Of course, neither she nor Aunt Margaret had spent a great deal of time actually searching for a new gardener.
“If you will excuse us for a moment, Mr. Albright, Lady Amy and I will return shortly.” Aunt Margaret stood and beckoned to Amy, who followed her out of the room.
“Are you considering the same thing I am?” Amy whispered, since they stood right outside the drawing room door.
“Yes. Mr. Albright has always been a good gardener. We haven’t been successful thus far in replacing him.” Aunt Margaret grinned. “Not that we’ve been looking.”
“And the garden is beginning to look frightful,” Amy added.
“Then I think we agree. We shall extend an offer to Mr. Albright to continue with his work here. However, I think it best if we don’t inform your father. He worries about these ridiculous things.”
Amy smiled. She had no doubt things would come crashing down on their heads if Papa knew Mr. Albright was back at work. She had so liked the man before all this trouble started. He’d successfully grown several of her favorite flowers and brought her some of them in a bundle at least once a week.
“What about the opium? Do you think he is addicted? I understand those who are can become quite unpleasant when denied the drug.”
When Aunt Margaret raised her brows at Amy’s words, she added, “I know this because I’ve done research for my books.” Amy crossed her arms over her middle, studying the spot on the table near the door that Lacey had missed when she dusted that morning. “I hate to send the man back to a room with fifteen people.”
Aunt Margaret nodded. “There is only one way to discover if he is addicted.” With a swish of her skirts, she returned to the drawing room.
“Mr. Albright.” Aunt Margaret took her seat once again across from him.
William and Mr. Albright had been conversing when the ladies entered the room and appeared to be quite relaxed. Aunt Margaret’s authoritative tone had the gardener sitting up straight.
“Yes, milady?” He looked hopeful, but a bit of distrust had entered his eyes. The poor man had been through a great deal, what with being falsely imprisoned for a murder he hadn’t committed, and had probably learned over the years to treat every potential act of kindness with suspicion.
“Are you addicted to opium?” Her words cracked in the room like a bolt of lightning.
Mr. Albright sat up even straighter and looked Aunt Margaret in the eye. “No, milady. I seen what it can do to those who are, so I’ve never reached for my pipe too often.”
She studied him for a minute as if to discern if he was being truthful. After a few moments, during which it seemed everyone in the room held their breath, Aunt Margaret said, “If we allow you to return to your job, will you give me your word that you will not indulge in the drug? Never?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, milady. I would be very grateful to have m’job back. And I promise I will never touch the stuff again.”
Aunt Margaret nodded. “Very well. I believe you are a man of honor, and now that you have given me your word, I trust you will be the best worker any employer ever retained.”
Mr. Albright’s face turned a bright red. “Milady, no one has ever before in my life referred to me as a man of honor. You can be sure I will indeed be the best gardener you ever had.” He let out a huge breath and smiled at the three of them.
“Milady, a missive was just delivered by a young boy.” Lacey entered the drawing room and handed Amy a folded piece of paper. “He is waiting for your answer.”
Amy looked over at William, then opened the note.
Dear Lady Amy,
I ask permission to call upon you tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. Upon recommendation from Lord Carlisle, your father has retained me to assist in the matter of the death of your fiancé, Mr. Ronald St. Vincent. If you could arrange for Lord Wethington to also be in attendance it would be greatly appreciated.
Sir Roger Holstein
“Ex-fiancé,” she muttered.
CHAPTER 14
The next afternoon Amy sat in the drawing room running her palms over Persephone’s soft fur. The dog let out soft-pitched moans at Amy’s ministrations while she gazed out the window, waiting for Sir Holstein and William to arrive. The interview with the private investigator Papa had retained might be a bit strained.
If he was as good as he should be to solve a murder, he would be able to trip her and William up and get information from them they might not want to share. Now that she and William had a few suspects and had done a great deal of work on the investigation, she wanted to see it through to the end herself. The murder-mystery writer in her did not want to share the information they’d gathered.
Plus, if Papa learned from the investigator that she was conducting her own search for the killer, he would most likely order her to London. Even though the police had told her not to leave Bath, if Papa assured them she would be under his guardianship—prisoner, more like—they would most likely let her go. Marquesses had standing in society, and few people would be brave enough to naysay one.
She had warned William after she received the note the day before to be careful about what he said when the investigator began questioning them. He had tried at first to convince her that it might be wise to allow Sir Holstein to take over, but she’d refused. He said he was concerned for her safety. Indeed! Men always said that when they wanted you to do something you did not wish to do. One day things would be different. She hated how women were treated like children.
The curious part of her—the part that loved writing books that needed a murder solved—would never allow someone to take over an investigation she had begun. In fact, she had toyed with the idea of making the sleuth in her next book a woman. When she mentioned that to her publisher, he had said it wouldn’t sell. She would not give up on the idea, though.
After a lively debate, William had finally agreed to keep their investigation to themselves, and hopefully he would honor her wishes.
“Milady, Lord Wethington has arrived.” Lacey entered the room with William right behind her.
