A Study in Murder

by Callie Hutton

  She shook her head and picked up the derby hat sitting on the table by the front door and plopped it on her head. Excitement built as she considered actually doing something to help herself rather than waiting for the police to do their job. They thought she was guilty, she knew she wasn’t, so therefore she had the advantage. They could spend their time chasing after clues to prove her guilt, while she could uncover the real murderer.

  They’d gone only a few steps when Amy came to a sudden stop. “Wait. I forgot Persephone.” Before he could comment on that, she turned and hurried back into the house, returning within a few minutes, the dog in her arms.

  “Why are you bringing that thing with us?”

  Amy sucked in a deep breath. “How dare you! Persephone is not a ‘thing.’ She is my beloved pet.” She ran her hands over the dog’s back. “She would be mad at me if I left her behind.”

  “Is that right? How do you know if a dog is mad at you?”

  “She won’t talk to me.”

  He stared at her openmouthed for a minute and then pointed at the animal. “She has no tail.”

  Amy snuggled the dog against her. “Which makes her special.”

  Mumbling under his breath, he took Amy by the elbow to escort her down the steps. The dog regarded him from her perch in her mistress’s arms. “She just smirked at me, you know.”

  As they made their way to the carriage William had arrived in, Amy continued to enlighten him on the wonders of her beloved dog. “Pomeranians are very intelligent dogs. They can be trained very quickly and can learn tricks and games. They are actually descended from large working dogs in the Arctic.”

  William glanced at Persephone and snorted.

  Amy settled in her seat and raised her chin at his derision. “Our own Queen adopted a small Pomeranian only two years ago. So obviously, Persephone comes from royal stock.” When he did not seem impressed by that fact, she added, “Did you know that in 1767, Queen Charlotte brought two Pomeranians to England? Phoebe and Mercury—those was their names—were even painted by the very well known artist Sir Thomas Gainsborough, although the dogs in that painting were much larger.”

  After a few moments, he dipped his head. “I am duly impressed.”

  Amy huffed at his blatant lie as the carriage moved forward. It would transport them to the less-than-desirable area where Mr. Albright’s rooms were located. Not as bad as some neighborhoods she’d passed through in London, but not much better. Which was just as well, since they would attract very little attention, as those of the lower classes believed it was better for their health to mind their own business.

  Once they were well under way, William leaned back on the comfortable seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “As intriguing as your outfit is, I don’t think anyone would be fooled into believing you are a man. You are much too …”

  “Too what?”

  “Womanly. I would hate to have to resort to fisticuffs to protect your honor.”

  Despite his lack of love for her dog, she couldn’t help but feel a bit flattered. First he’d thought her “sweet” and now “womanly.” It had been a long time since she’d regarded William in any way other than as a friend, but now she found herself taking a second look at the man. He truly was good-looking, smart, and considering what they were up to tonight, both adventurous and willing to help a lady.

  Amy leaned forward. “There is something I learned in my research. Most people see what they expect to see. When we stroll along together, everyone will assume we are two men, and that is what they will see.”

  William looked out the window, his glance darting back to her legs. “Not if they look closely.”

  She thought back to the first time she’d met William. Despite Papa’s blustering and with Aunt Margaret’s help, Amy had just manipulated her way out of a London Season, in which she had no interest. She had just started writing and did not want to travel to London to be dressed up in frills and folderol and paraded before “acceptable” gentlemen in hopes of securing a husband.

  William was strolling along George Street as Amy exited a millinery shop, carrying more bundles than she should have been, one of them blocking part of her view. As always, she was in a hurry and walked right into William as she made to cross the street.

  Every package she carried tumbled to the ground, the wind picking up the one with a new pair of kid gloves in it. “Oh, get my gloves!” she shouted at William, and waved to where the small box had landed in the middle of the street.

  “Of course,” William said, dodging carriages and horses and arriving at the small package just as a coach wheel smashed the item flat. He picked up the ruined box, covered with mud and flattened like a pancake, with two fingers and walked it back to where she stood.

  “Your package, my lady.” He made a gallant bow, and she burst out laughing. That had been the beginning of their friendship, which had strengthened when they both joined the Mystery Book Club of Bath.

  William often attended the dances at the Bath Assembly Rooms and had danced with her a few times. Over the ensuing years, she’d learned that he was five years older than her, the only son of Viscount Wethington, with one sister who lived in France. He enjoyed riding, hunting, and other manly pursuits, and the one time she’d asked about his views on marriage, he had shut her out so quickly she had never brought up the subject again.

  Amy set a snoring Persephone alongside her, pulled a small notepad and pencil from her jacket pocket, and flipped through a few pages. “I’ve been thinking about why the detectives were so quick to assume I killed Mr. St. Vincent.”

  “Having a dead man in your library who had not arrived in that condition is not enough?”

  “Not funny, William.” She continued. “As you have so rightly pointed out—many times—a lady of my station is considered delicate, with weak sensibilities. Why would I, all of a sudden, grab a knife and plunge it into the man? That is a serious line to cross, and it makes no sense. At least if I were writing a book about it, I would be sure to close that loophole. Also, in my books I always have more than one suspect.”

