A Lady's Guide to Gossip and Murder

by Dianne Freeman

  He gave instructions to the driver and climbed in beside me. “That should be plenty of time and I doubt you’ll want to miss this.”

  “Just where are we going?”

  “You sound rather suspicious.”

  “That grin you’re wearing is decidedly mischievous. I am suspicious.”

  The grin became a smirk. “I think it’s time we took our investigation to Mr. Norton’s home, don’t you?”

  “Are you joking?” I gestured to the window. “It’s broad daylight.”

  “Ah, Frances.” He placed a hand over his heart and heaved a theatrical sigh. “You don’t wish to be seen with me.”

  “I don’t wish to be seen breaking into someone’s home, with or without you. How can you even consider it?”

  “That doesn’t say much for your sense of adventure, but as you wish.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a latchkey.

  “Norton’s key, I presume?” I angled my head to scowl at him around the brim of my hat. “I suppose you think you’re very clever.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d say very clever. But more so than the average lout.”

  “How did you obtain it?”

  “I discovered it when we inspected Norton’s office the other day.”

  “But the office had been cleaned. There was nothing in his desk.”

  “Yes, but there was an overcoat hanging in the closet.” He tossed the key in the air and caught it in an elegant motion. “This key was in the pocket.”

  My lips parted on a gasp. “Delaney missed it?”

  “Delaney wasn’t the inspector in charge, remember? Besides, the police wouldn’t have needed this key to enter Norton’s flat. They simply would have acquired one from the landlord.”

  “Then it’s likely the police have already searched his flat.”

  He nodded. “But if they missed this key, one wonders what they might have missed at his home.”

  I gazed at him in admiration. “I’m beginning to think you are very clever. But what of this landlord you mentioned? Key or no key, won’t he be curious about two strangers entering Norton’s flat?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m hoping he won’t be in residence, but at any rate, we’ll soon find out.”

  We must be near our destination then. I hadn’t paid attention to our route. Curious, I glanced out the window. The area looked familiar. “Isn’t that Portman Square?”

  He stretched across me to see for himself, his hands on the window frame next to my head. “It is indeed.”

  “But aren’t we going to Mr. Norton’s home?” I tried, and failed, to push him back to his seat. Instead, he turned toward me, his devilish grin mere inches from my face. I laughed and pushed against his chest.

  “For goodness’ sake, sit down.”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re thinking. I can see you’ve almost put it together.”

  “Very well. We are on Baker Street, are we not?”

  He gave me a nod.

  “Was Mr. Norton by chance a neighbor to Mary Archer?”

  “Excellent detection, Lady Harleigh.” He dropped a kiss on my nose and moved back to his seat.

  “I’d been wondering how she’d come to work for him. If they were neighbors, they must have known each other casually at least. Though I’m surprised he lived in Mayfair.”

  “He didn’t. He was at least a block north of Mrs. Archer’s home, which places him in Marylebone. Does that better suit your aristocratic sensibilities?”

  I threw him a dark glare. “I’m no snob, George, as you well know. Mayfair is an expensive area to live. I simply wondered how he could afford it. Since we’d previously suspected blackmail. . .” I lifted my shoulder, allowing the words to trail off.

  A smile spread across his lips like a slow-moving stream. “Have I told you I love the way your mind works?”

  Was he never serious? “How long have you known they were neighbors?”

  His smile inched down on one side. “I’m ashamed to admit, only since this morning when I finally checked the direction Mosley had written for me.”

  The carriage stopped before a large, double-fronted house and we climbed out. George told his driver to walk the horses then escorted me at a quick clip to the first door of the house, fitted the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and drew me inside. I barely had a chance to blink.

  Far from the bachelor quarters I’d expected, the house was compact but cozy. The entry led into a parlor in one direction and a stairway in the other. We both moved to the small parlor. I glanced around while George turned up the gas on the fixture overhead. Two cozy armchairs sat in front of the hearth, a low table between them. Two matching chairs stood against the wall, ready to be pulled into service near the hearth if needed. A desk and writing table took up a considerable space under the window.

  “What’s your impression?” He moved beside me.

  “It’s incredibly tidy, wouldn’t you say? I know Mr. Norton wasn’t killed here, but wouldn’t the police have come to search the house?”

  His lips compressed to a thin line. “If they have, someone’s clearly cleaned up after them. There may be no point in searching, but since we’re here, we might just as well.”

  “Search for what, in particular?” I asked.

  “Paperwork, I’d wager. Documents, perhaps even photographs. If they were going to expose someone, they had to keep the evidence somewhere.”

  “If the murderer doesn’t already have it.”

  He shrugged. “That’s always been a possibility.” He waved a hand toward the desk. “Why don’t you start here? I’ll search the rest of the house for a safe or some other hiding place.”

  It seemed highly unlikely I’d find anything worthwhile in the desk. I heard George move through the dining room as I ran my gloved fingers over the writing table. Not so much as a speck of dust. With a shrug, I lowered the writing panel of the desk to reveal a clutter of paper and stuffed cubbyholes. Ah, perhaps I’d been too hasty in my judgment.