“Good afternoon, Lady Amy.” He bowed slightly and took the seat alongside her on the settee.
Persephone looked up at William, growled, then jumped from Amy’s lap and pranced from the settee, her chin high and her nonexistent tail in the air. She settled next to the fireplace and, with a soft groan and a deep sigh, closed her eyes.
William watched the dog, then shook his head. “That is a very strange animal. I don’t believe she knows she has no tail.”
“Shh. Don’t say that. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
William stared at her as if she’d just grown another head. “She doesn’t understand what we say.”
“Yes. She does. Watch.” She called to the dog.
Persephone ignored her.
She called again.
Still no response.
Amy looked over at William, who was smirking. “She is getting a bit deaf.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Persephone!”
The dog slowly opened one eye, stood, shook herself, and promptly left the room.
William cleared his throat. “Now that we have determined that I did not insult your dog, I must ask. Are you prepared for this interview?”
“Yes. I plan to be as helpful as I can be without giving Sir Holstein the information we have uncovered in our investigation. Let him follow his own trail. If I refused to at least appear as though I am helping, Papa would be here in Bath posthaste to escort me back to London.”
“Do you dislike London so much, then?”
“No. In fact, I love to visit there, call on friends, spend time at the museums, attend the theater and opera, do some shopping, but after a couple of weeks I grow very weary of all the people, noise, smells, and confusion. And, if I am relocated to London, you can be sure for all intents and purposes I will be under house arrest.”
“Let us compare notes before Sir Holstein arrives,” William s
aid as he withdrew a notepad from his jacket. He flipped a few pages. “So far we have cleared Mr. Albright.” He looked up at her. “I think we agree he had no reason to kill Mr. St. Vincent, since his sins—occasional opium use and a past murder charge—have all been brought out into the open. He was too anxious to hang around and continue his employment to possibly be the killer.”
“I agree. But that reminds me, I must have Aunt Margaret write to Papa and tell him Mr. Albright has been found and is innocent of any charges. We are still debating whether to mention that we have reemployed him.”
“Why your aunt?”
“Because she’s been dealing with Papa more years than I have. She has a way of calming him when she knows he will become riled by what she is about to tell him.”
William shook his head and laughed. “To get back to our notes. Yes, I agree, Mr. Albright can be scratched off our list.” He looked down at his notes again. “Then there is Mr. Harris.”
“He is firmly on my suspect list. His glee at Mr. St. Vincent’s death and joy at becoming, he thinks, a wealthy man troubles me. Also, there is that argument you were told uncle and nephew had outside St. Vincent’s townhouse the week before he was murdered.”
“And don’t forget how he tried to rattle you by claiming you killed St. Vincent. I believe he was hoping you would blurt something out about his connection to the deed.”
“Miss Hemphill?” Amy asked.
“Another puzzle piece. She wanted to marry the man, so why kill him? You are confident she was the author of the missive you received about Mr. St. Vincent’s connection to illegal drug trade, so that points the finger to her wanting the man whole and hardy.”
“Yes.” Amy sat for a minute, pondering that. “I think we need to give her more thought, but I am not prepared to remove her from the list yet.”
William leaned back on the settee, looking quite comfortable. Only a few weeks ago, she mused, they had shared no more than a light friendship. “We have yet to uncover the middleman for St. Vincent’s opium trade. There could be any number of reasons why that man would want your fiancé dead.”
“Ex-fiancé.”
“I need to spend some time questioning those who know the shipyard and opium trade to see if I can come up with the name of any man who should also be on the list.”
They both looked up from their notes as Lacey once again entered the room, holding a small white card that she held out to Amy. “Milady, Sir Holstein requests to speak with you.”
“Yes, Lacey, we are expecting him. Please show him in.”
Sir Holstein was tall, slender, and of a serious mien. Which was not unexpected, given his line of work. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried a portfolio. While not expensive or even fashionable, his clothing was neat, clean, and pressed. A dark beard and mustache, matching his wavy hair, covered most of his face.
He bowed over Amy. “Good afternoon, my lady. Your father sends his best wishes and regards.”
She smiled and nodded, not fooled by that message from Papa. He wanted to make sure she understood that Sir Holstein was here at his behest and that she was expected to fully cooperate.
Cooperate she would. Fully—not entirely.
“Please have a seat, Sir Holstein, and I will send for tea.”
He sat across from her and placed his portfolio on the floor. “Tea will not be necessary, unless it is your teatime. I do not wish to interrupt your normal schedule.”
“No. That is fine. It is a bit early for tea.” She and William sat side by side, watching as Sir Holstein took out a pad of paper from his portfolio, withdrew a pencil, flipped a few pages, and then looked up at them expectantly.
Not sure what the man intended for her to say, she merely smiled in his direction. “My father tells me you are acquainted with Lord Carlisle.”
Sir Holstein sat back. “Yes, indeed. I did some work for him, and we became friends. He’s a wonderful man, very progressive in his thinking. I am honored to be invited to his home for dinner on occasion.”
