A Study in Murder Read online

  William shook his head no.

  “Well, I have met her once or twice. A pleasant woman, slightly older than me. Lady Ambrose, one of Mrs. Morton’s callers, took a great deal of delight in informing me—and everyone else—that Miss Hemphill and Mr. St. Vincent had been courting a few months ago. It seems she then unexpectedly left for London. It was during the time she was gone that he began to court me and eventually made his own trip to London to approach Papa with an offer for my hand.”

  William cupped his chin with his thumb and index finger and studied her. “Do you suppose that means something?”

  “I’m not sure, but from what I learned, she had been somewhat assured that an offer from Mr. St. Vincent would be forthcoming. Then she up and left Bath, only to return recently to hear that her suitor had become betrothed to me.”

  William looked off into the distance for a while, then turned to Amy. “Do you suppose she was so angered by his betrayal that she murdered him?”

  “’Tis possible, is it not? A woman scorned and all that.”

  “Yes. Very possible.” He glanced at the notes in her lap. “I assume she has been added to your list of suspects?”

  “Yes.”

  William stood and offered her his hand. “Let us take a stroll, and I will tell you my story. Which I am sure will end with us adding another to our growing list.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Another suspect?” Amy was only too happy to include another name to her short list.

  “Perhaps.” He steered her away from an approaching couple. “It might be best if we take some refreshment at one of the tea shops on Broad Street. We might find a nice quiet corner where we can talk, and you can take notes.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  They chatted about the weather, how the town was growing, and which shops were worthwhile and which shops were only for those who came from out of town. Nothing said was in any way provocative, and they appeared to be no more than any other couple enjoying the lovely day.

  After they were settled in the tea shop at a table near the back of the store, with the fragrant scent of tea emanating from a blue-and-white teapot and an array of small sandwiches in front of them, William began the conversation. “As I knew previously, Mr. Francis Harris, St. Vincent’s nephew, stands to inherit whatever it is your fiancé left behind.”

  “Ex-fiancé.”

  He stared straight into her eyes. “He’d been out of the country for some time and took up residence about two weeks before St. Vincent’s death. Just one week before, the two of them almost came to fisticuffs outside St. Vincent’s townhouse.”

  Amy leaned back and let out a deep breath. “How very interesting.”

  “Indeed.” He popped the rest of his sandwich into his mouth.

  “What else did you discover? I can tell from your expression that you know more.”

  William wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it alongside his plate. After sliding the plate to the side, he leaned on his forearms. “From what I was told by a club member who witnessed the exchange, Mr. St. Vincent had planned to cut off the allowance he’d been providing his nephew.”

  Amy frowned. “I wonder what would have precipitated him doing that?”

  “Do you know if St. Vincent was wealthy?”

  “Papa was the one to hold the meeting with St. Vincent when they worked out the marriage contract. He would know about St. Vincent’s finances.” She let out a frustrated breath. “I should have asked to see the contract, but I felt so pressured by Papa at the time that the thought never occurred to me.” She shook her head. “It sounds as though Mr. Harris had a reason to pop off his uncle. He would gain the business.”

  William choked on his tea. “Pop off?”

  Amy grinned. “Murder-mystery-author talk.”

  “I wonder if the police know about Mr. Harris?” William tapped his fingertip on the table, a habit she’d noticed that indicated he was thinking hard. “The problem is, I am not sure how much of an investigation they are conducting.”

  “That is why, instead of turning this information over to the police, we need to follow up on it ourselves.” She saluted him with her teacup.

  * * *

  Two days later, it being Sunday, Amy left the morning service at St. Swithin’s church to see William waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He gave her and Aunt Margaret a bow. “Good morning, ladies. Did you enjoy the service?”

  “What I heard of it. I’m afraid I was out late last evening and had to depend on Amy to nudge me when I began to doze off.” Aunt Margaret grinned. “Will you join us for luncheon, my lord?”

  “I am glad your niece was able to perform that service for you. And yes, I would be honored to join you for luncheon.” He extended his elbows, and the ladies took his escort to their carriage. It was another pleasant spring day. Budding flowers grew along the pathway from the church doors to where the carriages awaited their passengers.

  As their carriage drew up to the front of their townhouse, two men stood at the door, speaking with the butler, Stevens. It took Amy only a few seconds to recognize Detective Carson and Detective Marsh from the Bath police. Good heavens, didn’t they have better things to do on a Sunday morning than annoy her?

  “Oh, dear,” Aunt Margaret said. She turned to Amy. “Maybe they found the killer and want to let us know.”

  “Or they are still focused on me and want to harass me some more. We are not postponing luncheon.” Amy gritted her teeth at the men’s poor manners to show up, unexpected, on an early Sunday afternoon. Don’t they go to church?

  Amy and Aunt Margaret stepped out of their carriage as William walked up to them from his vehicle. “Looks like you have visitors.” He gestured with his head in the direction of the front door.

  “Yes. Unexpected and uninvited.” Amy hoped her terse words reached the detectives’ ears.

  William took her arm as they climbed the steps, Aunt Margaret in front of them. “I don’t believe the police think they need to be expected. Or invited,” he murmured in her ear.

