Riley bit back a retort. It would do him no good to antagonise people who might supply him with vital information. ‘Ladies, I apologise, but lamentably procedures must be followed.’ He smiled and inclined his head towards the seated group of women. The fans flapped and some of the ladies smiled back. ‘I shall need to talk to you all individually, but not all of you need to stay any longer. I will call on you tomorrow.’
A murmur of satisfaction permeated the room as he named the older couples whom he was happy to have leave them, reducing those left to a more manageable twelve, including Amelia. She was not a suspect but possessed a quick mind and tended not to panic in stressful situations—attributes that Riley intended to exploit. He turned to the departing guests.
‘Before you leave, ladies and gentlemen. Somehow the newspapers have already heard about this business and reporters are amassing outside the gates. It might be expedient to join your carriages in the mews, if you don’t mind the slight inconvenience. It will, I can assure you, be preferable to being confronted by the gentlemen of the press.’
Several grunts of approval greeted Riley’s suggestion.
‘Needless to say, if anyone from the papers does try to contact you, no information should be given out.’
‘Well, Rochester,’ Lord Ashton said impatiently when those permitted to leave had done so. ‘What do you hope to achieve by keeping the rest of us from our beds?’
‘I should like, with your permission, to gain an idea of where everyone was before Miss Ferguson’s body was discovered.’
A picture began to emerge that was much as Riley had supposed would be the case. The guests had been invited for a musical evening. Several of the young ladies had performed, including Miss Ferguson. She was an accomplished pianist and her performance had apparently been the highlight of the evening. When the music ended they had all repaired to the dining parlour, where a light supper had been served. After that, the older guests had retired to the drawing room while the younger ones milled about outside, trying to stay cool.
‘That was two hours ago now,’ Lady Ashton said, ‘but it seems more like a lifetime. If only we had known what would happen…but how could we? Miss Ferguson performed very prettily and was much admired, just as she always was.’
‘Excuse me, but did any of the ladies present have anything against her?’
‘I say, Rochester!’ Lord Ashton puffed out his chest. ‘You cannot possibly suppose that a woman was involved in this crime.’
‘I make it a rule never to suppose anything, Lord Ashton. I deal solely in facts and it is the facts of this case that I am attempting to establish. People’s reactions are key in that regard.’
‘I cannot say that anyone seemed especially discomposed.’ It was Mrs Dalton, the mother of one of Miss Ferguson’s contemporaries, who responded. ‘My daughter performed immediately after Emily,’ she said, patting the hand of the daughter in question, seated beside her, ‘and was received just as politely.’
‘I am perfectly sure that she was.’
Gloria Dalton, a pretty enough girl in her own right when not compared to Emily, blushed when Riley smiled at her.
‘There really isn’t much more to tell,’ Lady Ashton said. ‘We took an informal supper and then, as you already know, most of our younger guests took advantage of the slight breeze on the terrace. Not that there was much of a breeze to be had.’ Riley nodded, recalling his inability to cool his own drawing room. ‘That wouldn’t deter the young people, of course. Any excuse for a moment or two on a darkened terrace,’ she said, sending a glance towards her son, Terrance.
‘You were on the terrace, Mr Ashton?’ Riley directed the question to Terrance. ‘Did you happen to see Miss Ferguson?’
‘She was hard to miss,’ he replied shortly.
Riley gave Terrance a sharp look. There was something about his tone that stirred his suspicions. Terrance Ashton’s eyes were reddened, as though he’d been crying. He was grieving, Riley realised. Perhaps the only person in the room who actually was. He made a mental note to ask his mother if young Ashton had been one of Emily’s admirers. His mother was bound to know. Had his suit been rejected? Had he observed Emily making eyes at another man? Was his pride hurt and did he take the ultimate revenge? The Ashtons were filthy rich and despite the fact that Terrace wasn’t titled and didn’t stand to inherit his father’s courtesy title, he was still considered a good catch.