He looked down at the page with scrawled notes over it. “I have a bit of information here from Lord Winchester. You were engaged to one Mr. Ronald St. Vincent, the owner of a shipping company. You summoned him to your home on Friday, the eighteenth day of April, and ended your arrangement with him, to which he was not amenable.” He looked up and waited for her to nod her concurrence, which she did.
“According to your father, Mr. St. Vincent arrived at your house, uninvited and unexpected, on Tuesday, the twenty-second day of April.”
Again he looked up for her acknowledgment. When she nodded, he returned to his notes.
“When you were notified of his arrival, you took some time in joining him in the library, and when you entered the room, he was not there and the French doors were open.”
“Yes.” Amy was tired of nodding her head and decided to use her voice a bit.
“Excellent. Then you went to the garden to search for him, and upon returning, you stumbled over his body.”
He switched his attention to William. “You, my lord, were in the drawing room awaiting your expected visit with Lady Amy. Upon hearing screams, you left the drawing room and entered the library, where you found Lady Amy upset, her hands covered with blood, staring at the deceased.” He looked up once again at Amy. “Whereupon you fainted.”
Silence filled the room, and Amy shivered at the memory of how St. Vincent had looked, staring up at nothing, the large knife in his chest. “Yes. That is the way it happened.”
Sir Holstein turned his attention once more to William. “Please tell me what you saw, my lord.”
William repeated the story of arriving in the library, seeing Amy staring at the floor, then fainting. He explained how he had sent a staff member to summon the police and encouraged Amy to wash the blood from her hands and face.
“How did the blood get on your hands and face, Lady Amy?”
“When I fell, my hands landed on Mr. St. Vincent’s chest. Then at some point I rubbed my cheeks and transferred the blood to my face.”
The investigator snapped his notepad closed. “I would like to see the library.”
Amy’s heart took off, and her stomach dropped to her knees. She had not been in the library since the night of the murder. “Lord Wethington will be happy to escort you.”
Holstein was not having it. “I would prefer if you joined us, Lady Amy. I need to have you replay exactly what happened.”
Kudos to the investigator. He was thorough.
The three of them left the room and walked down the corridor to the library. Taking a deep breath, Amy turned the latch and opened the door. The staff had done a good job of cleaning the room. A large vase of fresh flowers on Papa’s desk gave the air a sweet, fragrant smell.
The French doors were locked, but two of the tall windows had been opened from the bottom, allowing the scent from the garden to drift throughout the room.
“Lady Amy, kindly walk me through your steps that night, starting when you entered the room.”
Amy retraced her steps from when she had entered the library until she found St. Vincent’s body, giving Sir Holstein a running narrative of her movements.
Sir Holstein turned to William. “Please, my lord. If you will pick up from the time you entered the room.”
William then walked the investigator through what he’d seen that night. The man scribbled notes the entire time.
“Thank you. I would like to ask some more questions, but if you are feeling fatigued, my lady, I will be happy to return tomorrow.”
Normally she would never admit to being affected by emotions and fatigue, but entering the library for the first time since the murder had rattled her. “Yes, thank you, Sir Holstein. I believe I would like to take a break.”
“Very well.” He bowed to them both. “I shall return tomorrow at the same time, if that is acceptable?”
“Yes. That will be fine.”
The man turned on his heel and left the room, an
d Amy breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
That evening Amy sat at the desk in her office next to her bedchamber and went over their notes once again, looking for something she was missing. Three people comprised her list: Miss Hemphill, Mr. Harris, and the not-as-yet-identified man who had accepted the drugs from her former fiancé and sold them. She tapped her lips with her pen and considered the names.
They all seemed plausible, but none of them had a very good reason to see St. Vincent dead. Except Mr. Harris. Money, human relationships, and power were the three main causes of murder that she’d discovered in her hours of research.
She could attribute one or more of those reasons to every name on her list. Mr. Harris: money. Miss Hemphill: human relationship. And the drug dealer could be seeking power and money as well. Killing St. Vincent meant he would become the main distributor. If, she reminded herself, the new owner of the shipping company continued with the import of opium.
However, the unknown distributor could even have been working with Mr. Harris, who would inherit the business. Again, money. Maybe the dealer wasn’t getting what he thought was a fair share of the revenue.
Sliding the pen into the holder, Amy sat back and rubbed her eyes with her fists. What she needed was an early night. Aunt Margaret had gone to a musicale at one of her friend’s homes. Amy had been invited as well, but after the interview with Sir Holstein that afternoon, she had not felt very congenial.
She was about to ring for Lacey to prepare a bath for her when the maid entered her room. “Milady, a Mr. Harris has arrived and asked for a minute of your time.”
Mr. Harris? The man had the impertinence to show up at her home after insulting her so horribly at the Assembly? Did he wish to engage in fisticuffs? This time she would use her knee to make her point that he was an obnoxious, uncouth, horrid man.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, milady. He brought a bouquet of flowers with him.”
Flowers? Whatever was that all about? Since Mr. Harris was at the top of their suspect list, she could not afford to turn him away.
A Study in Murder Page 14