A Study in Murder

by Callie Hutton

  Sally hopped up. “Yes, Mrs. Hubbard. I am well now.”

  “Then get that oil lamp from the drawing room and give it to her ladyship, here.”

  Amy followed the maid back to the drawing room, took the lamp from her hand, and returned upstairs.

  “It’s about time,” Detective Marsh said as she joined the detectives and William in Miss Hemphill’s room. She was becoming weary of everyone snapping at her as if she were a servant. She handed the lamp to Carson and backed up to stand alongside William.

  “I assume you wish us to remain here to speak with you?”

  Detective Marsh glanced over his shoulder. “You assume correctly. As soon as we’re finished with our examination, we will have some questions for you and your cohort here.” He gestured toward William. “Right now you can wait downstairs.”

  She would have preferred to remain while they did their examination, hopefully listening to their comments, but considering she and William were now loosely involved in another suspicious death, she didn’t want to antagonize the men.

  Amy and William sat in the drawing room, making mundane conversation, since there really wasn’t much to say until they could speak with the detectives.

  “You don’t suppose they will accuse me of this death, too, do you?” Amy asked as William stood and wandered the room, touching various objects.

  Detective Marsh entered the room, his partner right behind him. “Not exactly accuse you, Lady Amy, but Carson and I are very interested in knowing why you and his lordship here discovered another dead body.”

  William joined her again on the settee. He reached over and took her hand, which Marsh noted in his book.

  Detective Carson started. “What is the chit’s name, and how do you know the victim?”

  “Miss Eva Hemphill and I met at a sewing circle.” There was no reason to admit she barely knew the woman and hadn’t been able to speak with her even once.

  Marsh grinned at William. “Are you a member of this sewing circle, too?”

  William drew himself up. “Detective, there should be no reason for me to remind you that a woman lies dead upstairs, and with all respect, the situation should be treated with a bit more dignity.”

  Amazingly enough, Marsh had the decency to look abashed and immediately cleared his throat.

  “Is this the very same Miss Hemphill who had an understanding with Mr. St. Vincent before you stole him away?”

  Amy flinched. “I did not steal him away. As I told you before, I had no idea she thought she had an understanding with Mr. St. Vincent.”

  Carson grunted. “What was the purpose of your visit today?”

  “We were merely making a social call. I had heard recently that Miss Hemphill was not feeling well. We wished to check on her.”

  Marsh wrote furiously. He and Carson asked a few more questions back and forth, the normal ones of who had admitted them to the house, how they had determined she was dead, and so forth. Eventually, they snapped their notebooks closed. “That is all. You may leave.”

  Amy wasn’t about to leave without some information. “Did you determine the cause of death?” She wondered if they had noticed the pennyroyal.

  “That will be determined by an autopsy. The coroner will retrieve the body sometime today.”

  Mrs. Hubbard entered the room at that point. “Are you finished, Detectives? I need to get Miss Hemphill out of the house so I can have my maid clean the room and put a new tenant in there.”

  “You’re the landlady?” Carson asked.

  “Yes. Mrs. Hubbard.”

  “I have a few questions for you, too.” Marsh opened his notebook again. “How long has the deceased lived here?”

  “About two weeks.”

  Amy perked up at that answer. If Miss Hemphill had been living in such squalor for only about two weeks, there was a good chance she had been thrown from her family home quite recently.

  “Did she have many visitors?”

  “I don’t allow men to visit, and any ladies who call must be received in the drawing room, here.” Mrs. Hubbard tapped her lips with her index finger. “I don’t recall anyone visiting Miss Hemphill.” She gestured with her chin toward Amy and William. “Except for these two.”

  “Did she get a lot of mail?”

  Mrs. Hubbard shook her head. “None that I’m aware of.”

  After a few more questions, the detectives stood. “Mrs. Hubbard, the coroner will be here today to remove the body. Please be available for more questions as the investigation into Miss Hemphill’s death continues.”

