A Study in Murder Read online

  “I think we have gotten off track here, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps we can keep our discussion to the story.” Mr. Colbert smoothly tossed out a question about Holmes’s reaction to Dr. Watson’s dismissal of the detective’s article on the art of deduction based on observation.

  After a discussion on that point, Amy leaned over to William. “You mentioned a matter you wanted to raise about the story.”

  He grinned. “Your curiosity got the best of you, Lady Amy?”

  William raised his hand and was recognized by the moderator. “Yes, Lord Wethington, did you have a comment?”

  “Yes, I do. One thing I would like to point out with regard to A Study in Scarlet is, if anyone has read ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ by Edgar Allan Poe, the similarity between the two stories almost borders on plagiarism.”

  A few gasps followed, and Amy hurriedly added, “Mr. Doyle has indeed mentioned his inspiration came from Mr. Poe’s work.” She didn’t know why she felt she had to defend William’s statement. Perhaps because he had come to her defense about women.

  “Lord Wethington, surely you are not accusing Mr. Doyle of plagiarism?” Mr. Davidson raised his arrogant voice, and the heated discussion began.

  Despite the disagreements that came from William’s observation, the rest of the meeting went quite smoothly, with Mr. Colbert’s expertise in moving things along. Once the meeting was declared over, Amy remained behind with Eloise, Mr. Colbert, William, Lady Carlisle, Mrs. Morton, and Mr. Miles and his mother, Mrs. Miles, who all generally partook of a light supper at a nearby pub after each meeting. Lord Temple and his daughter, Lady Abigail, had elected to join the group this week as well.

  They enjoyed a lovely repast of cold cucumber soup, various meats, cheeses, warm bread, coffee, tea, and small tarts. The conversation was lively and relaxed without the difficult Mr. Davidson present.

  Amy wiped her mouth after taking her final sip of tea, wondering if she’d have to let out the skirt she wore. She really needed to cut down on these lovely desserts. In an ironic twist of fate, she often admired Aunt Margaret’s lean, slim figure, while her aunt despaired of ever having proper curves to fill out her clothing as Amy did.

  Laying her napkin alongside her plate, Amy addressed the group around the table. “I have been looking all over London for a book and cannot find it. I wonder if any of you have ever heard of Unsolved Gruesome and Ghastly Murders of London by Melvin Fulsom?”

  William, sitting to her right, almost spit out his tea. “What?”

  Expecting another discourse on the proper behavior of women, she sniffed and raised her chin. “I am interested in unsolved murders.”

  Eloise, the only person at the table who knew of Amy’s alternate persona, said, “Yes. Even I couldn’t find the book.” That, itself, was a remarkable thing. Amy was quite sure there were no books Eloise hadn’t read, or at least didn’t know where to obtain.

  Lord Temple frowned. “Is that not a rather unpleasant hobby for a gently reared young lady?” He glanced at his daughter, perhaps believing she should never have been subjected to such a conversation.

  Gently reared young lady. How she hated that term. Those were the words that generally preceded comments on her personal lack of the married state. She shrugged. “I believe some would think so—”

  “As do I,” William said.

  She glared at him. As much as she would like to reveal that the reason for her interest was research on the book she was currently writing, she was bound by the promise she’d made to Papa.

  Yet another way that women were inhibited. If she had been writing romances like Miss Austen or the Brontë sisters, it would have been accepted. But the subject of murder and mayhem was not a ladylike pursuit. But then there was The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, one of Amy’s favorite books.

  “But I find the subject fascinating.” She glanced from face to face around the table. “Well, it appears most of you disapprove of my pastime.”

  Eloise snorted. “I don’t disapprove. I think women should be permitted to read anything. After all, we are not children.”

  “I don’t believe it is that we do not approve, my dear. I think, if anything, we are taken aback by your request.” Mrs. Morton patted Amy’s hand. “I am sure you can’t find a copy because respectable people have no need for such horrible things.”

