by C. J. Archer
A ripple of something crossed her face. Surprise, certainly, but not shock. She must have known about Millie. “My husband says you are a journalist. Did he offer you money to not write about it?”
So he still thought I wrote for the newspapers. It seems she did now too. “No. But rest assured, I have no plans to mention his name in my article. I just want to get to the bottom of Pearl’s death. I’m convinced she didn’t kill herself.”
She fidgeted with the large ring on her hand. “Why does it matter? Miss Westwood is gone. Let her rest now.” She sounded tired, as if the saga with Pearl had drained her.
“It matters to those who loved her. It will matter to her daughter, one day.”
“I doubt that. The girl is simple.”
“How do you know?” When she didn’t respond, I pressed on. “You overheard Pearl telling your husband that day she called here after Christmas, didn’t you? You would have also overheard her asking him for money to support Millie.”
She didn’t seem to care that I guessed she’d been eavesdropping. She simply continued to toy with the ring on her finger.
“Were you angry with your husband for fathering another woman’s child?” I asked. “Did you get angry with Pearl? Enough to kill her, perhaps?”
She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I never met her. I’ve never been in the same room as her.”
“Perhaps she threatened to tell the newspapers that your husband fathered her child if he refused to give her money to support Millie.”
“She made no such threats. He refused to believe the child was his and ordered her to leave. He gave her nothing, promised her nothing.”
“And how did she react?”
She lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course you do.”
“She left, Miss Fox. As you ought to do.”
The last time I’d been here, she’d called me into this very room after I’d been in Lord Wrexham’s study. Pearl would have had to pass it on her way out too. When the encounter in Lord Wrexham’s office was over, perhaps Lady Wrexham raced back into the drawing room to avoid being caught eavesdropping, then called Pearl in as she passed.
I wondered how that conversation transpired. The childless wife and the mistress who abandoned her girl but now wanted money to take her back. A new idea occurred to me, although it sickened me.
“Did you offer Pearl money in exchange for Millie?” I asked.
Her entire body seemed to tremble with her reaction, from her lips down. “If you mean did I want to raise my husband’s child, the answer is a resounding no. If you think that, you don’t know how the world works, Miss Fox.”
The vehemence of her denial struck me like a blow. I admit that people from high society were like another species to me, but surely they had the same base human emotions as the rest of us. Surely this woman felt some jealousy that Pearl had a child by Lord Wrexham and she, Lady Wrexham, did not.
“Then explain it to me,” I said.
“The child is already three years old, nearly four. It’s too late to pass her off as ours. But I would be prepared to do it, somehow, if it weren’t for the child herself being damaged.”
“Damaged?” I blurted out. “I’ve met her, and she’s very sweet.”
Her nostrils flared and the grooves at the corners of her mouth deepened. If I thought her plain before, I thought her positively ugly now. “I’m glad the girl’s not mine. If you ask me, it’s God’s way of punishing that whore. She deserved what she got.”
I was so stunned by her outburst that it took several moments before I could speak again. When I did, I got to my feet and glared down at her. “If we all got we deserved then Millie would have parents who loved her. You, however, got precisely what you deserved with a husband like Lord Wrexham.”
Lady Wrexham’s hand slapped over her mouth, but not before her horrified gasp escaped.
I strode towards the door, my skirts getting tangled around my legs in my haste to be out of her presence.
I hadn’t calmed down by the time I reached the hotel. To spare everyone my moody presence, I locked myself in my suite and dined alone. I didn’t see anyone except for the footman who delivered my meal until the following morning when Harmony arrived, bringing Victor with her.
As soon as the door opened, she pushed him in and closed the door behind her. “Go on,” she prompted him. “Tell Miss Fox.”
“Was that my breakfast tray outside?” I asked.
Harmony blocked the door. “Breakfast can wait. It won’t take long for Victor to say his piece.”
“I don’t want it to get cold.”
She crossed her arms. I sighed and followed Victor through to the sitting room. With his hand loosely grasping the knife holstered in his utility belt and his stance a little apart, he would have looked like a gunslinger from the American Wild West if not for his chef’s whites.
“There’s no need to hurry,” he told Harmony who also joined us in the sitting room. “I’ve got time before my shift starts.”
“But Miss Fox has work to do and you shouldn’t be in here.”
“Who’s going to know?”
“Me!” She flapped a hand at him. “Proceed.”
He gave a slight bow. “Yes, ma’am.”
Harmony’s gaze narrowed but she didn’t retort.
“Thomas Adams called on me last night,” he said.
That got my full attention. “And?”
“And he told me he spoke to Lord Wrexham’s coachman, but subtly, like they were just having a conversation to pass the time at the pub. The coachman let slip that he often takes his lordship to a physician’s clinic on Harley Street.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Thomas wrote down the details and asked me to give them to you.”
I read the paper and committed the address to memory.
“There’s more,” Victor said. “Thomas says the coachman took Wrexham to the clinic on the afternoon of the murder, but when Thomas tried to get a precise time out of the coachman, the fellow closed up and stopped talking.”
