A Study in Murder Page 9

  “No.” Her aunt placed her teacup on the table next to her, barely finding room for it with all the ornaments and picture frames there. “I promised Lady Marlberry I would call.”

  “Oh, do give the lovely lady my regards,” Mrs. Morton gushed.

  “I will.”

  When good-byes and the necessary kisses at the air alongside cheeks were finally over and done with, Amy, Eloise, and Aunt Margaret left the house. Fresh air had never smelled so good. Of course, the misty air wasn’t exactly fresh, but any air was better than the poisonous variety she’d been breathing for the past half hour.

  “You did quite well,” Aunt Margaret said as they entered the carriage.

  Eloise settled alongside her, across from Aunt Margaret. “They are a bunch of blabbering, gossipy women.” She patted Amy’s hand. “You aunt is correct. You did quite well.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had anticipated. But at least I have made an appearance in public, so hopefully some of the more outlandish gossip will cease.”

  The carriage started forward, and Aunt Margaret grinned at her. “Not at all, my dear. They will feast on this until long after Mr. St. Vincent’s murderer is caught and hanged.”

  “Which, of course, won’t be you,” Eloise quickly pointed out.

  CHAPTER 9

  Amy had always looked forward to her Mystery Book Club meetings. The best times, of course, had been when they’d been reading one of her books—and no one knew the author was in the room. It had been hard sometimes when one of the members would go on about how certain they were that this or that was what the author meant when Amy knew them to be completely wrong.

  She’d giggled through some explanations of a murder that were incorrect and huffed a bit when one of the members offered a criticism of her writing. For the most part, though, her fellow book club members praised her books.

  Tonight, however, she was filled with trepidation at the prospect of being the center of attention, not for her writing but because of Mr. St. Vincent’s murder. There could be nothing more fascinating for a group of mystery book fans than to dissect an actual murder of a person who, while not actually from their group, nevertheless had a close relationship to one of its members. And had been found dead in her house.

  After the uncomfortable call she had made that afternoon, Amy reminded herself that she could handle whatever came her way. Once the initial condolences and other nonsense were out of the way, she might hear a few opinions from these well-informed members on who may have wished to see Mr. St. Vincent dead.

  With her head held high, Amy passed through the store, a sense of calm coming over her upon seeing all the books before her. She loved books, had always loved books, and could not have been happier with her budding career as an author.

  She entered the back room of the establishment, a fixed smile on her face, prepared for the deluge of questions. She breathed a sigh of relief when the first person she spotted was William. He immediately broke from the group he was speaking with to greet her. “Good evening, Lady Amy.”

  “Good evening to you as well, Lord Wethington.”

  He took her by the hand, giving it a slight squeeze as he led her to the group he’d just left. Mr. Colbert, Mr. Davidson, Lord Temple, and Miss Sterling immediately viewed her with sympathy. “I am so sorry for your loss, Lady Amy,” Miss Sterling said.

  Botheration. How very annoying this was. “Thank you, Miss Sterling. I appreciate your words; however, Mr. St. Vincent and I had parted ways before his … death.”

  “Indeed?” She looked to the others in the group, a smirk on her face. “How very odd that he was murdered after you—”

  “Mr. Davidson, what sort of a return did you find with that investment you told me about a month or so ago?” William jumped right in, and she blessed him for his kindheartedness. Miss Sterling, however, looked miffed, and Amy knew that despite William’s intervention, the questioning about St. Vincent had certainly not ended.

  Eloise arrived on time for once and joined the small group. She also gave Amy’s hand a slight squeeze and murmured, “Has it been bad?”

  Amy shook her head no as Mr. Davidson rambled on for a few minutes about his investment. She avoided looking at Miss Sterling, afraid the woman would ask more questions.

  “Lady Amy.” Amy turned as Lady Carlisle hurried toward her. “I’m so glad you decided to join us tonight instead of wallowing in grief at home.”