  William cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I have a copy of the book in my library.”

  Gasps came from those at the table. Except for Amy, who traded grins with Eloise. “Indeed?” She looked at the others. “I guess I am not the only oddity in the group. May I borrow it, Lord Wethington?”

  “If you are certain you won’t stay awake nights fearing an attack from a crazed knife-wielding maniac.” She had to grant him credit for casting her a grin rather than a smirk.

  Thinking back on some of the frightening scenarios in her books, she waved her hand in dismissal. “Nonsense. I am not subject to the weak sensibilities of other young ladies.”

  “Apparently not,” he said, as he lifted his cup in a salute before taking a sip of tea.

  Amy studied William as he continued to converse with the rest of the group. Although over the years they had enjoyed a warm and companionable friendship, at one time she’d thought perhaps he would request to court her. But he never had. He remained a bit of an enigma, never revealing much about himself.

  He was a private man, and at a time when many large titled estates were floundering, their owners seeking rich American brides in search of a title, William had managed to keep his holdings profitable.

  She’d heard from her brother, Michael, that William had gotten involved in railroads at a time when most gentlemen were skeptical of the new mode of transport. Being clever himself, Michael had convinced Papa to join in the venture, and consequently the Winchester house was doing quite well.

  The conversation had veered away from her unusual request, for which she was grateful. William leaned in, close to her ear. “I must travel to London for a few days, but if you are at home next Tuesday evening, I can bring the book to you. That is, if you are absolutely certain you want it.” His raised eyebrows made her laugh more than scowl. Even though he’d refuted what Mr. Davidson had said, like most men, he likely still held an ingrained idea of what women could handle. They were all so wrong. After all, women gave birth, didn’t they? She shuddered. A messy business, that.

  “Oh, yes, indeed I do.” She quickly ran through her calendar and remembered the Bartons’ musicale on Tuesday, which she didn’t mind missing. The Barton daughters’ idea of singing brought a whole new meaning to self-inflicted torture. “Yes, I will be at home Tuesday night.”

  He nodded. “Excellent. I shall call around eight, if that is acceptable to you.”

  Amy told herself she was looking forward to William’s visit because she was relieved to finally receive the book she had been searching for, certainly not because she was anxious for a visit from his lordship.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next evening, Amy paced the deep-blue Aubusson carpet in the library of her family’s townhouse, awaiting the arrival of her betrothed.

  Soon to be ex-betrothed.

  As she strode back and forth, her gown whipping behind her as she turned, she mumbled to herself the words she wanted to say to St. Vincent. In her fist she clutched the anonymous note she’d received two days before, repeating to herself the words etched in her mind:

  My Dear Lady Amy,

  I find it imperative to inform you of your fiancé’s nefarious activities. Mr. Ronald St. Vincent has been involved in shipping, and in turn selling, opium to individuals who are unfortunately addicted to the drug.

  His illegal activities have caused a great deal of harm to upstanding members of the community.

  Sincerely,

  A Friend

  She’d done her own investigation. It had taken her only a short visit with one of her contacts in the criminal world to discover the truth of the mi
ssive, giving her the perfect reason to put an end to her betrothal.

  Most young ladies of her rank would have had their father deal with the messy matter. However, she was not one to hide from her decisions or show anything but confidence. Instead of summoning Papa from London, she would do the dirty deed herself. Truth be known, she wasn’t fully convinced Papa wouldn’t try to dismiss the evidence she’d gathered and insist on proceeding with the wedding anyway.

  Her insides roiled when Mr. Stevens, the night butler at the front door, entered the room. “My lady, Mr. St. Vincent has called.”

  “Thank you, Stevens. Please show him in.”

  She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts, patted her hair, and raised her chin. She could do this.

  St. Vincent entered, his hands extended. “My love. So very nice to see you. I always look forward to our visits.”