“If he was at the doctor’s that afternoon, he has an alibi for the murder.” I sighed. “He didn’t do it.”
“Unless he went from the doctor’s clinic to the Playhouse.”
Harmony read the note over my shoulder. “There are a lot of physicians and doctors on Harley Street, many of them specializing in some ailment or other. Does this one have a specialty?”
Victor shrugged.
I tucked the paper into my purse. “I’ll find out. Thank you, Victor, that’s immensely helpful. I’d better pay Thomas a visit at The Nag’s Head and thank him personally. He risked his job by speaking to the coachman and I didn’t even ask him to do it.”
“I don’t reckon you should,” he said. “You’ve got an admirer in Thomas.”
I frowned. “I don’t see how those two statements are connected.”
“You don’t want to get too close to him.”
Harmony took more offense at the comment than me. “Miss Fox is hardly going to fall for the likes of your friend, Victor. She’s far wiser than that and can do much better, thank you very much.”
Victor shrugged. “I agree. I’m just saying, be careful of Thomas. You don’t want him liking you too much, Miss Fox, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t. Not really. “I think you’re wrong about him. If he has offered me compliments, they’ve been heavily disguised.”
“That’s his way. But he likes you, make no mistake, or he wouldn’t have gone out of his way to help with the promise of nothing in return.”
“Then I’ll pay him for the information so there can be no misunderstanding.”
Victor rubbed his hand over the hilt of his knife. “Ordinarily I don’t agree with paying someone who hasn’t demanded it, but in this instance, I think it might be wise. Thomas is not someone you should give mixed messages too.”
Harmony clicked her tongue. “I knew a friend o
f yours would be trouble.”
“We’re no longer friends.”
She headed for the door. “You ought to have warned Miss Fox beforehand.”
“I didn’t know he was going to end up admiring her,” Victor said, following her.
Harmony spun around, eyes flashing. “And why wouldn’t he? She’s got a lot of admirable qualities.”
“That’s not what I meant.” For the first time since I’d met him, Victor looked ruffled. It was curious, and rather sweet, that Harmony was the one to upset his usually smooth feathers. “I just meant that I didn’t know he was capable of admiring anyone. If they cut him open, I’d be surprised if they found a beating human heart in his chest and not a mechanical device.”
I laughed, only to have Harmony turn her glare onto me. “I don’t see what’s so amusing. Thomas Adams sounds like a horrid character. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him. If you must visit him, Miss Fox, take Mr. Armitage with you again. I’ll feel better if you have a man with you.”
She led the way outside, picked up my breakfast tray, and stood aside for Victor to pass her. “Make sure no one sees you leaving this floor.”
He saluted her and walked off.
She frowned after him. “He needs to learn his place.”
“And what is his place?”
She closed the door and followed me to the sitting room where she set down the tray. “In the kitchen, far away from the maids.”
I removed the lid and inspected the plate of sausages and toast. “Do they like him?”
“They find him interesting. It’s the dangerous air he has about him with all those knives and scars. You know how silly some girls are around men like that.”
I tried to keep a straight face. “Not you, though.”
“Lord no!” She narrowed her gaze. “You’re not one of those types, are you? You don’t like dangerous men like that Thomas Adams?”
“Definitely not. I’m much too sensible.”
“I thought so, but even sensible women fall for scoundrels and wastrels if they’re looking for some excitement.”
“Then we won’t have a problem. My life is far too exciting these days for me to be bored.” I offered the plate of sausages to her. “Now come and sit down and eat with me.”
Harley Street, Marylebone, must be the health center of London. There seemed to be more private physicians and doctors in that one street than in the whole of Cambridge. According to the brass plaques beside each door, there were dermatologists and ophthalmologists, obstetricians and even a nerve specialist. Several other plaques were simply labeled physician or general practitioner. The plaque for number twenty-nine was positioned beneath the brass doorbell. If it hadn’t been labeled PATIENTS AND VISITORS, I would not have known it housed a doctor’s clinic.
A middle-aged woman dressed in white with kind eyes opened the door. “Oh. I thought you were our next patient, but you’re clearly not him.” She smiled. “Do you wish to make an appointment?”
“No. I just want to know what sort of illnesses are treated here.”
Her smile vanished. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you. Good day.”
I thrust my foot through the gap to stop her closing the door. “But what if I want to make an appointment? Will you tell me then?”
“Why would you make an appointment not knowing what Dr. Martin treats? That’s rather backward, Miss…?”
“Why won’t you answer? It’s just a simple question.”
“Why are you asking the question at all?”
I sucked in air between my teeth. This woman was a good guard dog. A little too good. I tried to peer past her, but she blocked my view.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” She pushed the door into my foot, hard. My boot offered little protection and I hopped around, my teeth gritted against the throbbing pain.
The door slammed shut in my face.
“That was very rude!” I shouted.
The only response I received was from a woman walking past on the pavement. She clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval.
I limped down the steps and caught a hansom back to the hotel.
I greeted Frank at the door, but he frowned back at me. “Why are you limping?”
