Alec stared at the reporter. “Strangled . . .” he murmured, and wondered at the parallel between the girl’s murder and Sir Giles’s. By the suspicious glint in Sam’s golden eyes, Alec knew the Bow Street Runner was thinking the same thing.
“The lass was Fitzpatrick’s sister,” Alec said slowly. “And Fitzpatrick blamed Sir Giles for giving the order to send the troops to the village.”
As Muldoon nodded, Alec wondered if he was imagining another parallel. Speak no evil. If Fitzpatrick was the fiend, had he cut out Sir Giles’s tongue as a bizarre sort of retaliation against the man who’d given the order to send British troops to Clondalkin, which had resulted in his sister’s savage murder?
Sam shook his head. “Then Fitzpatrick is mad, because Sir Giles couldn’t have foreseen what would’ve happened ter the lass.”
Alec’s shadowed gaze met the Bow Street Runner’s eyes. “What was done to Sir Giles is a little insane, I think.”
“There’s more to the story,” Muldoon said. “The villagers demanded a trial for the soldier—his name was Sergeant Robin Clay. I’m certain he would have been found guilty and sent to the hangman’s noose.”
“Was there evidence that he did the deed?” Sam asked.
Muldoon’s eyes flashed. “Two witnesses. And the lass’s locket that she always wore around her neck was found in his quarters.”
“God’s teeth,” Sam muttered. “What happened?”
“Sir Giles happened. He ordered the Sergeant back to England to allegedly face justice here. Said he didn’t think the young man could get a fair trial in Clondalkin, or the whole of Ireland, for that matter.” Muldoon sounded bitter. “So Sergeant Clay came back to England. I was told the trial lasted less than an hour before he was acquitted. I’m looking into his whereabouts now.”
The reporter’s face seemed to arrange itself into long, somber lines. He said softly, “The lass was only twelve, milord. If you’re looking for motivation, I can’t think of anythin’ better than avenging the death of your little sister. Can you?”
20
Benjamin didn’t want to take her to the Larsons’ apothecary shop on Cromwell Road in Kensington—no surprise there—so it took a few minutes of haranguing to convince him to make the additional stop. And even then, Kendra suspected it was Rebecca’s quiet intervention that finally forced the coachman into agreeing.
Unfortunately, the journey took longer than expected—and undoubtedly had Benjamin silently cursing her from his perch on top of the carriage—when they got stuck behind an accident. A wagon had hit an icy patch and overturned, spilling kegs of ale. It was weirdly similar to many of the 21st-century traffic jams Kendra had been stuck in, including the impatience thrumming in the air around them. There were no horns for irate drivers to honk out their displeasure, but curses filled the air and several men looked on the verge of road rage.
When they finally arrived at Cromwell Road, Kendra thought they’d have to make inquiries to get directions to the apothecary shop. Luckily, though, Bertel Larson was a man who took pride in his family name. LARSON & SON APOTHECARY was emblazoned on a banner sign across a Jacobean redbrick building. Kendra was a little disconcerted to observe that the sign was also decorated with two large swastikas. She had to remind herself that the symbol had been around for thousands of years in almost every country and culture before Hitler had co-opted and corrupted it into a mark of pure evil. Before the Third Reich, the symbol had represented eternal life, good fortune, and a supreme being.
All things that suited an apothecary shop, she supposed.
Below the sign was a large bow window. Like modern-day retailers, the window was crammed with products and advertisements to lure in potential customers. Kendra paused outside to study the collection of pretty blue-and-white-painted delft earthenware jars before her gaze moved to one of the larger signs that someone had leaned against a pyramid of pots. HAMILTON’S HARMLESS ARSENIC WAFERS. WHITENS SKIN! RID YOURSELF OF REDNESS, BLEMISHES, AND BLOTCHES. ONLY 4 SHILLINGS!
She’d forgotten that it had been a popular practice for women to ingest small quantities of the deadly arsenic to brighten their complexion. The trend would become even more popular in another thirty years, when women in the Victorian Age actually wanted to look like they were on the verge of death—not unlike the heroin chic trend popularized by models in the 1990s. Of course, the irony for women in the Victorian era was that by taking the poison, many of them actually were killing themselves.
