Michael studied the man, whose distress was evident but somehow also excessive. “We understand your concerns, Mr. Radcliffe, but an autopsy is necessary. We do not know how she died.”
“What does it matter?” Radcliffe turned angry eyes on him. “She is gone!” He gulped back a sob and leaned over the body. He kissed her cheek, and cried, “Marie, why? Darling, why have you left me?”
Winston caught Michael’s eyes, one brow raised, as he subtly took hold of Mr. Radcliffe’s arm and tugged him back. “Come along, sir. Let us go somewhere we can discuss the matter.”
“You cannot cut her open! I tell you right now, all three of you, that if you do so, you will kill her mother—her demise will be on your heads. I am going to visit the magistrate to see this madness halted immediately.”
Winston led the man from the room, and Michael murmured to Dr. Neville, “Examine as thoroughly as you can without conducting the actual autopsy. Photograph extensively. Perhaps we shall have enough to determine whether we need an inquest.” He looked at the doorway where Radcliffe and Winston had departed, and frowned. “Something is not right.”
When the moment is at hand and one happens upon her perfect mate, would that her heart recognizes him. She might then know it is true love as surely as if the clouds had parted and angelic choirs sang to honor the occasion.
—From “Essays on Eternal Bliss” by Miss A. Hampton,
The Marriage Gazette
Four months later
Rain poured and wind gusted; the cold autumn day had been a long one. Evenly spaced gas lamps punctuated the dark streets with flickering shards of light. Michael stood under the awning of a dress shop that had closed for the evening. Near the dress shop was a charming restaurant, and across the street stood a young woman.
The woman shivered in the cold and appeared to be watching a couple seated inside the restaurant near a window. She held a small, ineffectual umbrella with one gloved hand while the other clutched the edges of her coat together at her throat. The hat atop her brown hair was simple in style with few adornments, one of which was a long feather that drooped to the side under the weight of the weather.
A shopgirl, he guessed, or perhaps one of London’s many new professional middle-class girls who worked as a typist or in some similar occupation. She was well-dressed, but not extravagantly so, and he suspected she led a moderately sheltered life. There was a wide-eyed look of innocence about her that was evident, even though her eyes were squinting against the wind and rain.
Or she could be very good at affecting such an image. Perhaps acting the innocent while helping a predator lure unsuspecting victims into his trap might be the game she played.
Michael had been watching her for nearly thirty minutes and was certain the object of her attention was the couple seated near the window. She had arrived before they did, had observed the initial meeting between Harold Radcliffe and a young woman, and scrutinized them closely when they entered for dinner. She’d turned away for a moment, but then returned her focus to Radcliffe and his companion. She’d been watching them—and Michael had been watching her—ever since.
Two months had passed since Radcliffe had taken the body of his late wife, Marie, home to her family in Marseilles. Dr. Neville had noted several suspicious details during his cursory examination of Marie’s body, and Michael had begun gathering paperwork necessary to force an autopsy when the department had been served with cease and desist orders involving the death of Marie Verite Radcliffe.
The judge signing the order was one Michael knew fairly well. But when Michael requested an explanation, Judge Adams had advised the detective to “let this one go.” Michael had wanted to press the issue further; but though Adams ostensibly advised caution, his words had come out sounding more threatening than friendly.
And now, Radcliffe had returned to Town, resuming his work as a solicitor at the Chancery. He’d told his clients that he had used the time away to grieve and was now prepared to face life as best as a widowed man could.
To Michael’s eyes, there was something about him that brought to mind a salesman of outlandish medical cures. He had known the type both in school as a young man and as an officer, having had apprehended more than a few such men in his career.
Radcliffe was the kind of person who believed himself superior in intellect and was so confident in his own charms and cleverness as to get away with the proverbial murder. Perhaps literal murder. Michael spent his evenings tailing the man, unbeknownst to Director Ellis but with full support from Nathaniel Winston, whose suspicions had also only grown when they had been ordered to stop investigating Mrs. Radcliffe’s death.
Which was how Michael came to be standing in the darkening autumn night, quietly observing the young woman who watched Radcliffe with an intensity Michael recognized in himself. It could be that the little spy was an associate of Radcliffe’s dinner partner, but the partner had arrived at the restaurant before Radcliffe had, and the spy had not alerted the woman to her presence.
Michael had learned to trust his instincts, and they told him the spy was somehow involved. After a few more moments, she turned to leave, and he decided to follow. No sooner had he taken a step forward than a full omnibus crossed between them, followed by another carriage, and then another.
When the vehicles cleared, the woman was gone. He muttered a curse under his breath and quickly crossed the street, looking left and right, finally catching a glimpse of her skirt as she disappeared into the thickly wooded park nearby.
He followed her into the darkness of the trees and blinked at the loss of light.
A rustle ahead and to his right betrayed her location, and once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he hurried forward. He caught sight of her skirt again as she made her way quickly toward the park’s center. She paused at the edge of a manicured clearing to pop open her umbrella again.
A single lamp offered scant light over the trim green lawn, and as she stepped toward it, he called out to her. “Miss? Detective Baker, Criminal Investigations Division.”
