“Yes.” Lady St. James eyed her closely. “Is that significant?”
Kendra evaded answering truthfully with, “It just seems like a long time to be sick.”
“Oh, I agree. Especially a man such as Mr. Larson the Elder. He is such a robust, attractive gentleman.” Her eyes held a surprisingly lascivious gleam.
Kendra wondered if Lady St. James’s patronage of Larson & Son had more to do with Mr. Larson the Elder’s attractiveness than his skills as a chemist.
The countess went on, “Really, my dear, what is this about? Why are you so interested in my apothecary?”
Kendra ignored her questions, asking instead, “Did you know Mr. Larson’s son, Evert?” When the other woman stared at her blankly, she added, “He was killed in the war.”
“I knew of him, of course, but I was never introduced to him. Why should I be? We hardly travel in the same social circles.” She gave a slightly condescending laugh. “As an American, I daresay you are still unfamiliar with society, Miss Donovan.”
“Did Mr. Larson speak of his son?”
“No, I only learned of him when he died. Two, two-and-a-half years ago, I believe. That was the first time Mr. Larson the Elder stopped coming into the shop.” She leaned forward to whisper, “Melancholy, you know. It was fortuitous that he had Mr. Larson the Younger to take over the apothecary business until he returned.”
“How long was he gone the first time?” Kendra asked.
Lady St. James wandered to the next display, pyramids of bath salts in jars and perfume bottles. She picked up a bottle and sniffed. “Oh, several months. I believe Mr. Larson the Younger said that his father left London for Bath for a time.” She set down the bottle. “The waters in Bath are quite therapeutic for one’s nerves.”
Kendra and Rebecca followed her. “Were you acquainted with Sir Giles?” asked Kendra.
The countess gave her a sly smile. “I have been introduced to both Sir Giles and his wife, Lady Holbrooke. The king granted Sir Giles his baronetcy fifteen—mayhap twenty?—years ago, which allowed them entry into the Beau Monde. Lady Holbrooke and her son often attend functions.”
“Not Sir Giles?”
Lady St. James picked up another perfume bottle. “He was forever working at Whitehall. Understandable, of course, given the war with that little tyrant Napoleon. There were rumors that Sir Giles was on his way to becoming the next prime minister, so no one was likely to deny him an invitation.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, mayhap the most radical of Whigs. But even those scapegraces would think twice, considering the close connection Sir Giles enjoyed with the Prince Regent.”
Lady St. James waved her maid over and handed her the bottle of perfume.
Kendra waited until the maid slipped back a few paces before asking, “What was your impression of Sir Giles’s son, Mr. Holbrooke?”
“He seemed a charming enough young man when I met him, but I have heard things . . .”
Kendra willingly took the bait. “What sort of things?”
The countess leaned closer, dropping her voice again into a conspiratorial whisper. “The young pup had a row with his father, and attacked him at Tattersalls. I could scarcely believe the story, but it is true.”
Kendra said, “Yes, we heard.”
“Oh.” Lady Atwood looked momentarily crestfallen not to be the first one to impart that information. She rallied. “Well, the on-dit was that Sir Giles was quite out of temper with his son, and was making plans to send him to India.”
“How do you know?” Kendra asked, impressed that the countess had managed to learn that nugget of information. Although she supposed if Bear knew about it, there was a good chance Lady St. James knew too.
The matron smiled. “Oh, one hears such things here and there.”
Lady Rebecca spoke up. “But was it true?”
The dark eyes danced. “Yes. Lady Holbrooke was not happy about it, but I have it on excellent authority that Sir Giles had not only made inquiries, but was on the verge of booking passage for the rogue. In fact, Sir Giles was supposed to do that next week.”
Kendra lifted her eyebrows. That was news. “So soon?”
The countess nodded. “I imagine Mr. Holbrooke is in an odd position. Despite the obvious troubles between him and his father, he must mourn Sir Giles. And yet I daresay he is relieved that his banishment to India is no more.”
They fell silent as they considered that. Kendra changed subjects. “Do you know Lord Cross?”