‘Wherever Emily went,’ Terrance said on a note of pride, ‘she was universally popular with both sexes.’ So was Terrance, Riley thought—and like his father he was accustomed to getting his own way. If Emily hadn’t returned his affections, what impulsive actions might he have taken to salve his wounded pride? ‘Not sure how we’ll get along without her.’ Terrance swallowed several times, as though fighting back fresh tears. ‘She was a diamond without equal.’
‘We will recover in time, Mr Ashton,’ Miss Dalton assured him, her eyes wide with compassion. ‘We must comfort one another as best we can and remember that Emily has gone to a better place.’
‘I’d much rather have her here with us now,’ Terrance replied with minimum civility.
‘I will speak with you all individually tomorrow,’ Riley said. ‘It is late now, and I am conscious of detaining you. But before you leave, can any of you remember seeing anything out of the ordinary at about the time Emily was killed. That would have been at approximately nine o-clock. Immediately after supper was served.’
Peter Granville, a tall, lean and serious young man whom Riley rather liked, pushed himself from the wall. ‘We were all of us,’ he said, indicating Terrance and Michael Leith, the other two young men in the room, ‘walking about outside. Miss Ferguson, Miss Dalton and Miss Ashton,’ he added, nodding towards Terrance’s sister Prudence, ‘were with us. Someone called Miss Ferguson’s name from inside the house, she went to see what they wanted and…well, we never saw her again.’
‘Was it a man or a woman?’ Riley asked sharply.
‘A woman, I think.’ He looked to the others for clarification and they nodded.
‘Emily thought it was her mother,’ Prudence, who looked pale and anxious, said.
‘And the rest of you stayed together after Miss Ferguson left you?’
‘Well, no,’ Miss Dalton said hesitatingly. ‘The gentlemen escorted Prudence and I back into the drawing room—’
‘You didn’t go through the music room?’ Riley asked, more in hope than expectation of receiving a positive response.
‘No.’ It was Prudence who answered. ‘The boys spoke of playing billiards so they left us at the doors to the drawing room and went across the hall to the billiards room.’
‘I see. Did you all play?’ Riley asked, looking to the three young men.
‘Yes, of course. I say, you don’t seriously suspect any of us, do you?’ Granville asked, looking naively outraged. ‘We all adored Emily. None of us would have harmed a hair on her head.’
‘It is my job to ask testing questions,’ Riley replied calmly. ‘And since you all liked Miss Ferguson so much, I should have thought you would be as keen as I am to discover who amongst you did not like her. Someone clearly did not, or she wouldn’t be dead.’
‘I keep telling you, Rochester,’ Lord Ashton said impatiently. ‘It must have been an intruder.’
‘My men searched the grounds for signs of a possible intruder’s entry point. Thus far they have found nothing. It’s too dark for them to continue now but if you would kindly ensure that no one goes into the gardens, Lord Ashton, they will continue their search at first light.’
Ashton nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘But, I must warn you that the possibly of an intruder having committed the crime is remote. Quite apart from anything else, he would have had to get past all of you young people on the terrace without being seen.’
‘Perhaps he broke in while we were all at supper and then found himself trapped in the music room,’ Ashton sugg
ested, looking somewhat smug to have come up with a plausible explanation.
‘Possibly, but for the fact that nothing was disturbed and nothing stolen. There are some small and valuable pieces of silver in that room. No self-respecting burglar would leave them behind. You can take my word for it. Besides, if none of you called to Miss Ferguson from this room, ladies, then the person doing the calling must have been in the music room already, and would have become the intruder’s natural victim.’
Ashton grunted but had no response to make.
‘I imagine Mrs Ferguson will remain here for the night, Lady Ashton.’
‘Oh yes, the poor dear, she was near hysterical when Emily was found. Thankfully, whatever the doctor gave her has made her sleep. I have my maid sitting with her.’
‘Thank you.’ Riley inclined his head. ‘Please tell Mrs Ferguson that I shall return in the morning and speak with her then.’
‘Ferguson is in India,’ Ashton said. ‘We have sent a telegram and I assume he will return home immediately. Emily was his only child.’