She gasped and whirled around, clearly startled, only to stumble and land hard on the ground. As she attempted to stand, she stammered, “Leave me alone! I shall scream!”
He opened his jacket to reveal his badge. “I mean you no harm! I am a detective, and I must ask you a few questions. Here—” He extended his hand and took long strides toward her as she scrambled along the ground. “Stop!”
She finally obeyed, gulping down a breath. “What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong. Rarely am I alone after dark, I mind my own business, and I . . . I do not walk the streets!”
He blinked. “Miss, I am hardly accusing you of anything, much less of walking the streets. Please, take my hand.”
He reached down and clasped her fingers, which were cold through her thin gloves. Her lips were blue, and she’d dropped her umbrella. Her hat had fallen off, and the rain made quick work of her coiffure. He might have known a moment’s pity if he didn’t suspect her of dubious association with a man he firmly believed was a criminal.
He pulled her to her feet, bracing her elbow as she steadied herself and shook her sodden skirt. She looked at him with dismay in her wide eyes, and then back down at her clothing, which was smeared with mud and dead leaves.
He picked up her umbrella and hat, handing them both to her, wary, as the look in her eyes shifted from fear to indignation.
“What is the meaning of this? I have done absolutely nothing wrong!” Even bedraggled, she was a pretty girl. Marie Verite Radcliffe had also been pretty. Radcliffe seemed to gravitate toward a certain type of woman, and Michael suspected the man’s handsome face and artificial charm went a long way toward aiding his efforts.
Michael was soaked to the skin. He’d foolishly left his umbrella at the Yard, and his hat shielded him only so much. “Come with me, just back a few steps into the trees.” He put one
hand under her elbow again and extended the other. “As I said from the beginning, I only want to ask you a few questions.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she sniffled, fumbling with the closure on her reticule. She withdrew a lacy handkerchief and wiped her nose.
“Please, miss, I am drenched, it is late, and I am cold.”
She met his eyes for another prolonged moment before finally nodding once. “Only just right there,” she said as they began walking back to the trees.
“Of course.” He dropped his hand once they were better shielded from the rain. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, shivering involuntarily at the cold droplets that slipped down his neck and soaked into his collar.
He let his breath out on a short sigh and offered the woman a tight smile. “Again, I am Detective Baker. Might I have the pleasure of your name?”
She shook her umbrella to the side, her eyes darting to his face and then away. “My name is Miss Amelie Hampton.” She attempted to place her hat on her head, but it wouldn’t stay. She muttered something under her breath.
Michael caught the soggy thing as it fell. “Haven’t you a hatpin?” he asked, handing it back to her.
“I forget them.” Her brows drew together in a light frown.
“Now, then, Miss Emily Hampton, is it?”
“AHmelie, not EMily.” She shook raindrops from her hat, frowning at the broken feather.
“‘Hampton’? As in the Hamptons?”
Her lips tightened. “I fear ours is the Notorious Branch of the Hampton family.” She paused, then hastily added, “I am not notorious, however! Quite the opposite. I am the picture of circumspection and obedience to the law.”
He frowned. “Miss Hampton, I’ll be brief. What is your association with Mr. Harold Radcliffe?”
She stared, mouth dropping open, and then she swallowed. She took the slightest of steps away from him, and he braced himself to pounce should she try again to run. His instincts had been correct; the young woman definitely knew Radcliffe.
She didn’t run, but shook her head. “I do not know what you mean.” Her eyes dropped from his face to his chest.
“I believe you do know what I mean. Perhaps you would be more comfortable continuing this conversation at the Yard.”
Her eyes were huge, and even in the dim light, he noted her additional pallor. He was growing less sympathetic by the moment. She knew Radcliffe, she was reluctant to reveal their relationship, and she was playing him for a fool. The innocent act was truly just that.
“No! No, I did not mean to learn his identity, truly! Or even see him. That is, I did not know beforehand who he would be, but just now I realized he was someone I recognized . . .” She trailed off and swallowed hard. “I wanted only to be sure the couple got on, that their meeting was agreeable. Miss Franklin has high hopes for this dinner, but she was afraid she would faint on the spot when meeting the gentleman. I wanted to be sure she was happy, and I couldn’t force myself to wait for her report tomorrow. I assure you, I never intended to learn anything beyond that!” She paused in her ramblings and took a breath. “Are you tailing Miss Franklin? Did her mother retain you?” She frowned. “Would the woman truly hire someone to follow her daughter?”
He looked at her in confusion. What was she babbling on about? “Explain yourself, please. Who is Miss Franklin, the young woman dining with Radcliffe?”
“You do not know who she is?” She blinked. “Then why . . . what is your purpose?”
He held to his patience by a thread. “Come with me.” He wrapped his fingers around her arm, deciding to hail a cab and cart her back to the Yard.
“No! Wait.” She tugged her arm free and rubbed her forehead. Her hand trembled, and when she looked at him again, an involuntary shudder shook her shoulders. She wrapped her arms, umbrella and all, tightly around herself as her teeth chattered. “What was your question? Who is Miss Franklin?”
“Yes,” he said, exasperated.