  For the first time the landlady showed a reaction. “Do you believe she was murdered?” She immediately looked in William and Amy’s direction.

  The detectives headed to the door. “We won’t know that until the autopsy.”

  Once they were outside, the detectives turned to Amy. “No leaving Bath, my lady.” Carson cast his attention at William. “You either, my lord.”

  “Wait just a minute,” William blustered. “I occasionally conduct business in London.”

  “Fine. No leaving Bath without first notifying us.” With that they entered a carriage and slammed the door shut.

  Amy took in a deep breath as the detectives’ carriage rolled away. “We have to get a copy of the autopsy report. I still think Miss Hemphill had something to do with Mr. St. Vincent’s death.”

  She was quite tired when they arrived at her house. “Would you care for a brandy before you set off for home?” Amy asked as they climbed the stairs.

  “I don’t mind if I do. That sounds like just the thing after discovering another dead body.”

  Aunt Margaret walked in the door right after them. She followed them to the drawing room, removing her gloves. “May I join you? I could use a sherry.”

  “Bad day?”

  Her aunt smiled. “No, actually a very good day.”

  Amy’s brows rose. “Indeed. Are you going to share it with us?”

  Aunt took the glass from William. “Yes. But not today.” She walked to a comfortable red-and-white-striped chair next to the fireplace and sat. “What have you two been up to?”

  Amy gave her a shortened version of Miss Hemphill’s demise, the odd landlady, the hysterical maid, and the same two detectives who had again invaded her life.

  “The same two detectives? That is quite a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence or bad luck,” William said. “I just hope we don’t have any trouble getting a copy of the autopsy report. Given the poor state of Miss Hemphill’s room and sudden demise, I think this might have a connection to Mr. St. Vincent’s death.”

  “’Twould be quite odd if it didn’t, considering she was supposed to marry him, then got tossed aside for Amy. Then we find out she was pregnant.”

  “And I don’t believe in coincidence.” William downed the last of his brandy, then stood. “I will make a visit to my club to see if I can gather more information on either Mr. Miles or Mr. Harris. They are still in my sight as suspects.”

  “Milady, a messenger has just delivered a letter for you.” Lacey held out the envelope toward Amy.

  Amy took it from her hand and looked at it, all the blood in her head racing to her feet, leaving her light-headed.

  “Amy, what is it?” Aunt Margaret moved to her side. “You have gone quite pale.”

  Amy looked up at William and Aunt Margaret. “This letter is in the very same handwriting of the person who wrote to me about Mr. St. Vincent’s drug dealing.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Amy reread the few terse words on the letter she’d received days before.

  Dear Lady Amy,

  Please forgive me.

  Miss Eva Hemphill

  The note certainly confirmed her suspicions about the anonymous note with the information about Mr. St. Vincent’s illegal and nefarious activities. Same handwriting, same author.

  Aunt Margaret and William were both of the mind that the note was Miss Hemphill’s confession to the murder. By killing S
t. Vincent, they’d argued, Miss Hemphill had removed Amy’s chance of marriage.

  The confirmation of the removal of Miss Hemphill from her family’s home had been uncovered by Aunt Margaret, who had spoken to one of her friends who had a maid related to a servant in the Hemphill household.

  In any event, the entire situation was still a mess as far as Amy was concerned. William and Aunt Margaret might be convinced of Miss Hemphill’s guilt, but she was not. As far as what the police believed, Amy had no idea, since she hadn’t, surprisingly enough, heard from her favorite detectives since the day Miss Hemphill had been found.

  That had been almost a week ago, since it was now Saturday, and she once again awaited William’s arrival so he could escort her to the Assembly Rooms. That morning he’d sent around a note saying he was going to be able to get a copy of Miss Hemphill’s autopsy report and would bring it with him that night when he picked her up.

  What puzzled her more than anything was the lack of visits from the two Bath police department detectives. Did they believe, as William and Aunt Margaret optimistically did, that the matter was closed, and that Miss Hemphill had murdered Mr. St. Vincent? Amy was quite certain that if that were the case, they would have told her. After all, she’d been in the spotlight of their investigation from the day she had stumbled over Mr. St. Vincent in the library.

