A Study in Murder

by Callie Hutton

  These, of course, were all issues she’d thought about the night before. ’Twas hard to think badly of someone you knew well, and who was so upstanding in the community. “Lady Carlisle is married to the man who will soon be named ambassador to France. Her husband has strong and powerful connections, right up to the Queen. I’m not saying he could pay someone to remain silent, but he could certainly put enough pressure on government higher-ups to close the case and declare it ‘unsolved.’”

  “And then whisk his wife off to France,” William added.

  Amy nodded. “Precisely. It’s not as if Mr. St. Vincent’s only living relative, Mr. Harris, would raise a fuss and be heartbroken if they never found the murderer. In fact, he would probably be glad he was no longer under consideration.”

  William shook his head. “Those are some serious accusations you are making here, Amy. Dangerous ones. If you are correct, and Lady Carlisle has been the culprit all along, we are in her sights. Lord Carlisle might be able to drag her off to France with no one the wiser, using his connections, but we have no reason to look away. She would know this.”

  “Hence the wagon wheel.”

  “But might I remind you, we are not dead.”

  “Yet.” Amy gulped.

  William rose and began to pace. The carpet would be threadbare by the time this case was solved. “All right, let’s go back a bit here. My brain is still trying to take this all in and make sense of it. When you came to your conclusion, did you by any chance stumble upon a motive? We can’t assume she was also in love with St. Vincent and was angry that he was marrying you, as we did with Miss Hemphill.”

  Amy hopped up and strode across the room and picked up a book. She flipped through the pages until she came to where she’d marked it earlier with a slip of paper. She began to read:

  “A feeling of euphoria overcomes the body after an ingestion of opium. One feels happy, relaxed, and in a state of somnolence.” She looked up at William. “Remember seeing Lady Carlisle like that at the club meeting?”

  She looked down at the page again. “When the body is denied the drug, withdrawal is experienced. One can suffer from various discomforts, including agitation, anxiety and stomach cramping.” Amy slammed the book shut and looked up. “Do you also remember the state Lady Carlisle was in when we met her and Mrs. Miles on the street?”

  While William dwelled on that information, she continued. “Another point. If she was spending all the money her husband gives her as an allowance on opium, it follows that she would have to sell her jewelry to continue purchasing it, but without her husband aware of it.”

  “Yes. I concede that she is most likely addicted to opium, but we still have no motive. Why kill the man who brings the much-needed drugs into the country?”

  Amy shrugged. “I’m not too clear on that point. Maybe he threatened to cut her off?”

  “But if we are correct, he was not supplying drugs to individuals, but most likely to Mr. Miles, who, in turn, did the selling.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t say I had it all figured out.”

  He shook his head. “Nevertheless, we must go to the police with this information. We are in over our heads now. If what you say is correct, this is no longer a game, or a fictional murder that you write about.” William stood and tugged on his jacket cuffs. “I suggest we go to the police station now and lay this all out for the detectives.” He looked in her direction and then pointed toward the door.

  “Um, just a minute.”

  He placed his hands on his hips, his frustration evident. “Amy, this is serious now. You cannot continue; it’s too dangerous.”

  “I agree.” She held up her hand when he moved toward the door. “Wait.”

  “What?”

  His suspicious look had the words tumbling out of her. “I am waiting for one more thing.”

  He groaned and hung his head, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand as if not seeing her would make her disappear, like a small child would do when caught doing something wrong. “Amy,” he sighed, “what now?”

  “Lacey has a cousin whose dear friend’s brother’s wife’s sister’s niece, on her husband’s side, that is—”

  “Stop.” He held up his hand. “I’m dizzy.”

  “—works for Lord Carlisle,” she finished, lamely.

  He cupped his chin and studied her for a minute. “And? What does that discombobulated string of relatives and friends have to do with this?”

  “Marion—that’s the woman—is checking to see if a knife is missing from the Carlisle kitchen.”

  When his eyes lit up, she knew he’d forgiven her the hesitation in going immediately to the police. “Yes. If we can ascertain that, there is our proof. We can dump it all in the police department and be done with it.”

  “I agree,” Amy added.

  Maybe.

  * * *

  Three hours later Amy still awaited word from her contact that a knife was indeed missing. She was certain the answer would be in the affirmative. With the elimination of their other suspects, this one made sense. She was still weak on a motive for the murder, but if everything else added up, the police could certainly gain a confession. If she decided to turn their evidence over to them, that is.

  William had left over an hour before to an appointment he could not miss. He’d made her promise that once she had the information on Lady Carlisle, she would wait for him to return and they would go to the police together.

  “I wondered if you would like a carriage ride this afternoon.” Her brother, Michael entered the drawing room, pulling on his fine leather gloves. He was dressed as a gentleman should be for an afternoon out. She studied him, realizing she had never given him much thought throughout their childhood. He was seven years older than her and they were not close, since he’d been sent off to Harrow at a young age, and Amy and her mother had spent most of their time in Bath. Once Michael finished school, he had lived with their father in London, learning how to run their estates. He’d also taken up some of Papa’s favorite causes in Parliament, helping with contacting other members on Papa’s behalf.