She licked her lips and slowly exhaled. “I am employed by The Marriage Gazette and have supplied some helpful . . . advice . . . to Miss Franklin via written correspondence.” She scrunched her face as though frustrated. Possibly irritated. She rubbed her temple and added, “My aunt, Sally Hampton, owns the Gazette and oversees the publication of personal ads anonymously mailed in. The paper also offers an advice column for those with questions about courtship, marriage, and matters of the heart, as well as answering personal correspondence for those who do not wish their questions to be published.”
People meeting via ads in social newspapers was nothing new; his sister threatened constantly to draft one on his behalf. He studied Miss Hampton carefully. “You say the ads are anonymous, yet you know of Mr. Radcliffe’s identity.”
She nodded.
“Has he enlisted your help in meeting specific young ladies? Did you introduce Miss Franklin to him?”
Her eyes widened again. “No! Certainly not, I would never be part of such subterfuge.” She flushed. “Not that sort of subterfuge.”
“Of what sort of subterfuge do you ordinarily take part?”
She shivered again and tightened her jaw. “I meant no harm; I am simply curious. Miss Franklin wrote to the paper some time ago, seeking private advice. She was hesitant to submit her questions into the published advice column for fear her mother would recognize it. I answered her letter in a manner that, as it turned out, was unsatisfactory to her mother. Miss Franklin, however, continued to secretly send personal letters to me as she knew I would answer her honestly. I have been corresponding with her since then, but my aunt—my employer—and Miss Franklin’s mother are unaware of it.”
He remained silent, encouraging her to continue her quick, rambling explanation.
“My aunt must never know!” There was an urgency to her tone akin to panic. “She employed me in good faith and has also blessed me with a coveted spot at Hampton House, where the waiting list to apply for residence is a mile long, at least. I am living on my own for the first time, and I must maintain her confidence!”
At his continued silence, desperation flashed in her eyes. “My brother, Stephen, and his friends have placed wagers that I’ll not last a full year on my own. They say that I live with my head in the clouds and the thought that I can become a Woman of Independent Means is laughable.” She lifted her chin a fraction. “I am six months into my adventure and have proven my worth well to my aunt.” She flushed again. “With the exception of this side project.”
Still, he stayed silent, knowing that as long as he did so, she would continue to explain, rambling and panicked though it was.
“I have become so invested, you see, in Miss Franklin’s success. If she gets on well with the gentleman I helped her select from the personal ads, then my aunt will trust my intuition and perhaps allow me to take on a . . . a sort of matchmaking role at the Gazette.” She bit her lip, brows pulling together. “As it happens, I feel we should consider deportment and manners training, as well. I was too far away to be sure, but I believe Miss Franklin may have begun the meal using the wrong utensils.”
“Miss Hampton, you’ve yet to explain how you know Mr. Radcliffe. You claimed to have ‘helped’ the young woman select him from a personal ad. You’ve admitted you recognized him, leaving me to wonder if you were aware of his identity when you arranged for them to meet.”
She frowned. “Certainly not. The ad mailed to the Gazette came under the pseudonym ‘Mr. Dashing.’ I happen to know Mr. Radcliffe from my membership at the Cheery Society Book Group, which he also attends. I had no idea until tonight that they were one and the same man.”
She grew pensive, and for a moment Michael wondered if she’d forgotten he was there. Then she murmured, “He’s not been widowed long.”
“Are you privy to details about his private life?”
She blinked and focused on him again.
“Only the few things he has mentioned at the book group. Surely true love cannot be so quickly replaced. Perhaps marriage really is nothing more than a practical alliance.” She looked pained at the thought.
Mercy. Miss Hampton was indeed sheltered from life’s realities. He did not know anyone who had reached adulthood with such a rosy perspective still intact. Even his sister, as lovely as she was, had never been so naive.
“And yet Mr. Radcliffe sought to meet someone new,” he prodded, wondering if he was about to witness the bursting of Miss Hampton’s happy bubble.
“It is a mystery.” Her frown turned speculative. “I oughtn’t to be surprised. He is so handsome and urbane, after all.”
Michael refrained from telling her that he suspected her paragon of killing his own wife.
“And you felt justified spying on him this evening?”
She looked startled, as if she’d forgotten the initial point of his questioning. “Well, yes, but surely you see it was innocent curiosity. Besides, I initially went to observe Miss Franklin, not Mr. Radcliffe. Please believe me, I’d no idea her dinner companion was someone known to me beforehand.” Her eyes left his face and landed again on his chest, which seemed to be her pattern when flustered or nervous. “If my aunt were to discover my—”
“Spying?”
She winced. “—my investigations, I fear her trust in me would cease on the spot.”
“I suspect you would be correct.”
“I wonder if you would be so kind as to keep this information between the two of us? After all, I have answered your questions honestly, even at the risk of losing my employment, and despite the fact that you ran me to ground in the pouring rain.” Her teeth chattered, punctuating her statement.
“I did not run you to ground.”
“Perhaps unintentionally,” she muttered.
He sighed, then continued, “I will refrain from mentioning your clandestine activities to your aunt if you will invite me—as a family friend, of course—to the next book club where you expect to see Mr. Radcliffe.”
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 3