A Study in Murder Page 6

  “And once you find this man, notify the police of his whereabouts. That might clear this whole thing up quickly.” Papa nodded toward William and turned to Amy before leaving the room with Mr. Nelson-Graves. “Stay out of trouble, daughter. Send a message if the police return with the absurd idea of arresting you.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, his usual departing gesture, except this time he pulled her in for a hug also.

  Amy made her way over to the sofa near the fireplace and sat, petting Persephone as the little dog licked his rear end. Whatever would she do if the police did return to arrest her? She could always climb out a window, but with nowhere to go, that seemed like a foolish idea.

  Her aunt sat next to her and took her hand. “My dear, I believe while this nasty business is going on, you should conduct your life as usual. Keep your social engagements and don’t answer any foolish questions. If rumors begin—which they most certainly will—it is important that you are seen as a victim of a crime against a friend and not a suspect.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Margaret. That is precisely what I will do.” She batted Persephone’s tongue away from her ministrations.

  “Even though the detectives seem to be focused on you, if they had sufficient proof, they would not have walked out of here without you in handcuffs.”

  Although Aunt Margaret meant well, her words flooded Amy’s insides with fear, but also with determination to not stand by while she was under suspicion. She nodded. “Thank you. I am sure they will find the culprit soon.”

  “Very good, niece. Remember how politicians deal with these type of things. Until they are carted off and tossed behind bars yelling and screaming, they always proclaim their innocence, even when the evidence is overwhelming.”

  Wonderful. Now Aunt was comparing her to some unsavory public servant with dirt on his hands and illegally gotten money in his bank account.

  “I am off this evening to a musicale at Mr. Berry’s home.” Aunt Margaret had a very active social life and was liked by many. Amy never stopped wondering why someone as poised, pretty, and amicable as her aunt had never married.

  She often pondered whether there was a broken heart in Aunt Margaret’s history. Then she chastised herself for assuming, like everyone else in the world, that there had to be a reason Aunt Margaret had never married. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to.

  “Do you wish to join me?”

  Amy shook her head. “Thank you, but I believe I will remain at home this evening. I feel the beginnings of a megrim and think an early night is a good idea.”

  Aunt Margaret patted her hand and stood. “If you change your mind, let me know.” With a kiss to the top of Amy’s head, her aunt left the room.

  “This is certainly a mess you find yourself in, Amy.” William regarded her from where he stood in front of the window. “If there is anything I can do to help, please ask.”

  She grinned and walked across the room to stand right in front of him. Persephone growled. Amy backed up. Sometimes the dog could be a bit unsociable. “I plan to solve the murder myself.”

  His brows rose. “Excuse me? I believe I just heard you say you planned to solve the murder yourself.”

  “That would be correct.” She nuzzled the soft fur on her dog. “I intend to find the real killer.”

  William sighed and smiled at her like she was a child suggesting she could fly. “First of all, what do you know about murders, and how will you discover anything the police cannot?”

  Amy smirked and placed Persephone on the floor. The dog ran in circles around William’s feet several times, barking wildly, stopped, licked her bottom, then walked off, her chin in the air. “If I tell you something, you must promise to never repeat the information. Do you agree?”

  William raised one eyebrow and leaned against the windowsill, his arms crossed. The sun coming through the glass behind him cast a shadow over his face. She wanted to see his expression when she told him. “Let’s sit over there”—she waved her arm—“on the sofa.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Lead the way, my lady.”

  Once they were settled side by side on the sofa, she said, “I am very familiar with police activity, my lord.” She lowered her voice, even though the room contained only her and William.

  “Indeed? All the reading you’ve done? Is that why you wanted to borrow my book?”

  “Noooo.” She dragged the word out and picked the dog hairs from her skirt. “I am familiar with killers because I write about murders all the time. I am the mystery writer E. D. Burton.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then grinned. “And I am Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle, so we make a fine team.”

  She shook her head. “I am not lying, William. I am the mystery writer E. D. Burton.”

  Almost a full minute of silence passed as William stared at her before he offered a slight, somewhat unsure-of-himself smile. “Well done, Amy. You almost had me believing that.”

  “It’s true.”

  He shook his head. “E. D. Burton is a very talented and popular mystery writer.”

  Amy dipped her head. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “Although this is all quite amusing, I must state again that, surely, you jest. E. D. Burton is most definitely a man. A very talented man. No woman could write such things.”

  While she enjoyed his praise of her books, it was a tad insulting that he could not stretch his imagination far enough to believe a woman could write mysteries. At least this woman, anyway. In fact, she was becoming more than a bit annoyed. If he had told her he was truly Arthur Conan Doyle, she would not have interrogated him in such a manner. It stung that men had such an opinion of women.

  “No, I do not jest, and yes, a woman could write such things. Because I do.”

  She reached down and scooped up Persephone, who had graced them with her presence once again. She settled comfortably on Amy’s lap and then proceeded to stare up at William.

  “Let me understand this. You are E. D. Burton, whose books we’ve read and discussed at the Mystery Book Club.”