  I pulled the chair over and began my search with the loose pages, scanning them and placing them upside down in a stack. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Cubbyholes next. Removing some rolled papers from the first one sent up a cloud of dust. I made a mental note to clean my own desk as I shook out the pages. How long did it take for so much dust to collect? A letter within the rolled pages was dated more than a year ago. Not likely to help.

  My gaze landed on an envelope in one of the center cubbies, one not coated with dust. I pulled it out and saw Mr. Norton’s name written across the front. My heart beat a little faster when I recognized Mary’s writing. I pulled out the note inside and groaned. The same bloody note we’d found in Mary’s file. The one we couldn’t decipher. If she’d sent a copy to Norton, it must be important.

  A scream tore through the silence, followed by a growl of pain.

  George! I jumped to my feet and rushed toward the sound. It had come from the back of the house, probably the kitchen. Passing through the dining room, I swept up a large glass pitcher, then pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  Highly placed windows lined the back wall, allowing for abundant sunlight. But it was the room’s occupants that made me blink. George leaned against the wall near the door, his teeth barred and his hand pressed against his head.

  “Dammit, woman! That hurt.”

  He was not speaking to me. Backed up against a worktable stood a gray-haired, rather round woman. She wore a dark maid’s uniform with a stained white apron and wielded a broom like a broadsword.

  She lunged toward me and I held up the pitcher as if that would protect me. In one swipe, George grabbed the straw end of the broom and wrenched it from her hands.

  “We aren’t here to hurt you,” I said. “Or to steal anything. We’re completely harmless.”

  Without her weapon she appeared older and quite defenseless. Still, she fairly spat at me. “Then whotcher doin’ ’ere?”

 
; “We’re investigating a murder.” George’s voice was thick with suspicion. “The question is, what are you doing here?”

  “The landlord asked me to come an’ give the place a clean.” She straightened her spine and stretched herself up to a height that would place her barely at the top of my shoulder.

  Still holding the broom, he stepped around the worktable and pushed open a door along the side of the room, revealing a cramped sleeping quarters. The sheets on the bed were tumbled. He raised a brow as he turned back to the woman. “Did he ask you to move in as well?”

  She sniffed. “It’s where I used to live afore Mr. Norton died and the landlord threw me out. Now I’m back in.”

  “You were his housekeeper?” She was the most unkempt housekeeper I’d ever seen.

  “I cooked for ’em. Cleaned this ’ouse and others around ’ere.” Her gaze took in the both of us. “You really investigatin’ ’is murder?”

  George closed the bedroom door and gestured to the dining room. “Perhaps we should sit down and have a chat.”

  Seated around the table, George explained our mission, which was of some interest to the woman, whose name, we learned, was Mrs. Wiggins. She told us of her own bustling, if exhausting, enterprise. In exchange for room and board, she cooked and cleaned for Mr. Norton, took in some light laundry, and cleaned five other houses in the neighborhood, including Mary Archer’s.

  “It was me wot introduced them,” she said, with a sad shake of her head. “Not long after ’er ’usband passed, I could tell money was running low. She let all the servants go and put me on one day a week. I mentioned ’er situation to Mr. Norton and ’e got the idea to give ’er some work. Never dreamed it’d lead to such a bad end. But you think it’s whot she wrote whot got ’em killed?”

  “Do you know what she wrote?” I asked.

  “Just gossip ’bout toffs, far as I know. She wasn’t too keen on it at first. Took ’er to the market down the street a-ways, and we got into a good jaw-waggin’ with some friends of mine. They started givin’ her bits and bobs regular-like, so from there I left’er on’er own. Don’t know whot she’d write that’d make someone kill ’er. Kill ’em both.”

  There was regret, and horror, in the woman’s eyes. I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I don’t think it was something she wrote, but something she planned to write. Something much bigger. And I think I know what it is.”

  I almost laughed at the expressions of astonishment on both their faces.

  “Let me get it.” I slipped in to the parlor and returned with the cryptic note, handing it to George. “Mary has one exactly like it except hers is older. She must have copied it for Norton.”

  Though he looked skeptical, I persisted. “It’s the only one we haven’t deciphered and the only one I found in Norton’s desk. There was nothing else from Mary here. It must have something to do with the column they were about to publish.”

  His brows dipped downward as he stared at the note. “But what does it say?”

  I sighed. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  The conversation with Mrs. Wiggins kept us longer than anticipated. We left her at Mr. Norton’s house—the poor woman had nowhere else to go after all—and made it through the light traffic swiftly. Still, a cab was already waiting at my door when we pulled up.

  Climbing out of George’s carriage, I held up one finger to the cabman and slipped into the house where Lily awaited me in the hall, bouncing on her toes with excitement.

  “Thank heavens, you made it,” she said. “Are you ready?”

  There was no time to change, but I supposed I was presentable. I took a glance in the wall mirror, to be sure. Straightening my hat, I turned and gave her a smile. “Let’s be off.”

  There was just room for the two of us in the open cab. Lily closed the half door in front of us and once we were cozily settled and moving down the street, I caught some of her enthusiasm. “Have you considered the color and fabric for your dress? As it’s your engagement party, all eyes will be on you.”