  She had never questioned her parents’ living apart most of her life, but now that she was older, she did wonder about it. Mother had detested London and Papa loved it, so that must have had something to do with it. When they were together, they had been pleasant to each other, but almost in a formal, overly polite way. She’d never asked but had always assumed theirs had been an arranged marriage.

  Since Aunt Margaret had made her home in Bath, once Mother died it had been natural for her to take over Amy’s supervision, even though she was only five and twenty herself at the time.

  Although Michael was a nice-looking man of thirty—and if the London newspaper society pages were correct, he enjoyed the company of many women—he had managed to avoid settling down with one woman and setting up his nursery. Amy imagined that with no mother to push him, it could very well be some time before her brother did his duty to his title.

  She assumed that, with Papa a hale and hardy specimen of a man at five and fifty years, the Winchester title would not pass anytime soon to Michael, who currently held Papa’s courtesy title of Earl of Davenport.

  A bit taken aback by his request now, she offered him her sweetest smile. “Oh, how lovely, but I’m afraid I must pass.”

  He was having none of it.

  “Dear sister, I heard Lord Wethington a while ago when I returned. I sincerely hope you were not conspiring with the man again. Father was most adamant that you are to stay as far away from any murder investigation as you can. I am under direct orders to escort you posthaste to London if I even suspect any such thing.”

  She deployed her most surprised and innocent expression. “I have not left the house all morning. Why would you think I am continuing my investigation?”

  Michael crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Your pretend subservience does not work with me, Amy. You might fool Father,
but not me. Why don’t you want to go for a ride? It’s a lovely day and you don’t seem to be hovering over your desk, scribbling murder mysteries.”

  Persephone made her regal entrance, nonexistent tail in the air. Happy for the distraction, Amy scooped the dog into her arms. “I promised Persephone I would give her a bath this afternoon.”

  “We have servants.”

  “Not for Persephone’s bath. She only allows me to do it.”

  Michael studied her a while, then pushed away from the wall. “I will return in about two hours, and I expect you to be here.”

  “Am I a prisoner in my own home, then?”

  “Not a prisoner, but let’s just say you cannot go flitting about town without me knowing where you are and with whom.”

  She wasn’t as annoyed at his edict as she would normally have been, since she was almost certain they were about to solve the mystery of St. Vincent’s murder. Once that was finished, Michael would scurry back to London and she would return to her normal, safe, and happy life.

  Then Amy’s brain moved from murder to romance. “Are you escorting a young lady?”

  Her brother stopped and narrowed his eyes. “I might be. Why?”

  She shrugged. “No reason. I didn’t realize you were familiar with any of the young ladies in Bath, since you don’t leave London very much.”

  “Miss Abernathy spends almost as much time in London as she does in Bath. As it turns out, she is currently visiting her godmother.” He took his hat from Lacey and placed it on his head.

  “Miss Abernathy? How very interesting.”

  Michael walked over to her and tapped her on the nose. “Don’t get any ideas, little sister, and do not begin to plan the wedding breakfast. ’Tis only a ride.” He gave her a slight bow and said, “Do try your very best to stay out of trouble.” With that warning, he left the house.

  Only a ride, indeed. She’d never known Michael to spend time in the company of any young lady who possessed a mother on the hunt for a husband for her daughter. But then again, as she’d noted, he was in London most of the time, and she didn’t really know which respectable ladies he rode with. The society pages mentioned only his escapades.

  She sat in the her favorite chair near the hearth and ran her fingers through Persephone’s fur.

  “My, don’t we look pensive.” Aunt Margaret stopped at the drawing room door, obviously—given her state of dress—also going out for the afternoon.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “The local chapter of the National Society for Women’s Suffrage.” She looked in the mirror on the wall across from the drawing room door and adjusted her hat. “We are making progress.” She turned to Amy and grinned.

  “I wish I could go with you, but I am awaiting an important message.”

  “Not the murder thing again, I hope. If you don’t stop, you will find yourself permanently in London. I know my brother. He is not one to be thwarted.”

  Amy snorted. “You have been thwarting Papa for years.”

  “Yes. That is true.” She smiled. “Well, good luck, then. I am off.”

  It grew near lunchtime, but she had no appetite. She placed Persephone carefully on a soft blanket in front of the fireplace and wandered the room. After a few minutes of the eerie silence with everyone gone, she traipsed up the stairs to her room and drew out a book to distract herself.

  After reading the same paragraph three times, she wandered to the window, looking out at early summer in full bloom and admitting to herself that she really should have gone with Michael. Getting her mind off everything would have been quite pleasant, and she could have learned about the knife upon her return.

  Plus, seeing her brother with Miss Abernathy would have been worth listening to the girl simper and giggle the entire time. Surely her brother was not truly interested in the girl. Amy knew Miss Abernathy from her occasional visits to London—a tittering, eyelash-batting female. She would hate to have her as a sister-in-law.