  Truth be known, the murder-mystery author in her continued to cry no. Why would Miss Hemphill kill the father of her child? What chance would she have of redeeming her name if he was dead? On the other hand, crimes of passion were generally not committed by those in their right mind at the time.

  She sighed and folded up the well-worn note. Assuming the police would do a follow-up visit to her, since they’d been so tickled to find her at the scene of another death, she had decided to show them the note once they arrived.

  They hadn’t arrived.

  She still had the note.

  And she felt the murderer was still out there.

  “Milady, Sir Holstein awaits your presence downstairs.” Lacey tapped lightly on the bedchamber door as she voiced her message.

  Sir Holstein? Of course, she’d forgotten all about the private investigator Papa had hired. Since William was expected any minute, she grabbed her reticule, gloves, and hat and left her room.

  Amy held out her hand as she entered the drawing room. “Sir Holstein, how very nice to see you.”

  The man looked dreadful. So bad, in fact, that she wondered how his legs were holding him up. He merely nodded in her direction and took a seat.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, sir?” She was about to offer tea, but knowing how soon she would have to leave, there would not be time. With the condition he appeared to be in, she felt she should instead offer him a bed and a visit from a doctor.

  “I wanted to explain why I have not reported on my progress in finding your fiancé’s killer.”

  “Ex-fiancé.”

  “I have been uncommonly ill.” He reached out and touched the arm of the chair, where he sat at the very edge, almost as if he wished to escape as quickly as possible.

  “I am sorry to hear that, Sir Holstein. Influenza?” She really wanted to ask if he suffered from the plague, since she’d never seen anyone look so ill.

  He shook his head. “No. It seems I ate a bit of bad food.”

  Her brows rose. “Bad food?”

  He nodded and swayed slightly on the chair. “Yes. I had a terrible time of it. I won’t go into details, since ’tis not proper conversation for a lady, but I have been confined to bed for a few days and am not feeling quite the thing just yet.”

  Quite the thing? He looked worse than poor, dead Miss Hemphill.

  “Therefore, I was unable to do a proper job. I have come to tell you I can attempt to continue with the investigation or suggest another investigator with whom I am familiar to take over the matter. I will, of course, provide him with all my notes and whatever money your father paid me.”

  Mr. Stevens, who had already taken over night duty for the front door, entered the drawing room. “My lady, Lord Wethington has arrived.”

  Sir Holstein made to stand up and fell back into the chair just as William entered the room. He took one glance at the investigator and regarded Amy with raised brows.

  “Sir Holstein was just leaving.” She looked at the man as he struggled to rise. “Do you have a coach with you?”

  “No. I will hail a hackney.”

  She took his arm and walked him to the door. “No, you will not. I will have my driver take you where you need to go. And please, don’t concern yourself with the investigation. I will notify you if I need you to turn it over to another investigator. Right now things are going smoothly and it might all be tied up in no time.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. I will send around a note.” She turned to a concerned-looking Mr. Stevens. “Please have the carriage brought forward to take Sir Holstein home.”

  William had walked behind them from the drawing room to the front door, and she turned to him and said, “I am ready to go.”

  Mr. Stevens helped her into her light coat while Sir Holstein leaned against the wall to await the carriage. With one final glance in the poor man’s direction, Amy and William left the house.

  “What the devil happened to Sir Holstein?” William settled into his seat and tapped on the carriage ceiling. “He looked appalling.”

  “Bad food.” She smoothed out her skirts and settled back in the seat as the familiar clopping of horse hooves on cobblestones started up.

  “Bad food? Whatever did he eat? He looks frightful.”

  Amy shrugged. “He never did say more than that, actually. He apparently has been laid up with this problem for some time, and from the looks of it, he is still suffering.”

