by Amanda Quick
Baxter gazed at her, bemused. “Your housekeeper?”
“Mrs. Witty is very helpful when it comes to making inquiries among servants and staff. Such people often know more about their employers than anyone else. It has all worked very well until now.” Charlotte got to her feet and went to stand at the window. She contemplated the small garden. “But something dreadful has happened.”
“Something that makes you think that you need a bodyguard as well as a new man-of-affairs?” Baxter asked bluntly.
“Yes. Until recently, my clients have all been women of a certain station in life. Respectable but not wealthy. Governesses, spinsters, and widows from the gentry. But two months ago, I acquired a new client, one who moved in Polite Circles. I was extremely excited because it meant that I might be able to extend my business to a wealthier clientele.”
“Bloody hell,” Baxter said very softly.
She pretended not to have heard him. There was no turning back now. She had already said too much. She must press on and hope for the best. “Her name was Mrs. Drusilla Heskett. I conducted the inquiries she requested and gave her my report. She paid me and I assumed that was the end of the matter. I hoped she would recommend me to some of her friends.”
“What happened?”
“Last week she was found murdered in her own bedchamber. Shot dead by a housebreaker, the authorities said. All of her servants had been dismissed for the evening. I have some cause to believe that the person who killed her was one of the men whom I had investigated on her behalf.”
“Good God.”
She turned to face him. “I must learn the truth, sir.”
“Why? What business is it of yours?”
“Don’t you see? If the man who murdered her was one of those whom I had investigated and perhaps recommended as honest and sincere, then, in a sense, I bear part of the responsibility for her murder. I must determine the truth of the situation.”
“Just what is it that makes you think the killer was one of her suitors?” Baxter asked swiftly.
“I received a note from Mrs. Heskett on the very day of her death. In it she stated that she had been nearly run down twice in recent days, once on the street and once in a park. In both instances, the vehicle was a black phaeton. She feared that the incidents were not mere accidents, but actual attempts on her life.”
“Bloody hell.”
“She did not see the driver’s face but she came to the logical conclusion that one of her rejected suitors was so enraged by her refusal to wed, he was trying to murder her. The next morning I learned of her death. Hardly a coincidence, sir. I must discover the truth.”
“And you expect me to assist you in this crazed quest?”
“Yes, I most certainly do.” She was beginning to grow annoyed. “You agreed to accept the post and I am paying you an excellent salary, sir. I expect you to fulfill your duties as my man-of-affairs and as a bodyguard. It all seems quite simple and straightforward to me.”
“About as simple and straightforward as the phlogiston theory of combustion,” Baxter retorted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, Miss Arkendale. I merely made a passing reference to that old nonsense the Germans came up with concerning the substance phlogiston. The theory was said to explain the combustion of materials. It relates to chemistry. I doubt that you are familiar with it.”
She raised her brows. “On the contrary, Mr. St. Ives, I am well aware that a few years ago Lavoisier conducted several exceedingly clever experiments that disproved the old theory of phlogiston.”
It took Baxter a moment to digest that. “You have an interest in chemistry, Miss Arkendale?”
“No.” She made a face. “But I was required to read Mr. Basil Valentine’s Conversations on Chemistry in the schoolroom, just as is virtually every other young person in England. Some of the information managed to stick in my brain.”
“I see.” Baxter’s gaze was inscrutable. “I take it you found Valentine’s book exceedingly dull?”
“Chemistry is not a favorite subject of mine.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I have other interests.”
“I can well believe that.”
“Perhaps we should return to the subject of Mrs. Heskett’s murder,” Charlotte said grimly.
“Indeed. Tell me, Miss Arkendale, just how do you propose to go about finding the killer?”
“Mrs. Heskett rejected four men during the past month. One, a Mr. Charles Dill, died of a heart seizure two weeks ago, so he can be discounted as a suspect. The other three are Lords Lennox, Randeleigh, and Esly. I intend to interview all of them. But first we must start with an examination of the scene of the crime.”
Baxter blinked owlishly. “An examination?”
“I intend to search Drusilla Heskett’s town house for clues.”
“You intend to do what?”
“Really, Mr. St. Ives, you must try to pay closer attention. You cannot expect me to repeat everything. I wish to search the premises of Mrs. Heskett’s town house. I have ascertained that the place is vacant. You will accompany me and make yourself useful.”
Baxter gazed at her as if she were a creature from some supernatural realm. “Bloody hell.”
Three
She had read Conversations on Chemistry and was familiar with the discredited theory of phlogiston. She could drop Lavoisier’s name into casual conversation. There were a number of excellent books in her study on a variety of other subjects that she presumably had read as well. What of it? Baxter thought. The evidence of an intellectual bent did not prove that she was not a blackmailer and a murderess.
Any number of well-educated upper-class villains could spout scientific facts, he reminded himself. A good education did not indicate a pure heart and an honest soul. Morgan Judd, for example, had been one of the most intelligent, well-read men he had ever met.
Baxter surveyed the fog-shrouded street with a sense of foreboding. The neighborhood was quiet and sedate. Eminently respectable. There were no great mansions but the houses obviously belonged to those possessed of comfortable incomes.