  She tried again to read a few sentences but gave up. Goodness, it was quiet. The lack of sound was almost making her itch. Tired of trying to force herself to read her current novel, which held no interest, she decided to overcome her fear of the library and search for something from there to read that would take her mind off murder and mayhem.

  The carpet on the stairs muffled her footsteps as she made her way downstairs. Lacey was no longer at the door, most likely busy with other tasks. Why had she never noticed how silent the house was? And furthermore, why was it troubling her so much?

  Hopefully William’s appointment would end soon and he could keep her company. She stood in front of the library door for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned the latch, swinging the door open.

  The room looked the same, smelled the same. It appeared the servants were no longer placing fresh flowers in the room. Although Papa didn’t spend much time in Bath, the room always smelled of him. Tobacco and brandy.

  The first thing she noticed when she entered was the soft breeze that blew from the French doors, ruffling the curtains across the room. Someone had left the doors open, perhaps Michael. He might have used Papa’s desk to do a bit of paperwork.

  He’d never mentioned how long he planned on staying, but she feared he had been ordered to keep her under lock and key until the murder was solved. Well, if she received the needed proof, and she and William reported it all to the police department, Michael would most likely be on the first rail to London.

  She started across the room when a slight sense of unease enveloped her. She chastised herself for being silly, assuring herself that her reaction was merely the unpleasant memory of the night she’d found St. Vincent dead on the floor.

  Her heart pounding—such foolishness—she hurried to the doors and closed them. Letting out a puff of relieved air, she came to an abrupt stop, turned, then stepped back. She drew in a deep breath, and her hand covered her mouth. “What are you doing here?”

  “You really should be more careful about keeping your doors locked.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Amy licked her dry lips as she stared at the very frightening gun pointing in her direction. “Perhaps that’s because most visitors come to the front door and drop the knocker to be admitted to my home.”

  “Not me.”

  “So it seems.” Amy ordered herself to remain calm. She’d written scenes like this in her books, but at the moment she couldn’t remember one single method she’d employed to rescue her main character.

  She moved a few steps from the French doors, hoping to make a run for it, or even scramble under Papa’s desk for cover. “I assume you used the French doors the night you killed Mr. St. Vincent?” She might as well get that out there, since she could think of no other reason why the gun, held by a very steady hand, was pointed directly at her. She hated to admit that the detectives were right; this was a dangerous game she’d been playing.

  The intruder waved the gun around, causing all of Amy’s blood to race to her feet. “No, Mr. St. Vincent had opened the doors and gone out to the patio when I tapped on the glass to summon him.”

  Amy’s eyes roamed the room, looking for anything she could use to defend herself. “He wasn’t surprised to see you standing in my garden? Had you been following him?” Think, Amy, think. Lacey was somewhere in the house and would hopefully wander by the library, since the door to the corridor remained open.

  “You might say.”

  She silently prayed that William’s meeting was over and he was on his way here. Of course, she didn’t want him to walk into a situation where he would be shot, too. If she could keep the conversation going, she might stay alive long enough to think of a way out of this mess. “Can we sit down and discuss this?”

  “No reason to do that, but if you wish, we can chat for a while. I’ve been watching the house and I know Lord Wethington left earlier, and your brother and aunt have gone out. Allowing that most servants use this in-between time to sneak in a nap or run their own p
ersonal errands, I figure we have a few minutes.” She grinned and waved her gun at the settee. “You sit there.”

  Amy took the seat facing the library door and tried her best to calm her pounding heart. Her guest remained standing.

  “You know, we never suspected you.”

  “Maybe not, but you were getting too close. And the crashed carriage didn’t do the job I’d planned.”

  Keep her talking, keep her talking. Once her panic eased and she could think clearly, she might figure a way out of this situation. “I assume you hired someone?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I brought a saw with me to the Assembly Rooms?”

  Foolish question, foolish answer, her Papa always said. She didn’t care how many inane questions she asked, as long as it held off the gun aimed in her direction, cocked and ready to end her life. “How do you propose to get away with this? Lord Wethington will know precisely what happened to me.”

  “I have plans for him, too.”

  Almost as if mentioning his name conjured up his presence, William appeared at the library door, took one quiet, cautious step into the room, and stopped. Thank goodness for the thick carpets that lined the corridor and muted his steps.

  His eyes grew wide when he viewed the scene. Panicked that he might not realize what was going on, she quickly said, “Do be careful with that gun, Mrs. Miles.”

  “I have excellent aim. I’ve been shooting since I was a child.”

  Trying to give William time to assess the situation, Amy said, “How very interesting. I always wished my papa would allow me to shoot.”

  William motioned with his hands for her to drop to the floor. Despite the tense situation, it appeared he wanted her to pretend to faint, and his movements almost made her laugh. He held up five fingers and lowered his thumb, then the next finger. He obviously wanted her to drop when all his fingers were down.

  Three. Two. One.

  She swooned, and William rushed forward and wrapped his right arm around Mrs. Miles from behind. He swung his left arm downward, slamming the edge of his hand against her wrist. The gun hit the floor, landing with a thud.