Lady St. James pursed her lips. Kendra could almost see the wheels turning. “Lord Eliot Cross. He is the second son of the Earl of Cambay. The earl has a smallish country seat in one of the west counties. Devon, I think. Or was it Dorset? Well, no matter. He rarely comes to town, but is known to be close-fisted. His son came into the viscount title when Cambay’s eldest died in a carriage accident last year. A modest annual income—two thousand pounds.” She tapped her chin, thinking. “They say the viscount will soon be on the hunt for a wife of more considerable means.”
Kendra stared at the woman, impressed. Who needed Facebook when you had Lady St. James?
The countess took a breath, and continued, “I have been introduced to the viscount in society, but nothing more. He seemed a pleasant enough chap.” Her eyes narrowed on Kendra. “Why? What does he have to do with Sir Giles’s murder?”
“Maybe nothing,” Kendra said, earning an unhappy frown from the older woman, who undoubtedly was hoping to add some new bit of gossip to her arsenal.
Kendra was relieved when David Larson emerged from the swinging doors with the now-filled medicine bottles. Attention drawn, Lady Atwood hurried over to the counter, her bored-looking maid in tow.
“Is there anything else that I may assist you with, madam?” David asked as he transferred the bottles to the countess’s maid and added the purchase of the perfume. He kept his gaze fixed on the countess, ignoring Kendra and Rebecca, who had followed in Lady St. James’s wake.
The flirtatious smile was back on the older woman’s face. “Thank you, no. You have positively saved me, Mr. Larson.”
“Your servant,” he said, inclining his head. He finally looked at Kendra, unable to disguise his wariness. “I must tend to my business, Miss Donovan. I believe I have answered all your questions.”
Kendra found herself mimicking his gesture by inclining her head. “Thank you, sir.”
Lady St. James cut her a sideways glance. “If you are done here, Miss Donovan, Lady Rebecca, perhaps you’d walk with me?”
They left the shop, falling into step with the matron while her maid trailed behind. They didn’t have to walk far. If Kendra wasn’t mistaken, the bright canary-yellow carriage parked in front of the Duke’s more understated carriage belonged to Lady St. James. Benjamin and the other coachman were chatting, but now broke off their conversation. Lady St. James’s coachman hurried over to unfold the carriage steps, open the door, and gallantly take the straw bag and boxes from the maid.
The countess paused. “I was remiss in not asking whether my dear friend Lady Atwood is with you in London?”
Kendra said, “She’s here.”
“Ah, I must call upon her. I’m certain Lady Atwood has been sent an invitation for Lord and Lady Smyth-Hope’s ball tonight. It promises to be quite the crush.”
“Hmm,” was all Kendra could muster. Unless there was a reason, she didn’t feel the need to have to socialize with the Ton. But if Lady Atwood had received an invitation, she knew it might be hard to get out of it.
Lady St. James’s lips curled in a catlike smile. “I would urge you to attend as well, Miss Donovan. In all likelihood, Lord Cross will be there. If I’m not mistaken, there is a connection between the Earl of Cambay and Lady Smyth-Hope. A distant relation, but still. It would be churlish for Lord Cross to refuse an invitation.”
“Thank you, my lady. The Smyth-Hope ball is sounding better and better.”
The countess laughed. “I thought so.” Her smile vanished in the next moment, h
er eyes narrowing on Kendra. “Now why are you here, Miss Donovan? I do not mean in London. I mean here—in this particular shop? I do not believe for a second that you needed bath salts or tooth powder. You were obviously quizzing Mr. Larson the Younger about something when I arrived. And quizzing me about Mr. Larson the Elder.”
The woman wasn’t stupid, Kendra knew, and so she chose her words with care. “The two families are acquainted. Mr. Larson and Sir Giles have known each other since childhood, and Mr. Larson’s son, Evert, worked for Sir Giles during the war.”
The countess raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? I was not aware of the connection.” She seemed to mull that over. “You cannot imagine that Mr. Larson had anything to do with Sir Giles’s murder?”
“The Elder or Younger?”
“Don’t be a cheeky puss,” she murmured, amused.
Kendra shook her head. “Honestly, we’re only asking questions, trying to figure out who might have wanted Sir Giles dead.”
“Hmm. Given his high position in the Home Office, I daresay all the enemies of England would want him dead. In fact, you ought to look at those Irish radicals.”