  Eloise moaned as Amy gritted her teeth. Wallowing in grief, indeed. “Good evening, Lady Carlisle. Thank you for your kind words”—please, God, forgive me for that lie—“but since Mr. St. Vincent and I were no longer betrothed, while I am regretful for his death, I don’t consider myself grieving.”

  Lady Carlisle patted her hand and leaned in toward her, then gripped her arm as if to steady herself.

  “Are you unwell, my lady?”

  She shifted and righted herself. “No. I am quite well, thank you. I am just concerned that all this nastiness would wear you down. But I know you are a very strong woman.” She patted her hand again just as Mr. Colbert called the meeting to order.

  Eloise and Amy took seats on the sofa as everyone settled in. Eloise leaned toward her as she adjusted her skirts. “Maybe there won’t be any more questions.”

  “I’m not so sure. With all the looks being cast in my direction, I’m afraid I will be the center of attention.” She sighed. “Why did he have to get murdered in my house?”

  “Yes,” Eloise said, “Most inconvenient.” She paused, then leaned in farther. “Have you considered yet why he called on you?”

  “I have no idea. I made my position clear when I broke the engagement. I also wonder if his reason for being there had anything to do with his death.”

  “And,” Eloise whispered, “how did he come to be murdered in your garden? Was he followed to your house?” Amy shrugged. So many questions with so few answers were giving her a fine headache. Best to suffer through the meeting and speak with William to see if he had any new ideas when it was over.

  The group quieted and looked at Mr. Colbert, the group leader, with expectation. William raised his hand. “May I speak, Mr. Colbert?”

  “Of course, Lord Wethington.”

  William stood and turned to address the group. “As lovers of mystery novels, we are more interested than most in the unexpected death of one of our townsmen. Like the rest of you, I am also aware that one of our members—Lady Amy—had a previous connection to Mr. St. Vincent.”

  He glanced at her and took a deep breath. “Since I was at her home to deliver a book she had asked to borrow when Mr. St. Vincent’s body was discovered, and during the subsequent interviews by the police, I can say with confidence that the detectives assigned to the matter are doing everything they can to uncover the person who perpetrated this despicable crime. I believe I speak for Lady Amy when I ask all of you to put aside this matter and go on with our book discussion as usual.”

  “Bravo, Lord Wethington,” Eloise mumbled.

  Amy’s eyes filled with tears at William’s graciousness. She scanned the somewhat disgruntled faces of a few members who had undoubtedly planned to question her once the meeting ended. When William sat, she mouthed, “Thank you.”

  He gave her a slight wink.

  The meeting went forward as usual after William’s speech. Truth be known, her mind wasn’t truly focused on the discussion of A Study in Scarlet, which continued from the prior meeting. The book club’s usual method was to discuss a book until everyone was satisfied that their opinion had been heard. Then they picked a new book to read and discuss. Some books took two or more weeks; some discussions were wrapped up in one meeting.

  She was anxious for the meeting to end so she could tell William what she’d learned about Miss Hemphill that afternoon. She’d added her to her list of suspects, along with Mr. Albright. If William had gathered information while visiting his clubs, they might even have someone else to consider.

  * *
*

  “Lady Amy, a word, please?” William walked up behind her as Mrs. Miles tried her best to drag out information about Amy’s broken engagement. For goodness’ sake, the woman was quite persistent. Her son, Mr. Richard Miles, looked, if anything, bored.

  Amy turned. “Yes, Lord Wethington?” Thank goodness he had interrupted. She was afraid she would have said something disagreeable to Mrs. Miles if her interrogation had gone on any longer.

  “There is a matter of importance I must discuss with you.”’

  “Oh, of course, my lord.” She turned to Mrs. Miles with what she hoped was a regretful expression. “I am so sorry to cut our visit short, Mrs. Miles, but I look forward to seeing you next week.”

  “Oh, my dear. Perhaps we can take tea sometime soon.” The woman was like a rabid dog with a meaty bone in its jaws.