  “My goodness, Detectives, early afternoon on a Sunday? We are just now arriving home from church.” Aunt Margaret regarded them with all the dignity of her station.

  “I’m afraid there are things that must be discussed with Lady Amy,” Carson said, not looking the least bit apologetic.

  Very well. If they could be impolite, she could also. Just as she was about to tell them they could wait in the drawing room while she, Aunt Margaret, and William had their lunch, her aunt said, “We were about to have luncheon. If we all retire to the drawing room, I will have Cook send in tea and sandwiches to hold us over.”

  “We don’t require any refreshments, my lady.” Marsh sneered.

  “But we do,” Aunt Margaret snapped. “Therefore, you may wait in the drawing room—sans refreshments—while we enjoy our lunch.” She swept past them, leaving both men gaping after her. Amy grinned. She truly did love her Aunt Margaret.

  Although the three of them pretended everything was normal while they enjoyed the delicious white soup, baked salmon with lemon caper sauce, potatoes, and new peas, a cloud hung over the three of them as they ate their meal.

  Amy found she could not eat as much as she normally did, wondering what could have brought the detectives out on a Sunday to question her. If they had good news, certainly they would have shared it rather than sit for almost an hour while she and her companions had their luncheon.

  Eventually, Aunt Margaret took a deep breath and tossed her napkin down. “We might as well hear what those horrid men have to say.”

  William rose and drew back Aunt Margaret’s chair, then Amy’s. The three of them made their way to the drawing room, where Detective Carson paced and Detective Marsh stared into space. He rose as they entered the room.

  “Please take a seat.” Aunt Margaret waved in the direction of a group of chairs surrounding a small table, then settled herself on the settee and patted the space alongside her for Amy t
o sit. William continued to stand, resting his elbow on the fireplace mantle.

  “I apologize for calling on a Sunday, but something just came up, and we need to get a few things straight.”

  Amy nodded, since she assumed it was her with whom they wished to speak.

  Detective Marsh looked down at his notes. “One of our detectives went to your gardener’s flat yesterday to see if the man had returned from wherever he had gone, or in the alternative, to search his rooms with the landlady’s permission.”

  Amy refused to look in William’s direction, afraid their break-in would be obvious to the detective. Instead, she raised her chin. “Yes?”

  Detective Carson rubbed his index finger alongside his nose and looked up at her with a fake confused expression that would never have fooled anyone beyond three years of age. “What our man didn’t understand was that the lock on Mr. Albright’s door had been broken. It looked as though someone had thrust something, possibly himself”—he stopped and looked up at William—“and entered the rooms.”

  Amy refused to comment, since no question had been asked. William also remained silent.

  “What is it you wish to say, Detective? Is there a question there? Because if so, I did not hear it.” Aunt Margaret, ignorant of Amy and William’s foray to Albright’s apartment, was the perfect person to question the detectives. No guilt there.

  Carson leaned forward and glared at Amy. “Did you and your cohort here”—he jerked his thumb in William’s direction—“break into Mr. Albright’s rooms?”

  Amy drew herself up. “Of course not.” Hopefully the flush on her face would appear to be indignation and not guilt. From Detective Carson’s raised eyebrows, it seemed he chose guilt.

  “I would like to ask you, Detective,” William said from where he stood at the fireplace, “what has the police department done in the way of finding Mr. St. Vincent’s killer? Since the murder is almost a week old, and you are just now considering searching Mr. Albright’s rooms, it seems to me the investigation is not as thorough as I believe it should be.”

  Now it was Detective Marsh’s turn to flush red. “We are doing a thorough investigation, Lord Wethington, I can assure you. However, these things take time.”

  “Would you care to share with us what you have uncovered so far?”

  “No. That is police information and business.”

  William was not to be thwarted. “Seeing that you all but accused Lady Amy of the deed the night the body was discovered, I think it is her business to know exactly what it is you are doing.”

  “That is not how the police work, my lord. Lady Amy is still the only person who had opportunity and reason. While we are not in a position to actually charge her with murder, no one else has been discovered who might be involved.”

  Since Amy and William had added two more people to their list, along with Mr. Albright, the police were clearly not doing their job. She’d been right all along. They were focused on her and would spend their time trying to prove she was guilty rather than looking for the actual killer.

  “If that is all, Detectives, I bid you good day.” Aunt Margaret stood and smoothed out her skirts. “My niece has refuted your claim that she broke into Mr. Albright’s rooms. If that is all you have to ask after interrupting our day, then Stevens will show you out.”

  The detectives rose to their feet. “That is all we have right now, but I will say this.” Marsh looked back and forth between Amy and William. “Interfering in a police investigation is a crime. If someone—and I’m not making an accusation here—did break into the flat of an individual under consideration for murder, and took anything they found out of those rooms, that person, or persons, would be breaking the law and subject to criminal charges.”

  “Good day, Detectives.” Aunt Margaret walked to the drawing room door. “Stevens, please see the detectives out.”

  Both men lumbered from the room.

  Amy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Once the sound of the front door closing reached them, Aunt Margaret placed her hands on her hips and glared at her and William. “Whatever were you two thinking, breaking into that man’s flat?”