He still could not believe that he had allowed himself to be dragged out on such a miserable night to search for clues relating to a case of murder.
Charlotte was either quite sincere or quite mad, or she was using him to assist her and protect her person while she advanced her own schemes. A lady involved in blackmail and murder would certainly have need of a man-of-affairs-cum-bodyguard.
Baxter stifled a sigh. He really was not cut out for this sort of thing. Life was so much simpler, so much more logical and orderly back in his laboratory.
“We are fortunate to have the fog tonight, are we not, Mr. St. Ives?” Charlotte’s voice was muffled by the hood of her cloak and a thick, woolen scarf. “It will serve to conceal our presence in this neighborhood. Even if someone were to notice us, he would not be able to see us clearly enough to make out our identities.”
Baxter was annoyed by her optimistic spirits. He glanced at her as she stood beside him in front of the darkened Heskett house. Her cloak rendered her anonymous. He knew himself to be equally well covered. He had turned up the wide collar of his greatcoat and pulled down the brim of his hat to ensure that his features were drenched in dense shadows.
The weak gas lights that had recently been installed in this part of town could not penetrate far into the fog. So long as he and Charlotte stayed out of the short range of the lamplight, they would be reasonably safe from detection. Nevertheless, Baxter thought it best to make one more stab at discouraging his new employer from her risky activities.
“You would do well to have some concerns on the subject, Miss Arkendale. As I have already advised you, this little adventure of yours is fraught with danger. It is not too late to turn back. The carriage I hired is waiting just a short distance away in the park.”
“Not another word, if you please, St. Ives,” she said crisply. “You have been attempting to dissuade me from this project ever since we firs
t discussed it. It grows wearying. I did not employ you to be the voice of gloom.”
“I feel an obligation to advise you.”
“I do not employ you for advice, either, sir. Enough. We don’t have time for any more of your warnings and dire predictions. The time has come to get on with it.”
“As you say, Miss Arkendale.”
He watched as she unfastened the low iron gate to the side of the main entrance and started down the stone steps that led to the kitchen.
The front area of the town house, designed to provide access for servants and tradesmen, was situated below street level. Tendrils of fog swirled out of the black pit at the bottom of the steps. Charlotte’s cloaked figure wafted, ghostlike, down into the stygian darkness before Baxter could think of any more warnings or arguments.
He moved swiftly to overtake Charlotte. He caught up with her as she came to a halt in the shadows near the kitchen door.
“Allow me, Miss Arkendale.”
“Very well, sir, but I pray you will not delay us any further.”
“I would not dream of it. Stand back.”
“Whatever for, sir?”
“Miss Arkendale, it is my turn to warn you not to delay us with idle questions. Now that we are committed to this piece of idiocy, speed is of the essence.”
“Of course, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte’s shoes scraped lightly on the stone as she stepped back. “Please proceed.”
Baxter could not see a thing in the thick darkness there below the street. He needed some light but he dared not use the lantern until they were inside the house.
He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew one of three small glass vials he had stored there. He snapped the vial in half. There was a flash of bright, intense light. He used his body to shield the glow. The glare revealed the kitchen door and its lock.
Charlotte gave a startled exclamation. “What in heaven’s name is that, Mr. St. Ives?”
“I have devoted some time recently to working on a new method of producing instantaneous lights.” Baxter fished a set of steel needles out of his pocket. “I am attempting to develop one that will last for more than a few seconds.”
“I see.” Charlotte’s soft voice was imbued with admiration. “How very clever of you, sir. Where did you get those little tools?”
“We men-of-affairs must acquire a variety of skills in order to stay employable.” He had learned to use the lock picks before the venture to Italy, knowing full well that he would be obliged to get through several locked doors in Morgan Judd’s castle.
The light was already fading. Baxter selected a needle and slid it into the lock.
He closed his eyes and applied the lock pick gently. There was a faint click. The lock gave just as the last of the flaring light created by his new phosphorous compound sputtered out of existence.
“Excellent work, Mr. St. Ives.”
“It depends entirely on one’s point of view.” Baxter pushed open the door and moved cautiously into the kitchen. “The new owner of this house, for example, may not be so happily impressed. In fact, he might well have a serious objection to this little act of housebreaking. I certainly would if I were in his shoes.”
“I told you, I made inquiries. The house is empty and likely to remain so until Mrs. Heskett’s heir arrives to deal with the estate. By all accounts he is a distant relative who lives somewhere in Scotland and is quite infirm. No one expects him anytime soon.”
“What of the servants?”
“They all left shortly after the murder. There was no one around to pay their wages. We have the place to ourselves.”
“As you are determined to go through with this business of searching for clues, we had best move quickly.” Baxter closed the kitchen door and lit the lantern. “I instructed the coachman to come in search of us if we did not reappear in the park within half an hour’s time.”
“Half an hour?” Charlotte’s disapproving frown was plainly revealed by the dim, golden glow of the lantern. “I do not know if that will be long enough to go through this entire house.”
Baxter glanced quickly around the empty kitchen. “The sooner we’re finished, the better.”