  She nodded, unable to keep the grin from her face at his discombobulation.

  William jumped up and ran his fingers through his hair, turning in a circle. He pinched the bridge of his nose, stopped, and looked at her, his hands on his hips. “E. D. Burton?”

  There was really no need to once again claim her alternate identity. Honestly, the man was becoming almost boorish in his refusal to believe her. She just sat and stared at him.

  “Why?” He almost choked on the word. “Why would a sweet young woman such as yourself write horror stories?”

  He thought she was sweet? How very nice. She almost forgave him for his stubbornness.

  Almost.

  “Do you wish to know why I write them, or why it has been a secret? And why am I telling you this now?”

  “Yes.” He waved his hand around as if directing an orchestra. “All of the above.”

  She gave herself a minute to consider. She’d never really thought too much about her desire to tell stories, except that ever since she’d been a young girl she’d always seemed to have a story in her head. For as odd as that sounded.

  “I write them because I can. And I must. That is the only explanation I can give you, the only one that makes sense. To me, at least. When I began writing seriously, Papa was appalled. I made the mistake of letting him read my first manuscript, and he was a bit overwhelmed by some of the details in the murder scenes.”

  “Indeed. I remember wondering if the club should even read a couple of those books because of the tender sensibilities of the ladies.”

  “I have no tender sensibilities.”

  “Clearly.”

  Not sure if she’d just been insulted, she continued. “Anyway, when I told him I had received a contract for the book, he ordered—which didn’t work too well with me—then asked nicely if I would use a pseudonym.”

  “And E. D. Burton was born?”

  She grinned. “Yes.”

>   “I am afraid that I don’t know whether I am also appalled or impressed.”

  “Impressed would be nice.”

  He stared off into the distance at the portraits of her dead and unknown ancestors gracing the west wall of the drawing room. The ones Papa couldn’t abide looking at in his London townhouse library so had sent here.

  She could see the emotions playing over William’s face. Stubborn disbelief, denial, then finally acceptance. Apparently, something she’d said had convinced him. “Aside from that—I now bow to your superior knowledge in solving murders—you are the one under suspicion for Mr. St. Vincent’s murder. What do you intend to do?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him. Sometimes it appeared the man was a dunderhead. “To find the true killer.” She hopped up, dumping the dog to the floor once again. “You were here for the meeting just now. You know as well as I do that Detective Carson and his cohort have already decided I am the murderer and they won’t spend a great deal of time looking for the true culprit. Instead, they will investigate me and try to build a case on the fact that St. Vincent had been my betrothed. I broke the engagement, and now he is dead. If we don’t do something ourselves, I could end up swinging from the end of a rope.” She gripped her neck and blanched.

  “We? When did ‘I will solve the murder’ become we?”

  She raised her chin, adopting her best lofty demeanor. “If you have no regard for my future well-being, will you at least consider that if I am charged with this crime, the true killer would go free? Possibly to murder again.”

  “Yes. There is that.”

  “Precisely. I shall begin with the clue the detective threw out as he was leaving. He said they had not caught up with Mr. Albright. I can find out where he keeps his rooms. If he’s left Bath in a hurry, he might not have had time to take everything with him. We can search his rooms and look for clues.”

  William groaned. “Search his rooms? Don’t you think the police have already done that?”

  “First of all, I am not entirely sure they will do that. As I said, to my way of thinking, they will spend the bulk of their time trying to prove me the killer. The murder only happened yesterday, and they have been so focused on me, searching Mr. Albright’s rooms might not be a priority. Also, if he is not there to let them in, they cannot officially search his rooms without cause. The fact that he served time for murder and is employed here doesn’t denote sufficient cause to believe he murdered Mr. St. Vincent. We might very well find our own clues before they do.”

  “We? There is that frightening word again.”

  She raised her chin. “Will you help me or not?”

  “The devil take it. If I don’t help you, I would never get another full night’s sleep just imagining all the trouble you will get yourself into on your own.”

  She sat very still as he weighed the situation. The William she knew from the book club was a very shrewd and calculating man. He didn’t jump into things and always examined everything from all angles before he made a decision. After a few minutes, he said, “Very well. I will assist you. However, you are to take no risks on your own.”

  She grinned at him. “Of course not!”

  “E. D. Burton?”

  Amy rolled her eyes.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Amy!” The sound of Eloise’s high-pitched voice, which she generally made use of when she was excited, echoed throughout the house. Grinning at her friend’s less-than-ladylike entry, Amy left the drawing room, where she had been attempting to lose herself in a book, and met Eloise as she hurried past a very surprised Lacey, who had apparently answered the door.

  Eloise threw herself into Amy’s arms and hugged her. “Why did you not summon me this morning? I just heard from one of Father’s employees that a man was murdered here, in your house, yesterday.” All her words were rushed together, in a very typical Eloise manner.

  “Come, let’s sit down.” Amy took her friend by the arm and they walked to the settee.

  Eloise took both of Amy’s hands and stared at her. “Well?”