  “Just so. Sounds as though the chap should have sent round a note rather than make the trip.”

  Amy grabbed the strap alongside her head as the carriage made a turn. “I imagine it was his sense of duty that made him come in person. But I agree; given the condition he was in, a note would have sufficed.”

  The carriage moved along nicely through the streets of Bath. William had allowed the windows to remain open, and the scent of early spring air filled the coach. ’Twould do them good to go to the Assembly Rooms for a spot of pleasure. Too much dwelling on murder and dead bodies had cast a gloom over Amy’s life the past couple of weeks.

  She took in a deep breath of the evening air and smiled. “The good news is now, with him out of the picture, that is one less person in the way of our investigation.”

  “Our investigation? I thought we had concluded that Miss Hemphill killed Mr. St. Vincent because he refused to marry her.”

  Amy pointed a finger at him. “No, you and Aunt Margaret concluded that. I do not agree, and I believe I said so that day. How would killing Mr. St. Vincent help the dilemma in which Miss Hemphill found herself?”

  “True, but ’tis quite known that crimes of passion don’t always make sense.”

  Amy scooted up on her seat. “On another point, were you able to obtain a copy of the autopsy report?”

  William reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew papers. “Yes. I will give it to you, but basically it says she died of poisoning. Pennyroyal, as we suspected. Her pregnancy was confirmed, and the cause of death was determined to be accidental poisoning while attempting an abortion.”

  Amy was stunned at how sad she felt at those words. A lovely young lady who had made a mistake like many others before her, and now she and an unborn babe were dead. Amy swiped at the unexpected tears that welled in her eyes. She reached out and took the paper from William.

  “Are you well, Amy?”

  Unable to speak just yet, she merely nodded and tucked the papers into her reticule. Taking a deep breath, she looked out the window as they passed the various shops on their way to the Assembly Rooms.

  Lord and Lady Carlisle, Mr. Miles and his mother, and severa
l other book club members and friends from church had already gathered. Perhaps it was the temptation of full spring weather, but the atmosphere that night was lively.

  Eloise nodded and patted her arm.

  All the windows had been thrown open and the gas chandeliers lit. Ladies in lovely pale dresses and rich-colored gowns moved around the room on the arms of debonair gentlemen. Intricate hairdos with numerous adornments, along with the scents of perfumes and talcs, gave the attendees a festive air.

  The music swept over the group, loud enough to be enjoyed by the dancers but not so loud as to hinder conversation.

  Amy stood with Lady Carlisle, and Mrs. Miles, sipping on a lemonade and watching the activity in the room. “Has there been any news on Mr. St. Vincent’s murder?” Lady Carlisle, who once again looked very pale and not well, placed her empty glass on a tray carried by a server.

  “Nothing of which I am aware,” Amy answered.

  Lady Carlisle had been entertaining quite a lot on her husband’s behalf. Even though she was more than twenty years younger than Lord Carlisle, the poor woman looked quite worn out. Another reason why Amy had never been enthralled with the idea of marriage. A woman must put aside all her hopes, desires, and enjoyments for the sake of her husband.

  If the man wished to uproot his family and move to a foreign country, she had no choice but to go, leaving behind a lifetime of friends and family. If he decided that a much-coveted position was what he wanted, it was expected the wife would do what was necessary to make sure he attained that goal.

  Lord and Lady Carlisle did not have children of their own, but his title was secured by two sons born to him and his deceased wife. At least Lady Carlisle didn’t face the possibility of moving her children to a foreign land for however many years necessary.

  Lady Carlisle shook her head. “One would think if you were under the suspicion of murder, the police would at least keep you informed.”

  How interesting. Based on Lady Carlisle’s words, it appeared Amy’s being the main suspect was not a secret.

  “I heard that you and Lord Wethington are helping the police with their investigation.” Mrs. Miles stared at Amy with an intensity that unnerved her a bit. Although the three of them enjoyed mystery books and shared an interest in the book club, Mrs. Miles had always struck her as a bit odd.