  “Mother, it appears Lady Amy does not wish to continue this discussion. I believe you have asked just about any question possible about her engagement, the unengagement, the book she borrowed from his lordship, Mr. St. Vincent’s visit, the police interview, and how she is holding up. I also do not believe her ladyship would be interested in visiting for tea to continue the discussion.” Mr. Miles looked fondly at his mother, but his tone was one of annoyance.

  “Do you think so, Richard?”

  “I do.” He took her by the arm and nodded to Amy and William. “Good evening.” He moved his mother toward the door, and suddenly Mrs. Miles turned into a bumbling old woman who depended on her son for guidance. The quick change in her demeanor was startling. Amy had never paid much attention to the relationship between mother and son and had assumed Mr. Miles attended the meetings only to escort his mother. He rarely offered opinions during the discussions, and Amy had heard him mention to another member one time that he seldom read the books being discussed.

  She shrugged and turned to William. “It would probably be a good idea for us to meet somewhere tomorrow. I find, after the deluge of questions and innuendos I dealt with tonight, I look forward to a warm cup of tea, a hot bath, and my bed.” That seemed to be her list of desires quite a bit these days.

  He cleared his throat. “I agree. I shall escort you to your carriage and we can discuss a time.”

  They bade farewell to those who had remained behind to enjoy the late supper she and William would normally have attended as well. Eloise had left as soon as the meeting ended, offering her apologies for abandoning Amy. The poor girl did look unwell and feared she had caught a chill.

  Rain had begun to fall while they were inside, and the dampness had her shivering. Hopefully, she wouldn’t catch a chill herself. She needed to be healthy to solve the murder.

  William looked up at the sky, then noticed her trembling. “Wait inside the store, and I will summon your carriage.”

  She smiled. Ever the gentleman.

  It took only about ten minutes for him to return, carrying an umbrella he must have taken from his own carriage, which was now behind hers. She linked her arm in his, and they huddled under the umbrella to avoid the rain that had suddenly turned into a downpour.

  He helped her into the carriage, holding the umbrella over his head. “What time would suit you tomorrow?”

  “Ten o’clock? Perhaps you can call for me and we can take a stroll in the Pump Room at the Baths.” She looked at the wind whipping against the carriage and the water dripping from the umbrella and smiled. “If the weather has improved.”

  “I assume you do not wish to speak in your house?”

  Amy nodded. “Yes. I prefer not to, since Mr. St. Vincent was killed in my garden. I do have to be careful. Even though I trust all my employees, one can never be too careful.”

  “A wise decision. If we are unable to venture out to the Baths tomorrow, I will await your missive with a new time and day.” With those words, he backed up, closed the door, and slapped the side of her carriage as a signal for the driver to begin the journey home.

  * * *

  Amy poured over her notes the following day as she waited for William to arrive for their trip to the Baths. The sun had awakened her earlier, making their trip possible. The Pump Room could be quite crowded this time of year, and if such was the case today, they could stroll the outside of the building, along the path surrounding the Roman Baths. They could even talk quietly at the Abbey nearby if they found no other private place.

  Earlier, as she gazed out the window while getting ready for the day, she had been amazed at how clean and fresh everything appeared after a rainstorm. As far as she could see from her room, all the buildings looked scrubbed clean, the grass had a deeper green color, and new buds had sprouted almost overnight on the trees, which had just recently shaken off the shroud of winter.

  Despite the trouble that hounded her, she couldn’t help but feel hopeful with all the signs of spring and new beginning surrounding her. This was the time of year she generally took a break from writing to just enjoy the warmer weather and allow the cobwebs in her brain to clear.

  This year there would be no respite while she investigated a murder. Not a fanciful one for a book this time, but a real one that had her front and center as the main suspect. Her current novel was almost finished and would soon be sent off to her editor. She was currently transcribing the manuscript from her written version to the typewriter.

  The previous evening she’d soaked in the bath, dreaming of the long vacation she would take when this matter was cleared up. Somewhere exotic. Perhaps the Orient. Or maybe even one of the islands in the South Pacific that were rumored to have naked people inhabiting them. As she lazily dripped water over her leg from the flannel, she’d wondered if she would be daring enough to go naked were she to travel there. What it would feel like to have the sun and soft wind on her bared body.