  “Perhaps our tax-funded protectors of the law like to see things the simple way. A man who was once engaged to a lovely young woman ends up dead at her feet with no one else at home except the lady in question and her staff. Case closed.”

  “Aha! And why did she have a knife?”

  “Because she knew St. Vincent was there for no good.”

  “Who keeps knives in their library?”

  “She could have stopped by the kitchen on her way.”

  “So it was premeditated? Why?”

  William threw his hands up. “I don’t know; you are the murder-mystery author here. You tell me.”

  Amy smirked. “Precisely. As an author, I have done a lot of research and have probably investigated more murders than the police. Therefore, I will solve the crime before they do.”

  “And that, my dear lady, is why you have engaged in a veiled attempt to pretend to be a man as we ride into the more unsavory part of Bath.”

  After an extremely bumpy ride, the carriage came to a rolling stop. William flicked the curtain aside and took in their surroundings. Amy looked out the window at the busy street, with ladies of the evening, drunkards, and pickpockets all mingled together. As she watched, a lad no more than eight years old ran into a man stumbling along. When the man fell to the ground, the boy quickly searched his pockets and ran off.

  The number of people out and about could be good or bad. Good because she and William might possibly meld into the crowd, bad because they might have to climb through a window to get into the gardener’s rooms and someone might see them. Although, given the lives these people led, she doubted if anyone would care too much.

  “I told the driver to leave us off a few buildings before Albright’s room.” William dropped the curtain, blocking her view of the goings-on outside. “What I suggest is first I simply go to his door and knock. He might just be there. I can always ask for so
meone else and apologize for my intrusion.”

  “And if he is there, we can wait until we see him leave.”

  “Yes. Otherwise, I will survey the inside and outside of the building to see the best way to break in.” He rotated his neck. “I cannot believe I just said that.” Sliding forward on the seat, he said, “This won’t take long.”

  Amy patted Persephone on the head as William stepped from the carriage and strode away. Before they left the house, she’d wrapped the dog in a warm blanket she’d made into a sort of coat for her pet. Her darling Persephone would be comfortable while they did their necessary work.

  Less than ten minutes later, William returned. “He’s not at home. I spoke with the landlady as I was leaving, and she said she hasn’t seen him in a couple days.” He pulled up the collar of his jacket. “Much colder out there than I thought.”

  “Where in the building is his room located?”

  “First floor, one flight up. But the lock on the door doesn’t look too sturdy. I think I might be able to get us inside without making a fuss.”

  Anxious to get the search under way, Amy moved forward as William stepped back out of the coach. He glanced at her dog. “She won’t be barking and causing a ruckus, will she? The last thing we want is to call attention to ourselves.”

  “Not at all. She is very well behaved. She will merely sleep while we are gone.”

  “Then why bring her?”

  “I told you. If I didn’t, she would be mad at me.”

  “And then wouldn’t talk to you.” He ran his palm down his face, then reached out to help her from the carriage. Before she could stop his movement, he must have realized it would look rather odd for a gentleman to be helping another gentleman out of the carriage unless the man was in his dotage. He dropped his arm and stepped back, allowing her to descend the two steps to the ground.

  Amy looked around, unable to hide her smile. This was quite thrilling.

  “Stick close to me. Even though you think you can fool others into believing you are a man, in the event you are mistaken, I have a pistol with me.”

  “You do?” A tingle of excitement settled in her stomach. “I should buy a gun myself.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and his eyes widened. “No. No, no, no.”

  They began to walk toward Mr. Albright’s building. “My goodness, you made your point. Why not?”

  “Because without proper training, you would probably shoot a hole in your foot.”

  “I will receive proper training. How hard can it be? I had no trouble learning how to use my typewriter.”

  “Your what?”

  “Typewriter.” She stopped and looked up at Mr. Albright’s building. “It’s a machine like a printing press. Except much smaller. You roll a piece of paper into it and tap on letter keys to write things.”

  “What’s wrong with a pen and paper?”

  “Nothing, but a typewriter saves time. Or that is what it will do eventually. Right now I’m a bit slow trying to pick out the letters. And you have to be careful because it’s not easy to get rid of a letter or word once it’s on the paper.”

  He pushed open the entrance door to Albright’s building. “Just like it’s not easy to get rid of a hole in your foot once you shoot it.”

  Honestly, the man was so annoying. As grateful as she was to have his company and assistance, he was beginning to act the protective male, and she found it somewhat irritating. Papa and her brother had learned a while back to allow her the freedom she needed to write her books and do the necessary research. She’d given Papa her word that she would not do anything to place herself in danger, and since she had the annoying William at her side, she felt as though she wasn’t going back on her promise with their venture that evening.

  The sound of a baby crying, the smell of urine, and walls with patches of peeling paint marked the residence as a poor building in a poor neighborhood. A rat scurried across the entrance hall. Amy squealed and grabbed William’s arm. Behind the closed door of one flat, the sound of raised voices, and then a crash reminded her they were in a dangerous part of the city where so many led desperate lives.