Everyone was momentarily quiet. Even Ashton suddenly appeared to be moved by the gravity of Emily’s senseless death.
‘Then I will wish you all good night,’ Riley said. ‘Mrs Cosgrove,’ he added, turning towards Amelia. ‘Did you bring your carriage?’
Riley asked because he knew Amelia didn’t keep one, even though she could easily afford to, and wouldn’t put it past her to travel home alone by cab. Irresponsible woman!
‘Actually, I came with Mary Ferguson,’ Amelia replied.
‘And Mrs Ferguson’s carriage is still in your mews?’ Riley turned to Lord Ashton for confirmation.
‘It has not been dismissed,’ he replied shortly.
‘Very well. I need to speak with her coachmen, so I will escort you home, Mrs Cosgrove.’
Amelia looked to be on the point of protesting, glanced at the other people in the room and graciously acquiesced. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
Chapter Three
The gloomy mews smelled of restless horses that had been cooped up in the heat for too long. The bulk of the house blocked out the gaslights from the streets outside, and the air was thick and humid. Bridles clinked and the muttered conversation from the coachmen told Riley all he needed to know. News of the murder had spread like an epidemic through their ranks. Riley scowled as he opened a gate that gave direct access to the mews. It was unlocked. All conversations stopped when the coachmen noticed Riley and Amelia approaching.
‘I am Detective Inspector Rochester,’ Riley told the dozen or so men. ‘My sergeant, I assume, has taken your names.’
All heads bobbed. There was a brief mutter of assent.
‘Did any of you see anything out of the ordinary at about the time Miss Ferguson was attacked? It would have been at around nine o’clock.’
‘We was all in the kitchen then,’ one of the coachmen said. ‘Supper had finished above stairs and we were invited in to partake of the leftovers.’
‘Convenient,’ Amelia said in an undertone.
Or a deliberate ploy on the part of a very clever murderer, Riley thought. If the man was a paid killer, he would know that the outdoor servants traditionally went into the kitchens to eat once the gentry had been served. Perhaps Lord Ashton’s intruder theory wasn’t so far-fetched after all. Riley had not dismissed the possibility that someone had been paid to murder the poor girl and that his best opportunity to gain access to the grounds unobserved would have through the mews when the coachmen were at supper. Only a couple of them would have been left in charge of the carriages and horses. An assailant could have slipped through the gate, into the gardens and thence onto the terrace without being seen from the mews. Riley turned and walked back to the unlocked gate. He swung it open and closed again. Silence. The hinges were either well maintained or freshly oiled. It was too dark to see them, but he resolved to have them checked at first light.
‘Who summoned you?’ Riley asked.
‘One of Lord Ashton’s footmen,’ their self-appointed spokesman replied. ‘He unlocked the gate and just motioned us all in. We was waiting to be called. Thought we’d been forgotten, so we did, and were sharp set so we didn’t hang about.’
‘Think carefully, all of you. Did the footman relock the gate once you’d all walked through it?’
Riley’s question brought confusion and loud, outright contradictions, resulting in agreement that no one knew for sure. Riley was aware that if he asked the footman in question he would insist that he did relock the gate. He was also aware that just as the aristocrats in the drawing room had banded together against his intrusion, the servants out here would make certain they backed up the footman’s assertion that he had locked the gate, whether he had done so or not. Ashton would be within his rights to dismiss him for dereliction of duty if he had been negligent about security, especially if that negligence could have resulted in the death of a young woman. The mews was shared by the half-dozen houses that had direct access to them. It was an increasingly common economy in an overcrowded city where space was at a premium.
‘Are only Lord Ashton’s horses and his guests’ carriages using the mews tonight?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ the loquacious coachman replied. ‘All the other houses what use ’em are closed up for the summer.’
That at least decreased the likelihood of anyone connected to them having taken advantage of the footman’s lapse, if a lapse had taken place. It was possible that the footman might have deliberately left the gate unlocked on someone’s specific instructions. The fact that only Lord Ashton’s house was currently occupied and that an influx of carriages showed he was entertaining might well have attracted the attention of opportunistic ne’er-do-wells.