Aware that Rebecca was waiting, Kendra turned away from the window display, and moved to the red door. Once inside the shop, she had to stop again, taking in the large room. It appeared smaller than its true size, because the shelves and countertops were jam-packed with a wide variety of merchandise. It was part pharmacy and part oddity shop. Very odd, she decided, her gaze landing on a stuffed five-foot alligator displayed on a shelf next to a stuffed parrot. Kendra thought of Ruth’s story of Lady Watley’s cheeky parrot, and smiled.
The air was heavy with a collision of scents, from spicy to floral. Four women—two obviously gentlewomen, the others their maids—and one gentleman were wandering around the store, checking out merchandise ranging from lavender lotions to herbal remedies that promised to invigorate a person, from cough syrups to—holy crap—live leeches.
Curious, Kendra picked up a lumpy package. Mrs. Middleton’s complexion soap listed among its ingredients animal oils, rosewater, lye, and mercuric chloride. Shaking her head, she put the package back on the shelf. Mercuric chloride was a poisonous form of mercury. And in this era, people were washing their faces with it.
Then again, Kendra had to remember that she’d come from a time when people paid a bundle to inject themselves with Botox—derived from Clostridium botulinum, one of the most lethal toxins known to mankind. Who was she to judge?
“Have you ever bought Mrs. Middleton’s soap?” she asked Rebecca.
“No. Our stillroom maids make our soaps,” Rebecca said.
Thank God for the self-sufficiency of large estates. “Good,” was all she said before moving toward the shopgirl working behind the long counter. She was in her late teens, with chestnut hair peeking out from her mop cap. Her attention was focused on carefully spooning what looked to be bath salts into a dish on an old-fashioned balance scale. She glanced up as they approached, and set down the spoon. “May I help you?” she asked, turning to give them a smile that showed off her dimples.
“We’re looking for Mr. Larson.”
“Oh. He’s in the laboratory. But I’m certain I shall be able to assist you.” Her gaze slid to Rebecca’s face. “We have an excellent paste to help settle the complexion.”
In her peripheral vision, Kendra saw Rebecca stiffen at the unintended insult. She said coolly, “No, thank you. We just need to speak to Mr. Larson.” After a beat, she added, “Please tell Mr. Larson that Lady Rebecca Blackburn and Miss Donovan would like a word.”
Rebecca’s title and upper-class accent appeared to do the trick. “I’ll inform Mr. Larson that you wish a word with him, your ladyship.” The girl walked down the length of the counter to the swinging doors near the end and pushed through.
Kendra turned to Rebecca, wanting to apologize for the shopgirl’s insensitivity, but Rebecca deliberately turned away to study a display of herbal teas. She’d had a lifetime of dealing with unkind, cutting remarks.
The shopgirl reemerged from the swinging doors, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man with brown hair, intense, arctic blue eyes, and a strikingly handsome face. Early to mid-twenties, Kendra estimated. Not the Mr. Larson she’d been expecting. It had to be the youngest son, David, that Lady Holbrooke had mentioned.
“Good day,” he said, coming forward. “Sally says that you wish to speak to me. Lady Rebecca?”
“No. I’m Kendra Donovan. This is Lady Rebecca.”
“I see. How can I be of assistance?”
Kendra said, “I’m sorry. We were actually hoping to speak to Mr. Larson—Evert La
rson’s father.”
The man’s face changed subtly. “My brother is dead.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Is your father here?” She shot a glance at the swinging doors.
“No. He is . . . he is at home.” The brilliant blue eyes dimmed. “I am a trained apothecary. My name is David Larson. What is this about?”
“Sir Giles.” She said the name and watched the emotions flicker across the gorgeous face. “Did you hear that he was murdered the other night?”
His jaw tightened. “Yes. What does that have to do with my father?”
“I was told that your families were quite close until your brother’s death. Your father blamed Sir Giles.”