  They made their way up the stairs with no need to remain quiet, since the tenants were making plenty of their own noise. The walked up to number seven, the room Mr. Albright had identified as his own when he’d been hired. At least she’d had the presence of mind to ask that much of the man.

  William shook the doorknob. It was apparent from the way the door rattled that the lock was anything but sturdy. “Move back,” he said.

  With a hard shove of his shoulder, he slammed against the door and it popped open. Amy looked around, but none of the other doors opened to see what the noise was. Most likely the other tenants were all too busy dealing with their own misery to concern themselves with anyone else’s.

  They closed the door and looked around at the shadowy space. Mr. Albright’s room was no larger than their gardener’s shed. There was very little light from the street, but William produced two candles and a flint from his inside jacket pocket. They quickly made their way through the room, looking under the bed, beneath the mattress, and in his wardrobe, where they found one pair of trousers and two shirts, all work-worn.

  A drawer in an old wooden desk leaning against the wall, appearing as though it would collapse in a mild storm, revealed a pencil, a few coins, a small pad of paper, a razor, toothbrush, and a small pouch of tobacco. The man had obviously left in a hurry.

  Since the space was so small, there wasn’t much to search. Amy stood with her hands on her hips and turned in a circle to view the room. “I don’t know what I had expected to find, but at least more than the little bit that is here.”

  “What did you think? That Mr. Albright kept a journal of his life that would reveal he was Mr. St. Vincent’s killer?” William spoke over his shoulder as he looked at the ceiling, stopping underneath the old-fashioned chandelier. “Come here.”

  Amy wandered over to where he stood. “What?”

  “I’m going to lift you up, and I want you to feel around inside the candle cups. I can’t really tell from here with only the light from the candle, but it appears there is something in one of them.”

  “Most likely a candle.”

  William shook his head. “No.” He turned to her. “Here, let me lift you up.”

  Although it was quite improper for him to take her in his arms to lift her, curiosity won out over propriety. He placed his hands alongside her waist and lifted. Goodness, she was no slender, lightweight woman, but he lifted her as though she weighed no more than a child.

  She was a bit unsteady in this position, but she grabbed one of the cups and held on.

  “Can you feel anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her fingertip hit something, and with a bit more stretching, she was able to wrap her hand around an object. “I have something in my hand. Let me down.”

  Slowly he lowered her, and she held up what looked like a cloth pouch. She maneuvered her fingers and felt an object inside.

  William took the pouch from her hand and tucked it into his pocket. “We won’t be able to see much here in the dark. We’ll take it with us. Nothing else has turned up, and very few people put things in their lamps unless it’s something they don’t want anyone else to find. I suggest we leave and examine the article away from here.”

  Amy stopped breathing and looked quickly at William when there was a knock on the door.

  William raised his finger to his lips and took her by the hand, then led her across the room to climb into the wardrobe. She thanked her cleverness again for dressing in trousers. Trying to squeeze herself into the space in her normal attire would have been quite an endeavor.

  The knock sounded again, and then a rattling of the doorknob. “Mr. Albright?”

  William leaned close to Amy’s ear. “That’s the landlady.”

  “Mr. Albright? Someone was looking for you before. And your rent is past due.”

&n
bsp; The pounding of Amy’s heart was so loud, she cast a glance at William; certain he heard it. After a few minutes, the landlady said, “If your rent isn’t paid by tomorrow, I’ll have to let out your room to someone else.”

  They both breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of footsteps and grumbling leading away from the door. After a few minutes, William shifted. “I think it’s safe to leave now.”

  They climbed from the wardrobe and hurried across the room. William opened the door, peeked out, and waved her forward. They made their way down the stairs and out of the building. They practically ran the short distance from the building to the carriage, where William took the seat facing backward. A true gentleman.

  Once settled, he tapped on the ceiling of the vehicle, and it began to move.

  “What is in the pouch?” Amy asked.

  He withdrew it from his pocket and pushed the sides of it apart. He pulled out an odd-looking porcelain object.

  Amy took it from his hand and looked it over. “What is this?”

  “An opium pipe.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Well then, it appears Mr. Albright not only served time for murder but also indulges in opium, which is a connection to Mr. St. Vincent.”

  William moved the pipe this way and that, examining it in the light from the lantern anchored on the carriage wall next to him.

  “What I find confusing is why he is not still in prison. Generally those convicted of murder never see the light of day.” Amy shifted on the seat across from him as the coach rolled along, removing them from the dangerous neighborhood. She patted a snoring Persephone and mindlessly ran her palm over the dog’s soft fur.

  “That would be a good point to investigate. Had he escaped, perhaps?”

  Amy shook her head. “No. The police would have mentioned that he was an escapee when they told us about him. I feel as though they’ve tossed down the gauntlet for me to do my own investigation.”

  “No. No.” He shook his head. “They would not do that. I am sure the last thing they want is a woman wandering around Bath talking to strangers about murder.”

  “I have done that numerous times in my research.”