  Why had she not noticed his false levity before? Or the fake smile? So many things about the man annoyed her now. Thank goodness she’d discovered his unsavory deeds before they married. Her stomach muscles tightened at the thought of being stuck with this man for the rest of her life.

  She regarded him coolly. “Please have a seat, Mr. St. Vincent.”

  He waved to the deep-red brocade settee. “After you, my love.” Again, the artificial smile. Admittedly, he was certainly not difficult to look at, with his sandy hair, warm chocolate-brown eyes, and the little dip in his chin. But his good looks were too perfect. Along with the smile. She shuddered thinking about how close she’d come to disaster.

  She settled on the settee, and he sat alongside her. When he reached for her hand, she drew it away from him. “I wish to discuss something of great importance.”

  “Anything, my dear.”

  She stood, unable to sit close to him and say what needed to be said. He stood as well. She drew in a deep breath, faced him, and removed the ring he’d given her on their betrothal, an ostentatious sapphire-studded band that had belonged to his grandmother. His brows rose as she held it out to him.

  “What? Do you not like the ring? I can get you another one.” His eyes shifted, and small beads of perspiration popped up on his forehead.

  “No, I do not want another ring.” She stiffened her spine and sucked in a lungful of air. “I wish to break our engagement.”

  His eyes grew wide. “I don’t understand.” Was that a lack of surprise in his voice, a bit of playacting? Had he guessed she’d discovered the truth? Did he know about the note?

  “Let me see if I can say it differently so you do understand.” She tapped her chin. “I do not wish to marry you.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You are overwrought and not making sense, Lady Amy. Perhaps I should have your cook prepare a tisane for you.”

  She shifted her shoulders to release his grip. His hands dropped to his sides.

  “I am never overwrought, and therefore, please accept that I want our betrothal to come to an end. You are free to pursue anyone else you wish. We”—she waved her hand between them—“are no longer contemplating marriage to each other. The wedding is off. I will not be your wife. You will not be my husband. There will be no honeymoon.” She smiled her own fake smile. “Am I making sense now?”

  He tried once more. “I have no idea why you are suddenly casting me aside. You have accepted my offer in good faith.” His face twisted into an ugly mask she had never seen before. To the extent that she was almost afraid of him.

  She stepped back. “You may leave now, Mr. St. Vincent.”

  He stepped forward, causing her to retreat a few more steps. “No. I deserve to know why.”

  “Very well.” She placed the ring he’d refused on the table in front of the settee and crossed the room to her father’s desk to fiddle with the pen in its holder. For some reason, she felt the need to create space between them. “It has come to my attention that you have been importing opium to be sold to individuals who are unfortunate enough to be dependent on it.”

  He looked as if he had been prepared for her statement and answered quickly. “Opium is not illegal. There are opium dens all over London.”

  How she loathed every minute he was in her presence. When he left, she would need to take a bath. “We are not in London, but in Bath. Additionally, your statement is not exactly true. The sale of opium and other drugs is restricted to chemists and pharmacists. You are neither. Therefore, you are breaking the law.”

  When he remained silent, she added information she’d picked up from her contact. “You are selling dangerous drugs to ladies and gentlemen who would never enter an opium den even if there were any such horrible place in our fair city. By doing so, you are helping them destroy their lives.”

  “If they wish to destroy their lives, that is their business.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “No. You have made it your business. It is immoral and ugly. I do not wish to subject myself to being awakened in the middle of the night by an angry father or husband, or possibly even the Bath police, as my husband is dragged from our home in the middle of the night. It would be most annoying and would leave one quite unsettled.”

  “That is not true!”

  “I disagree. I am always unsettled when my sleep is interrupted.”

  He moved toward her, his lips curling. “You might make light of this, but you do understand I can sue you for breach of contract.”

  Well, then.

  She’d had enough of Mr. St. Vincent. “Do not threaten me, sir. My father is fully aware of my decision and has already consulted with his solicitor.” She offered a quick prayer to the heavens for her lie. “If you wish to pursue that avenue, we are well prepared.”