  Amy took a deep breath. “Actually, the murder victim was Mr. St. Vincent.”

  Eloise drew back, her eyes wide. “Your fiancé?”

  “Ex-fiancé.”

  After several moments of silence, Eloise said, “When did he become your ex-fiancé?”

  “There is so much I haven’t had the chance to tell you.”

  “So it seems. You never said a word about it Thursday at the book club meeting, nor Saturday when we met for lunch.”

  Amy picked up the hurt in Eloise’s voice. As best friends, nothing so important should happen between them that the other didn’t know about immediately. She’d been so tied in knots since the arrival of the note about St. Vincent’s activities that she hadn’t discussed the situation with anyone. Not even Aunt Margaret, with whom she shared just about everything.

  “I apologize, Eloise. The whole thing was so very strange.”

  Eloise tapped her foot. “I’m waiting.”

  Amy stood and wandered the room, gathering her thoughts. Eloise twisted to watch her as she roamed the area. “I received a note—unsigned—stating that Mr. St Vincent was involved in the opium trade.”

  Eloise joined her as Amy reached the window and leaned against the sill.

  “That’s not good.”

  “No,” Amy agreed.

  “I can see why you would break your engagement, but surely it wasn’t worth killing him over?”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Please. Must you be so dramatic? He returned a few days later—yesterday, in fact—for what purpose I don’t know, because he was dead before I saw him.”

  Eloise studied her in stunned silence. “Tea. I need tea.” She walked to the bell pull and tugged. “Once we have tea, you must start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

  * * *

  Late that evening Amy sat at the desk in her office next to her bedchamber, where she scribbled away, three lamps arranged in a semicircle surrounding her pad of paper to provide enough light. She usually did not write at night and preferred the light of day to flood her office and keep her thoughts flowing.

  But to engage her mind while she waited for William to arrive to embark on their assignation, she continued working on her current novel. However, being the main suspect in a murder herself took some of the fun out of her writing. It brought to mind Mr. Tolstoy’s book War and Peace.

  One of the characters, whose name she could never remember since they had so many different variations of their names, played at the game of war. He had maps and strategies and movements during the Napoleonic wars. It had encompassed his entire world for weeks. Then he received an envelope with his name on it, ordering him to do his duty to his country. He promptly lost all interest in the pretend war. Now it had become real for him.

  Her typewriter sat alongside her, but she only used it when she was certain which words she wanted on the paper. Once a letter or word was typed onto the paper, it was too difficult to remove it. No crossing out words like she did when handwriting her books.

  The method she employed was to write the entire book by hand, then transfer it to her typewriter one chapter at a time when she was satisfied. Her publisher had bought the machine for her from a newspaper supplier, and she was still struggling to learn the contraption.

  She tapped her fountain pen against her lips, considering what to write next. She was at the part where the murderer had kidnapped the daughter of her main character. Not knowing much about children, she was finding it hard to put on paper how a small child would behave if snatched away from her mother.

  She sighed and threw down her pen, wincing as ink splattered the wall next to her desk. She rubbed her eyes, unable to concentrate.

  “Lord Wethington has called.” Lacey tapped lightly on the door.

  “Thank you, Lacey. I will be right down.” She quickly added, “The drawing room, please.”

  She didn’t think she could ever enter the library
again. She shuddered just thinking about the room where she’d found a dead St. Vincent staring up at her.

  With a quick glance in the mirror over her dressing table, she patted the sides of her head, smoothing her hair, and left the room.

  “I did not think you meant it when you said you would clothe yourself like a man.” William’s brows rose as he regarded Amy in her attire as she entered the drawing room. She glanced down at the trousers hugging her legs, suspenders, shirt, vest, and jacket barely buttoned over her generous bosom.

  “We debated this nigh on an hour already. If we are to break into Mr. Albright’s rooms, wearing trousers is the best option. We might have to climb through a window.”

  William continued to study her, his concern clearly written on this face. “I know we’ve spoken of this already, but I must reiterate that if you are seen by anyone who knows you, out late at night, without a chaperone, dressed in trousers, your reputation would be ruined.”

  She waved him off. “My reputation would hardly hold up if I am in prison or swinging from a rope.” She gulped and pushed that picture from her mind. “That is precisely why no one will recognize me. A young woman would not be out and about at night, unchaperoned, and dressed like this. Besides, due to my age, I am on the borderline with the necessity of a chaperone, anyway. When one is absolutely necessary, Aunt Margaret fills in.”

  “Does she know about this?”

  Amy looked aghast. “Aunt Margaret? Of course not!”

  William pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m still not convinced that stealing into a man’s rooms at night is the best occupation for a young, gently reared woman. I should be doing this myself.”

  Amy quelled the desire to stomp her foot like a child. “Please stop. I write murder mysteries, remember? In my research, I have done a great many things that would cause most young ladies of my station to swoon.”

  “That is enough.” He held up his hand. “Those are things I do not wish to be privy to, I assure you.” He opened the door and waved her through. “I believe your father needs to take you in hand.”