“Need I remind you, sir, that you are not the one in charge of this affair? You are employed by me and I will give the instructions.”
Baxter brushed past her into the hall. He opened another door and saw an empty sitting room that had no doubt been the province of the housekeeper. “We may as well start with the bedchambers upstairs and work our way back down through the house.”
“Now see here, Mr. St. Ives—”
“Don’t dawdle, Miss Arkendale.” Baxter took the stairs two at a time. “The first rule of housebreaking is to be quick and efficient. Now, then, as I have the lantern, I propose that we work together.”
“Wait for me.” Charlotte’s footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs. “Really, sir, when this is finished, you and I are going to have a serious discussion regarding the precise nature of your duties.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Arkendale.” He turned the corner on the landing and started up the next flight of stairs. “It might save some time if you were to tell me just what we are looking for here tonight.”
“I only wish I knew.” She sounded slightly breathless as she hurried to catch up with him. “I’m hoping something useful will come to light.”
“I was afraid of that.” He paused at the top of the stairs and gazed down the length of the darkened corridor. “The bedchambers, I believe. Shall we start at the end of the hall?”
Charlotte came to a halt beside him and peered into the shadows. “That sounds logical.”
“I am nothing if not logical, Miss Arkendale.”
“Nor am I, Mr. St. Ives.” She lifted her chin and led the way to the door at the end of the corridor.
Baxter followed her into the first bedchamber and set the lantern down on a table. He watched Charlotte swiftly open and close drawers. Her expression was serious and intent. Whatever this was, it was no game to her, he realized.
“May I ask how long you have been pursuing your rather bizarre career, Miss Arkendale?” Baxter halted in front of a wardrobe and opened the door.
“Since shortly after my stepfather was murdered a few years ago.” Charlotte peered into the depths of a dressing table drawer. “My sister and I were left with very little in the way of funds. There are not a great many careers open to ladies. It was either become a governess, which does not provide sufficient income for two, or invent an alternative.”
Baxter pushed aside a row of gowns to check the back of the wardrobe. “Where did you get the inspiration for this particular alternative?”
“My stepfather,” Charlotte said coldly. “Lord Winterbourne. He was a greedy opportunist who took advantage of my mother after she was widowed. He convinced her that he wished to take care of her as well as my sister and myself, but in truth he only wanted to get his hands on her money.”
“I see.”
“My poor mother died within months after Winterbourne married her. I do not think she ever realized what a truly dreadful man he was. But in truth he was a selfish, cruel, unfeeling creature. Neither my sister nor I could mourn him.”
“It does sound as though you are far better off without him,” Baxter said as he tried another wardrobe drawer.
“Infinitely so.” Charlotte went down on her knees beside the bed. “Society is riddled with such despicable liars, Mr. St. Ives. And for the most part women in my mother’s situation are extremely vulnerable. They have very few means by which to ascertain the true facts about a suitor’s background and financial status.”
“So you offer them your services.” Baxter went to the window and probed behind the heavy curtains. “Was your stepfather’s killer found?”
“No.” Charlotte rose to her feet and gazed around the room, searching for another likely hiding place. “Some nameless footpad did the deed.”
How very convenient, Baxter thought.
“This business of having one of your clients die on you makes for your second brush with murder in a relatively short span of years. Many people live out their entire lives without ever coming so close to that particular crime even once, let alone twice.”
Charlotte swung around to face him. “Just what are you implying, sir?”
“Merely an observation. Those of us who are interested in science cannot resist noting odd bits of logic and unusual connections.” He was about to let the curtain fall back into place when he saw a slight movement on the other side of the street.
Baxter narrowed his eyes slightly. There was just enough glare reflected from the gas lamp to make out the shadowy figure that slipped through the swirling fog. A servant returning after an evening off from his duties perhaps, Baxter thought.
Or was it someone who had no more business being in this neighborhood than he and Charlotte?
“Is something wrong, Mr. St. Ives? Why are you staring out the window?”
“I was merely examining the street.” The shadowy figure had disappeared. Baxter let the curtains fall back into place. “I believe we have done a sufficiently thorough job on this bedchamber. Let’s move on to the next one.”
“Yes, of course. I wish to find Mrs. Heskett’s chamber.” Charlotte scooped up the lantern and hurried toward the door.
She gave him a sharp, reproving glance as she went past him. Her cloak billowed out behind her in a seething, roiling movement that seemed to reflect its owner’s irritation.
Baxter followed slowly.
A few minutes later, in the midst of searching the last bedchamber, Baxter heard Charlotte give a soft gasp of surprise.
“Find something?” Baxter turned to look at her.
She was down on her knees again, bent at the waist, tugging on some object she had discovered beneath a large, mirrored wardrobe.
“What do you make of this, Mr. St. Ives?” She hauled out a large leather-bound volume and flipped it open.
“What is it?” He walked across the carpet to join her. “A journal?”
“No, it’s a watercolor sketchbook.” Charlotte turned a few pages to reveal a series of delicate pastel drawings. “Very likely it belonged to Mrs. Heskett.” She paused abruptly and stared at one of the sketches. “Good heavens.”