I tried to walk normally. “An over-zealous receptionist decided she didn’t like my question.”
He gave a knowing nod as he opened the door.
Mr. Hobart had been walking through the foyer, a leather folder tucked under his arm, when he saw me and stopped. “Good morning, Miss Fox. Have you been out this morning?”
“I had to visit a doctor in Harley Street.”
“Ah. I thought you were limping. I hope he was able to help. Did you enjoy the show the other night?”
“It was very good, thank you. I saw your brother and his family there.”
He smiled. “So I heard.” He glanced around and took a step closer. “Speaking of the Playhouse, how is your investigation for Lord Rumford coming along?”
“I’m making progress.”
“Excellent.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I want you to rush to conclusions, but do you think you’ll have a conclusion for him soon? It’s just that he plans to check out on Sunday and would like to know who was behind Miss Westwood’s unfortunate demise before he leaves London.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m struggling to make headway. No one will talk to me, you see.”
“Have you tried bribery?”
I smothered my smile. For some reason, hearing this upstanding and kind man encourage me to bribe people amused me. “Unfortunately lords and ladies aren’t easily bribed.”
“You could try blackmail.”
“I am.”
“Ask Harry to help again. He’s very good at charming answers out of women.”
I arched my brows. “Is that so?”
“Haven’t you noticed?”
“I have but haven’t experienced those charms first hand. He hasn’t employed them on me.”
“Perhaps he’d rather you saw the real him, warts and all.”
Speaking of warts… “You know a great many things about this city, Mr. Hobart. Perhaps you can help. There’s a doctor on Harley Street with no plaque on his door stating his specialty.”
“Is he a general practitioner?”
“There’s no plaque even mentioning that. His receptionist also wouldn’t let me in unless I was prepared to make an appointment. When I said I just wanted to know what the doctor’s medical specialty was, she slammed the door in my face.”
He looked down at my boots. “Your face or your foot?”
“Both.”
He hitched the leather folder higher. “In my experience, if a medical clinic is so secretive as to not advertise their specialty on the door and not even allow in visitors who are not patients, the doctor must be the sort who treats diseases of a sensitive nature.” He cleared his throat and his cheeks pinked a little. “If you understand my meaning.”
“I believe I do.” What Mr. Hobart was trying to discreetly tell me was that the doctor treated patients suffering from ailments that affected parts of their bodies they’d rather not mention.
“I know the names of a great many specialists, some of whom have rooms on Harley Street. Sometimes guests ask me to recommend a doctor. Indeed, some even come to London and stay at the Mayfair while they’re being treated. Perhaps if you tell me this doctor’s name, I’ll know what he does.”
“Dr. Martin at number twenty-nine.”
His cheeks flushed a brighter pink. “Ah. Now that is interesting.”
“Go on.”
He fidgeted with his tie and nibbled the inside of his lip. With a glance around, he leaned closer. “He’s the pre-eminent doctor in the country for treating syphilis.”
No wonder he was uncomfortable telling me. The sexually transmitted disease was not a topic one liked to mention in conversation. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Hobart. That’s very helpful. Very helpful indeed.
”
I watched him walk off to the lift where he pressed the button and waited. I stood beneath the central chandelier for some minutes, thinking about what he’d told me. I knew two things about syphilis. It was contagious, but only passed between sexual partners, and that it was a dreadfully disfiguring disease with no cure. The disease must be the cause of the sores on Lord Wrexham’s face.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Goliath smiled one of his wide, open smiles.
“I was thinking about the case. What do you know about syphilis?”
That wiped the smile off his face. “Nothing! I swear.”
“I hoped you might know more than me.” I lowered my voice. “Do you recall that one of our suspects is Lord Wrexham, Pearl’s former lover? He has the disease.”
He pulled a face. “Horrid business, syphilis. I don’t know much about it, but Peter might. His neighbor had it, so he once told me.”
Peter was poring over the guest register at the check-in desk. There was no one at the counter, although a few guests lingered in quiet conversation at the post desk.
“Miss Fox wants to know about syphilis,” Goliath said. “I told her you were the one to see about that.”
Peter nodded, not embarrassed like Goliath had been. “My neighbor had it. He’s dead now. The disease got him in the end.”
I told him about Lord Wrexham’s visit to Dr. Martin, including on the afternoon of Pearl’s death, and the likelihood that he had syphilis. “I know there’s no cure, so why would a man with the disease visit a doctor? What’s the point?”
“It’s often treated with mercury, but it doesn’t work. At least, it didn’t for my neighbor. He took mercury pills and just got sicker and sicker until he died.” He leaned on the counter, his arms folded. “If that’s why Wrexham is visiting the doctor, it won’t do him any good. The doctor’s just taking his money and giving him false hope, if you ask me.”
“Wrexham doesn’t seem particularly ill to me, except for the sores.”
“Illness will come later. Maybe not for some years yet. It can be a long, slow, cruel death.”
Goliath passed a hand over his mouth and jaw. “With disfigurement in the meantime.”