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, Amy tapped lightly on Eloise’s bedroom door. Eloise’s maid had answered the front door and, knowing Amy as well as she did, just allowed her to find her own way to Eloise’s room.

  “Come in.” The scratchy, deep voice did not sound like Eloise.

  Amy opened the door. Eloise was in bed, her eyes red and a handkerchief crushed in her hands. She took one look at Amy and sneezed.

  “Oh, dear. I guess you are still unwell.” Amy settled herself in the chair next to Eloise’s bed.

  “Yes, and getting caught in the rain the other night on the way home from the book club meeting did not help. Is there any news on St. Vincent’s murder?” Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze. Blow nose. “Sorry.”

  Amy waved her off. “It is my opinion that the police are so focused on me that they are spending their time trying to find proof of my guilt rather than looking for other suspects.”

  Eloise laughed, then coughed for a full minute. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “That’s all right, Eloise. I know you’re ill. You don’t have to continue to apologize.” It did occur to Amy, though, that she had best make this visit short, since she didn’t want to catch Eloise’s cold.

  “What I came to tell you is William—Lord Wethington—and I are conducting our own investigation of the murder.” She grinned at Eloise’s surprised expression.

  “In truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Another sneeze and hacking cough. Amy backed up the chair she sat on.

  “Sorry.”

  Amy took a deep breath. “We broke into my gardener’s flat the other night. I was going to tell you all about it after the book club meeting, but you left early.”

  “Why?” More coughing. One very loud sneeze.

  Amy held up her hand. “Do. Not. Apologize.” She took a deep breath. “I think it best if I tell you more about this when you are feeling better.”

  Eloise collapsed back onto her propped-up pillows. “As much as I hate not hearing the entire story, I believe you are correct. In fact, when you leave, can you ask Gertrude—”

  “The one at the door?”

  “Yes. Have her bring me a tisane from Cook. I need to sleep.”

  Amy hopped up and backed away from the bed as Eloise began another rousing session of sneezing and coughing. “I’ll just … let myself out.”

  Eloise waved her off, and Amy made a quick exit. She found the maid and asked for the tisane. Three times on the way home she felt her forehead to see if she was fevered.

  * * *

  That afternoon Amy picked up the small satchel of sewing supplies she’d put together to attend Lady Ambrose’s sewing circle. Hopefully, Miss Hemphill would be there and Amy could get more information on the proposal St. Vincent was supposed to have made to her. Of course, it was quite probable the woman would stick Amy with a very long and sharp needle for taking her man, but with the detectives wandering in circles, she needed to put an end to this matter once and for all.

  “Sewing circle, Amy?” Aunt Margaret grinned as Amy placed the satchel on the settee in the drawing room, where her aunt was enjoying an afternoon tea and a book.

  “Is that one of my books?”

  Aunt Margaret shook her head. “No, dear. I’ve told you before, I cannot read about all that blood and such.” She shuddered. “I don’t know how you can write it. It would keep me awake nights.”

  Amy shrugged into her pelisse and drew on her gloves. “I intend to get more information from Miss Hemphill on this marriage proposal she was expecting from Mr. St. Vincent.” Amy had kept her aunt up-to-date with the investigation she and William were conducting after having admitted to her on Sunday that they had indeed broken into Mr. Albright’s rooms.

  While Aunt was not pleased with the danger involved in their trying to solve the murder the
mselves, she agreed it appeared highly unlikely the police would do anything more than bumble around until they simply arrested Amy for the crime.

  “Are you taking Persephone with you?”

  “No. She appears a bit ill today. Her nose sounds congested, and she’s very lazy.” Amy paused and studied the dog, who was snoring away in the corner. “Do you think it possible for me to have contracted Eloise’s cold and passed it along to Persephone?”

  “Are you ill?”

  Amy shook her head. “No.”

  “Then I doubt you could pass along an illness you do not yourself possess.” Her aunt had the strangest way of saying things. “If you don’t take her with you, aren’t you afraid she won’t talk to you?” Aunt Margaret nodded toward Persephone.

  “Yes. I know how silly it sounds, but my darling pet does have a way of letting me know she is displeased with me. Besides, if I am interested in conversation, I can always ask Othello to spout some poetry for me.”

  “Have a good time sewing. I would go with you, but I don’t know what I despise more, Lady Ambrose or sewing.” She settled back into her chair and picked up her book. “Good luck.”

  * * *

  Five women were sitting in a group, chatting away and moving their needles in and out of colorful pieces of cloth, when Amy was announced by Mrs. Ambrose’s butler. Raised eyebrows and pursed lips greeted her as she entered the room and took a seat near the hostess.

  Miss Hemphill was not in the room.

  “Welcome to our little group, Lady Amy.” Lady Ambrose fluttered. She actually fluttered as she welcomed Amy. No doubt she had secured a coup de foudre by having the very notorious Lady Amy attend her sewing circle so soon after her erstwhile fiancé had met his end in her library.

  “Thank you. I am delighted to be part of such a noble project.” ’Twas indeed a noble project, but if Miss Hemphill did not join them, there would be very little delight on her part.