“My father was naturally filled with grief.” His eyes went hard. “Evert had trained as a barrister, and had only just begun to practice law. He had no business in war, but Sir Giles persuaded him to put aside everything to work for him as an intelligence agent. He charmed Evert with dreams of honor and glory.”
Kendra studied the man. It occurred to her that there was more than one member of the family who might want to see Sir Giles dead. “You and your brother were close?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“I’ve heard that your brother was an exceptionally brilliant man.”
“He was.” He looked away, but not before Kendra saw the sheen of despair in his eyes. He was silent for a moment, composing himself. “Evert was . . . everything,” he finally said. “He was extraordinarily intelligent. We could see that even when he was a boy. He was my senior by two years, and I undoubtedly made quite a pest of myself trailing after him and Gerard.” A small smile curved David’s mouth at the memory, quickly gone.
“You are referring to Sir Giles’s son, Gerard Holbrooke?”
He nodded. “Yes. Evert and Gerard were of the same age. They were friends, for a time.”
“For a time?” Kendra prompted.
David hesitated, and something flashed in his eyes. “As they grew older, it became quite clear that Gerard began to resent Evert.”
“Because of the attention Sir Giles gave your brother?”
“Yes, among other things.” His lips thinned. “I wish to God that Sir Giles had developed more of an interest in his own son. Maybe if he had, my brother would be alive.”
Kendra studied him for a long moment. “You must have resented Sir Giles as well,” she finally said.
“Evert died—viciously,” he snapped, loud enough to cause one of the ladies who was browsing nearby to glance in their direction. Aware of the attention they were drawing, David gestured for Kendra and Rebecca to follow him to the corner of the shop where there were no customers. He fixed his gaze on Kendra again. “Why are you asking these questions, Miss Donovan?”
“My guardian”—that still stuck in Kendra’s throat; she was twenty-six years old, for Christ’s sake—“the Duke of Aldridge and I are assisting Bow Street with their investigation into the murder of Sir Giles.” She held up a hand when she saw his eyebrows lift in surprise. “And, yes, I know that I’m a woman.”
His eyebrows lowered into a frown, but he said nothing.
“Where were you on Wednesday evening, from nine to midnight?”
David stared at her.
She spread her gloved hands. “If I don’t ask the question, Bow Street will.”
He glanced away. Across the room, the gentleman who’d been shopping approached the counter with his selections. The shopgirl, Sally, hurried over to help him. The door opened, and a matron swept inside the shop, trailed by a harried-looking maid carrying boxes and a straw basket.
“I was here, if you must know,” he finally said.
Kendra kept her gaze on his. “From nine to midnight? Will anybody be able to verify that?”
“No. The shop closes at half past five, but my duties often keep me working late in the laboratory. We are an apothecary, Miss Donovan. Larson & Son mixes our own proprietary remedies. We fill many prescriptions for our loyal customers.”
“So you would say working late is usual for you?”
“I believe I just said that.” He glanced at the matron approaching the counter. “I must take care of one of those customers now. I trust we are done here?”
Kendra nodded. “For now.”
Something flickered in his eyes, but was gone before Kendra could decipher what it was. He gave an abbreviated bow. “Ladies.”
Kendra and Rebecca were silent as they watched David Larson approach the new customer. She was an older woman with graying brown sausage curls framing a pleasantly plump face. The velvet bonnet she wore was a little excessive, Kendra thought, ornamented with lace ruffles, flowers, and silk ribbons. Her dark blue pelisse was fur-lined, to suit the weather. Beneath that was a pale primrose-and-white-striped carriage dress that boasted three golden ruffles along the hem.
Kendra knew the lady’s affinity for ruffles; she’d been introduced to Lady St. James the last time she’d been in London, when she’d been investigating the murder of Alec’s former mistress, Lady Dover. The countess was a friend of the Duke’s sister. And one of the most notorious gossips in London. And nosy people were always valuable sources of information in murder investigations.