Or equally opportunistic scoundrels with murder on their minds.
‘Very well,’ Riley said, convinced that the coachmen had told him all they knew, or at least all they were prepared to say in front of others. Experience had taught him that individual interviews after the event often elicited a surprising amount of recently recalled information. ‘Someone will speak with all of you tomorrow to see if there’s anything useful you can add. Something might occur to you that doesn’t seem obvious or relevant at the moment. Have any strangers been seen loitering around, that sort of thing.’ The mews led directly to a passageway that was just wide enough to accommodate a carriage, giving out onto the street through an elaborate archway. There were a hundred places where a person could conceal themselves until the appropriate moment, Riley thought gloomily. ‘In the meantime, not a word to anyone about tonight’s occurrences. I feel sure you are all as anxious as I am to catch the person who—’
‘That we are,’ said the spokesman. His fellow coachmen nodded vigorously.
‘Well then, a word out of place will make it that much harder for my men and me to get to the truth, especially if it’s plastered all over the newspapers.’
‘Some of those journalist chaps tried coming round here. We sent ’em off with a flea in their ear soon enough.’
‘Excellent.’ Riley slapped the man’s meaty shoulder, unsurprised that even tenacious newspapermen on the trail of a juicy story hadn’t dared to tangle with him. ‘Now then, which of you is Mrs Ferguson’s coachman?’
‘That would be me, sir.’
A small wiry man stepped forward, dressed in livery of green and gold. To Riley’s practised eye, it looked second or third hand. That deduction was supported by the fact that one of the man’s coat cuffs was frayed. Another, taller man in a similar uniform joined the first. Riley assumed he was the footman who presence would add necessary protection for two ladies travelling alone through London at night. The footman would be armed and, judging by the fact that he was considerably younger and larger than the driver, well able to look after himself if an altercation arose.
‘Your names?’
‘I’m Lloyd, sir, and this here is Jute.’
�
�Very well, Lloyd. You will drive Mrs Cosgrove back to Chelsea now, if you please. I will accompany her.’
‘Right away, sir,’ Lloyd replied, scurrying off to ready his conveyance.
‘Lord, doesn’t Jute look upset,’ Amelia said as Riley helped her into the carriage and climbed in after her. Jute put up the steps and joined Lloyd on the box seat. Riley caught a brief glimpse of his profile in the light cast by the carriage lantern. He was a handsome young man with angled cheekbones, a strong jaw and a shock of thick brown hair curling beneath the brim of his hat. His features were rigid and there was genuine sorrow in the murky depths of his eyes. Jute, unless Riley missed his guess, was another young man who had fallen under Miss Emily Ferguson’s spell, and probably blamed himself for failing to protect her when she had been in dire need of his services.
Lloyd whipped up his horses and the carriage jolted off.
‘The coachmen seem to be taking Emily’s death personally,’ Amelia remarked.
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Ashton’s attitude makes me ashamed to acknowledge him as a member of the ruling classes. He doesn’t give two jots about poor Emily. All he cares about is his stupid reputation,’ Amelia said with a mutinous scowl. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that Ashton was given a courtesy title by the queen in return for services to the empire. What those services were I can’t begin to imagine…’
‘Ashton is a private banker. At least his father was,’ Riley said. ‘He had a small country bank at the time of the crash in 1825. Ashton was a young man at the time, but it’s said it was he who saw the opportunity to improve the family’s circumstances at a time when men were blowing their brains out because they’d lost everything. He persuaded his father to buy up the debts of those who could be of use to him and…well, the results you saw for yourself tonight. The younger Ashton moved to London and started Ashton’s Investment Bank, using the names of those his father had rescued to gain similar customers. I very much doubt if those debts were ever repaid but that was never Ashton’s intention. Getting a title and a toehold into society was, and he succeeded. Young Terrance is being trained to step into his father’s shoes as chairman of Ashton Investments.’
Death of a Debutante (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 1) Page 4