would not be pleased if his breakfast isn’t ready because your dog is giving birth.”

  Amy wrung her hands—something she never did. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I thought you loaded up your room with books on dogs giving birth.” Michael shook his head as he entered the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed for a day of doing whatever it was businessmen did.

  “I did. But reading about it and seeing it are quite different things.”

  Michael patted her on the head. “The dog knows what to do.” He left the room.

  Whatever was it with this family that they patted her on the head and tapped her nose like she was an urchin? It was becoming mighty tiresome.

  “Are any of the maids available, Mrs. Stover? Lacey, perhaps?”

  “I’m so sorry, my lady, but I sent Lacey to the marketplace and don’t expect to see her for a few hours. The two others have morning chores to see to.”

  Frustrated, Amy headed back to her room and examined Persephone. She was lying in the box now but still shaking. She needed someone to suffer through this with her.

  William.

  Back down the steps, she asked for the carriage to be brought around. She hurried to the breakfast room, where Aunt Margaret, Papa, and Michael had gathered.

  “I am off to see Lord Wethi
ngton.” She reached for a slice of toast.

  Papa lowered his newspaper. “So early in the morning? I’m not sure that is proper, daughter.”

  Amy scooped some jam on her toast. “I need someone to help me with Persephone.”

  Her papa raised his brows. “Help your dog?”

  “Yes. She is giving birth.”

  “And why do you need to help her?”

  “She won’t know what to do.”

  “And you do?”

  “No. That is precisely why I need William’s help.”

  “William has given birth to puppies before?”

  Amy shook her head and left the room still chewing on her toast, scowling at the sound of Aunt Margaret’s laughter.

  She waited about another ten minutes before the carriage arrived in front of her house from the mews behind it. With the driver’s help, she climbed in. “Lord Wethington’s house, please.”

  The man tugged on the brim of his hat. “Yes, my lady.”

  Of course William didn’t know any more about dogs giving birth than she did, and he didn’t even like Persephone, but just having him there would calm her. When this murder investigation was over and Persephone was the proud mama of new little Persephones, Amy was going to have to give this situation between her and William some thought.

  They seemed to be heading in a direction she never would have thought was a good idea. Yet it seemed to grow closer every day.

  Once the carriage came to a rolling stop, she hopped out before the driver could help her and paid for her impatience by almost landing on her bum. Straightening herself, she took a calming breath, raised her head, and with as much dignity as she could muster made her way up the steps to William’s townhouse.

  “Good morning, my lady. How pleasant to see you.”

  “Good morning, Weston. Please tell his lordship I am here.”

  He frowned. “Oh, I am so sorry, Lady Amy. His lordship left a little while ago.”

  Amy’s shoulders slumped. “Do you know where he went, or how long he will be?”