  He snatched the ring from the table and dropped it into his pocket. He straightened his necktie and tugged on the cuffs of his jacket. “Very well. I will leave now. But I must warn you that you will be sorry for this.”

  She nodded, only wishing for him to go, so her shaky knees would no longer have to hold up her body.

  Mr. St. Vincent turned on his heel and strode from the room, closing the door a bit more enthusiastically than she thought necessary. Amy collapsed onto the settee and let out a huge breath.

  Startled at the sound of the door slamming, her dog, Persephone, raced from where she had been enjoying a nap in the corner of the room and jumped onto Amy’s lap. Amy tried to get herself under control as she petted her beloved animal.

  Thank goodness that situation had ended.

  After a few minutes, she placed Persephone on the floor, moved to the sideboard in the room, and poured herself two fingers of brandy. A most inappropriate drink for a lady, but when things were very difficult, she found it soothed her much more than the contents of a vinaigrette, which most ladies carried.

  The door opened and Amy braced herself for Mr. St. Vincent’s return. Her visitor, however, was Aunt Margaret, who frowned at the glass in Amy’s hand. “Was that Mr. St. Vincent I just saw leaving?”

  “Yes.” She took another sip of the liquor.

  “He looked a bit disturbed.” Aunt glided across the room and poured herself a very ladylike glass of sherry. “To what occasion are we drinking?”

  “The end of my betrothal.” Amy wandered across the room and slumped in the blue-and-white-striped chair she always used when she needed comforting. It was in that chair that her mother had sung her to sleep at naptime when she was very young. She raised her glass. “To freedom.”

  “Heavens, Amy. Whatever made you end your betrothal? Does your father know?” Her aunt took the chair across from her, sitting on the very edge, her back as straight as an arrow.

  “No, Papa does not know.” She shifted in the seat. “He practically forced me into this marriage offer, you know.”

  Aunt smiled. “I hardly think anyone could force you into anything.”

  “All right, I concede that point—maybe not force, but he was very persuasive.” At least if one could call insults and dire predictions of her dotage persuasive.

  �
�What happened to make you suddenly decide to break your engagement?”

  Amy swallowed the rest of her brandy and considered the empty glass for a minute, then placed it on the table next to her. She didn’t wish to become sotted only to ease her nerves. “I received a note from someone—he or she did not identify themselves—that Mr. St. Vincent was involved in immoral and unacceptable behavior.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Aunt took a large, and very ladylike, swallow of her sherry. “That sounds ominous. Did they identify this inappropriate behavior?”

  “He is importing opium and selling it to people who are dependent on the drug and have no way to get it from a chemist or a pharmacist, who must abide by the rules.” She shuddered just thinking about all those poor people whose life was a nightmare of addiction. She perked up. That would be a good plot in her next book.

  “Not well done,” Aunt Margaret said.

  “Precisely.”

  “When will you tell your father?” Aunt placed her empty glass on the table in front of her and stood, brushing her skirts.

  “Soon.” ’Twas not something she looked forward to, since Papa would not be pleased. Amy rose as well, thinking of a long, hot bath, followed by tea, then bed. Persephone trotted behind her as they all left the room together.

  Aunt Margaret offered a slight smile. “Good luck with that, my dear.”

  * * *

  Tuesday evening, Amy was comfortably ensconced in her room with a book she’d been reading all week as she awaited the summons that William had arrived with the tome she wished to borrow.

  In the few days since she’d had her scene with Mr. St. Vincent, she had begun to feel much better about her decision. She’d even written to Papa and expected to hear from him shortly.

  Her attention was drawn away at a very inopportune part of the book by a light tap on her bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  Lacey, their parlormaid, entered. “Milady, you have a visitor.”

  Amy checked her timepiece. William was fifteen minutes early. “Very well, tell his lordship I will be down momentarily.”