As they watched, Lady St. James gave David a flirtatious smile, never mind that he was at least thirty years her junior. “Mr. Larson, good day to you. I have immediate need of having my tonic prescriptions refilled.” She snapped at her maid, who shifted the boxes she was carrying to open the woven-straw basket hooked over her arm. Glass clinked as the maid deposited three amber-colored medicine bottles on the counter.
David offered the countess a polite smile, picking up one of the bottles to inspect the label. “Certainly, my lady. May I inquire how you have been sleeping with the cordial?”
“Your father’s cordials have ensured a dreamless slumber, thank you.” She tilted her head and her bright, curious eyes fixed on his face. “And, pray tell, how is your father? Will he be returning to his place of business soon?”
If she hadn’t been watching so closely, Kendra might have missed the way David’s broad shoulders tensed. “At the moment, no,” he told Lady St. James. “My father has his own maladies to contend with.”
“Oh, dear.” The countess made a sympathetic tut-tutting sound with her tongue. “Well, he is most fortunate to have you.”
“You are very gracious, ma’am.” He bowed slightly before gathering up the bottles. “If you will pardon me, I shall take care of your order now.” He flicked a quick look at Kendra and Rebecca, aware of their surveillance. His lips tightened, and then he swiveled on his heel, moved around the counter, and disappeared through the swinging doors.
At the end of the counter, Sally finished up with the gentleman, and began dealing with one of the ladies who’d been waiting. Kendra noticed that the woman held a green- and amber-colored glass bottle in each hand, and wondered if she, too, was buying a sleeping potion, which no doubt was laced with opiates—all perfectly legal—to ease her into a dreamless slumber.
Kendra moved toward Lady St. James, who was examining a display of charcoal tooth powders which promised to help the user keep their natural teeth.
“Lady St. James?” Kendra waited until the other woman set down a jar and turned to look at her.
Recognition dawned. “Miss Donovan. And Lady Rebecca! This is a serendipitous surprise. How do you do?”
Rebecca bent her knee for a quick curtsey. “Very well, thank you. And you?”
“I’m quite well, thank you.” She regarded them with the same bright curiosity that she’d bestowed on David when asking after his father. “Pray tell, what brings you to London?”
By the way Lady St. James was regarding her, like a cat waiting outside a mouse hole, Kendra suspected the matron knew the answer. “Have you heard about the murder of Sir Giles?”
“Oh, yes!” Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “And you must be the young lady I read about in the Morning Chronicle. I must say, it is most odd, this i
nterest that you and His Grace have taken in our criminal element. It is not at all the thing. However . . .” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It is also quite exciting. What have you learned, Miss Donovan?”
“We’re only at the beginning stages of the investigation,” Kendra said, aware that whatever she told the countess would be passed along to the first acquaintance she encountered. “We couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Larson. Do you come here often?”
“To Larson and Son?” Lady St. James seemed surprised by the question. “Yes, for years. My doctor recommended Mr. Larson the Elder for my lesser complaints. At the time, I was quite vexed with him for doing so. I am not a commoner to be passed off to an apothecary!” She sniffed, and some of her previous indignation surfaced. But then she waved it away. “However, I quickly realized that Mr. Larson the Elder is not some lowbrow apothecary, and I have been enormously satisfied with his service and tonics. I highly recommend him—and Mr. Larson the Younger. They are both excellent chemists.”
Kendra said, “It sounds as though Mr. Larson the Elder has become ill.”
Lady St. James made another sympathetic tsking sound in her throat. “Oh, my, yes, the poor dear.”
“How long has he been sick?”
“Oh, let me think.” She pursed her lips as she considered the matter. “I last spoke with him around Christmastime, when I needed a cordial to calm my nerves. I was traveling to my son’s estate in Gloucestershire. I love my grandchildren dearly, but I confess the incessant wailing of the twins quite shatters my nerves. During my last two visits, Mr. Larson the Elder has not been here. However, as I mentioned, Mr. Larson the Younger is as skilled as his father.”
“So Mr. Larson has been ill for at least a month,” Kendra said slowly. The same time that Sir Giles had begun to appear troubled.
Betrayal in Time Page 17