  “Milady, your young man has arrived.” Lacey interrupted her unseemly thoughts. The maid regarded her. “Are you unwell? You are a bit flushed.”

  Amy jumped up, feeling as guilty as a young girl facing Cook with two stolen biscuits behind her back. “Yes. I am fine.” She waved her hand, wishing—nay, praying—the redness in her cheeks would fade before she had to face William. “Please tell Lord Wethington I will be down directly.” As Lacey turned to leave the room, Amy added, “And he is not my young man.”

  She found William in the drawing room, flipping through a book. “Good morning.”

  He looked up, a bright smile covering his lips, his eyes taking her in with pleasure. “Are you feeling unwell, Amy?” He frowned and closed the book as he walked toward her.

  “No,” she snapped. She raised her chin. “Are we ready?”

  He blinked twice at her abruptness. “Yes. Of course. Shall we go?”

  “I apologize, William. I should not have snapped at you. ’Tis a small matter that had me a bit disconcerted, but all is well now.”

  “Good.”

  She sailed past him out of the drawing room, not waiting for his escort as she made her way from the front door to his carriage. She waited, not too patiently, until he caught up to her. “My goodness, you are in a hurry today.”

  Thankful that she seemed to have recovered her normal demeanor, she nodded. “Yes, I have interesting things to tell you.”

  He joined her in the carriage and tapped on the ceiling to alert the driver. “For privacy, we could just ride around the city and share information and make notes.”

  Amy shook her head. “No. Even though I am not of an age to need a companion, I don’t want to do anything that would be reported back to Papa and have him insist on hiring someone to trail me like some barely-out-of-the-schoolroom debutante.”

  “Very well. ’Tis such a pleasant day, a stroll around the Baths area will be lovely.”

  “What do you have there?” She gestured toward the tome he’d been flipping through when she joined him in the drawing room.

  He grinned and held it up for her to view. “It’s the book that brought me to your house the night St. Vincent was murdered.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, wonderful. How did you get it?”

  “The police sent word that they were finished with your library and had brought the book to the station since they knew it belonged to me. I had just retrieved it before I arrived at your house.”

  William moved to her side of the carriage and opened the book to point out a few things. They talked a bit about the contents on the short ride from Amy’s townhouse to the center of the city, where the Roman Baths and Bath Abbey were the main focus of tourists.

  She had taken the baths herself a few times, but most of the regular visitors were Londoners who came for the healing waters and to enjoy a smaller Season of ton activities during the summer.

  The Baths had been built by the Romans as a place for public bathing. In 60 AD when it was first built, it had been known as Aquae Sulis, Latin for the waters of Sulis. The structure itself was very Romanesque, with pillars surrounding a large pool in the center. More recently, carvings of Roman emperors and the governors of Roman Britain had been placed on the terrace that overlooked the Great Bath.

  She and William left the book in the carriage, and arm in arm they strolled around the Roman Bath part of the area, then made their way to the Pump Room. It was a beautiful space, with high windows allowing a tremendous amount of light into the room. They got into the line to receive a glass of the horrible-tasting water and then moved to the square in front of Bath Abbey, where they settled on a bench, just two more people in the throngs that traveled to the city from other places.

  Amy turned to him and withdrew her notes from her reticule. “I visited Mrs. Morton for afternoon tea yesterday with Eloise and Aunt Margaret, and naturally I was the center of attention and many questions were tossed in my direction.”

  “I admire your bravery, Amy. I would much rather face pistols at dawn then confront a roomful of curious, gossiping women.”

  “Aunt Margaret thought it would be beneficial for me to be seen so the rumor would not start that I was under arrest, awaiting execution for St. Vincent’s death.” She shuddered at the thought, then continued. “However, one thing I did discover is that Miss Hemphill—I’m not sure if you know her?”