  Wisps of Lily’s fair hair floated in the breeze. She pulled them away from her face and gave me a curious frown.

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “Why is there a veil on your hat?”

  I instinctively lifted my hand to my hat. The veil was still tucked neatly around the brim. “Oh, this? I didn’t want to be recognized.”

  “Why not? Where on earth did Mr. Hazelton take you?” Indignation raised her voice an octave.

  “To the office of the Daily Observer.” I saw no need to mention the search of Mr. Norton’s house. “I didn’t want anyone to see me and suspect I was the new Miss Information.”

  “Ah, the investigation.” She placed a gloved hand on my arm and leaned in. “For a moment I wondered if the two of you had just come from a clandestine rendezvous.”

  I chuckled. “There was no romance involved in our errand today, I assure you.”

  Lily tilted her head as she studied me. “Perhaps not today, but surely you have some sort of understanding?”

  “We do not.” I watched her expression to make sure she understood me. “I hope you haven’t mentioned that to anyone else.”

  “Of course not.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Well, just Lottie and Aunt Hetty.” She glanced nervously at my scowl. “And Mr. Evingdon.”

  “You’ve discussed this among you?” I turned to the window to hide my reddened cheeks. “Have the lot of you settled on a wedding date?”

  “I thought spring would be nice.”

  “Lily!” I snapped my head back around.

  She huffed. “I’m joking, Frances. But I truly don’t know what you’re waiting for. Neither of you grows any younger.”

  It was my turn to huff. “What makes you think he wants to marry me? I’m an aging widow, as you just pointed out, with a child and no fortune. I have nothing to offer a man like George. Mr. Hazelton, that is.”

  Lily turned on me with an expression of exaggerated patience. “I think he wants to marry you because he clearly admires you. I see how he looks at you, how he spends as much time as possible in your company, even to the point of sharing his work with you.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

  “Mr. Hazelton isn’t required to find a bride with an illustrious lineage or buckets of money. He’s a third son. He can marry whom he chooses, and it’s clear you are his choice. I just don’t understand why he hasn’t already asked you.”

  My fingers twined together as I gazed off at the passing traffic, the roof of the cab, anywhere but at my sister. “Ah, well . . .”

  Lily’s gasp nearly jolted me from my seat. I turned to see her clutching her chest as if in pain. “He has asked you!”

  “Ah, um. Well.”

  “And you demurred.” She shook her head in amazement. “What is wrong with you, Frances? Don’t even consider trying to tell me you don’t love him.”

  The cab jerked to a stop before I could form a response.

  “Ah, here we are.” Lily released a little squeal of excitement and clutched my arm. “I’m getting married, Frances. I only hope Leo and I will have the type of relationship you and Mr. Hazelton share.”

  Gathering her skirts in one hand, she pushed open the door and climbed out, then popped her head back into the cab, eyes wide, blond curls bouncing.

  “Well?”

  I collected myself and followed her out to the street. My sister was moving faster than me in more ways than one.

  * * *

  Madame Celeste was my favorite modiste. It made no difference if Lily stopped in for half a dozen new gowns, or if I brought in old gowns to be refurbished. She treated us each as if we were her favorite customer. The moment the bell jingled on the door, Madame took Lily into her care. She led us to a dressing room, positioned Lily before a full-length mirror, and began draping her in bright silks to see the effect of each color on her skin.

&nb
sp; With Lily’s hat in my custody, I took a seat off to the side of the small room where I could watch the proceedings and listen to their chatter, while indulging my thoughts. Lily had asked a very good question—what was wrong with me? When I married Reggie, I was a commodity on the marriage market. He enjoyed the revenues, but I held no other place in his life—just an investment he’d purchased with his title.

  Lily was right. I had no evidence to believe George viewed me in that manner. The little evidence I did have indicated quite the opposite. A life with him would be completely different from my first marriage. Wouldn’t it?

  The bell on the door jangled again, causing Madame to jerk around in surprise.

  “I’ll be just a moment, ma petite,” she said before swishing through the curtain separating this room from the front of the shop.

  “How do you like this color?” Lily asked, as I heard Madame Celeste greet Lady Caroline Archer in the other room.

  Lily drew a length of deep violet silk across her shoulders. I examined the effect in the mirror while straining to hear the exchange outside the curtain. “Perhaps the rose,” I said, wishing they’d raise their voices just a bit. I couldn’t hear a thing.

  “No, I already have too much of that color. Maybe the blue?”

  “I’m sure that would be lovely, dear. Excuse me a moment, won’t you?”

  Damn my curiosity. I parted the curtain and stepped out. “Caroline, I thought that was you.” My polite smile faded with the coldness of her gaze.

  She turned back to Madame Celeste. “So, tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, my lady. Everything should be ready by then.”

  “Excellent.” She picked up her bag from the counter and flicked a quick glance my way. “Lady Harleigh, if you have a moment?”

  Clearly relieved at the dismissal, Madame backed through the curtains where Lily waited for her. I turned to Caroline in confusion.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She looped her reticule over her wrist and adjusted her glove. “Well, if you consider bringing a murderer into my home wrong, then yes, something is wrong.”