“We’ve got inquiries there as well.”
“Good.” She nodded, then fixed her gaze on Kendra. “I shall be frank with you, Miss Donovan. You’ll catch cold if you think Mr. Larson—Elder or Younger—has anything to do with what happened to Sir Giles. For heaven’s sake, they are apothecaries. If one can’t trust an apothecary, who can you trust?”
Kendra laughed. “I’m not sure any American would agree with you, my lady.”
Lady St. James had been turning away, one foot on the steps of her carriage, but now she looked back at Kendra, her brows arched in a haughty expression that seemed at odds with her ruffled attire. “Pray tell, why would Americans dislike apothecaries?”
“Not dislike. But they might not trust one—Benedict Arnold was an apothecary.”
“Ah.” The matron inclined her head, and smiled. “Well, that is a matter of perspective, Miss Donovan. Mr. Arnold was trustworthy—to the English.”
21
Dr. Munroe found cockles and langoustine, asparagus, and beetroots in Sir Giles’s stomach,” Aldridge informed the group seated around the table in his study.
Kendra thought it was a little ironic that she, Alec, Rebecca, Sam, and the Duke were picking through a light luncheon of thinly sliced ham and roast beef, Somerset cheddar and Swaledale cheeses, brown bread, and churned Epping butter while discussing Sir Giles’s last meal. No one else seemed to notice, though, so she kept her mouth shut.
The Duke added, “The contents were easily identifiable.”
“Ah. That’s good.” Kendra nodded, making a sandwich out of the cheeses and ham.
Rebecca frowned. “Why is that good?”
“It means that Sir Giles died not long after he ate his dinner at the club,” Kendra explained. “We’re dealing now with a window of approximately two hours. After two hours, stomach contents become . . . less identifiable.” She picked up the water that she’d asked to be boiled, and took a slow sip as she considered the timeline. “This helps us,” she said, setting the glass down. “We know that Sir Giles received a note around nine P.M. and left his club shortly afterward. Now we know that he was killed within two hours after that. That means he was dead by eleven P.M.”
The Duke’s eyes brightened as he looked across the table at Kendra. “We include the time that the hackney driver drove him to his destination. If we find out that the hackney driver is the killer—”
“He was the killer,” Sam spoke up between bites of ham. “Pardon me, Your Grace.”
The Duke lifted his eyebrows at the Bow Street Runner. “So certain, Mr. Kelly?”
“Aye.” He chewed and swallowed. “Me men found the hackney driver—Mr. Richardson. He was tending ter his business just off Brompton Road, but had ter stop his hackney ’cause there were a couple of crates blocking the street. He got down ter move them when he said he was clouted. He said he came ter in a nearby doorway an hour later, with a bump the size of a goose egg and feelin’ like he was as drunk as an Emperor. He reported that his hackney was stolen to the local watch. Mr. Richardson said he was mighty relieved when his nag was found wandering about Spitalfields, pullin’ the carriage. He knew it wasn’t a robbery, because his coins were still in his purse. Figured it was some young bucks well into their cups who was havin’ a bit of a lark.”
“Since he was struck from behind, we can learn nothing from our unfortunate hackney driver then,” Aldridge murmured, disappointed.
“That’s not exactly true. Mr. Richardson might not be able to identify the killer, but we have learned something,” Kendra said. “The absence of action tells us something about the unsub. He didn’t kill the hackney driver, even though he could easily have done so. He didn’t leave him in the street where he could have been run over in the snow and the dark. He carried Richardson into a doorway. Is Richardson a big man?”
“Nay. I’d even say he was on the smallish side. Maybe ten stone or so.”
Kendra converted that in her head to 145 to 150 pounds. “Okay. That doesn’t eliminate anyone. We’re still dealing with someone roughly the same height as Sir Giles, and reasonably strong.”
“But if the hackney driver is the killer,” Rebecca said, “didn’t the night porter see him?”
Kendra had forgotten that Rebecca hadn’t been a part of their earlier discussion. “Almost everyone working outdoors is wearing coats, scarves, gloves, and hats that can be used to conceal a person’s identity.”
“Ah, yes. I hadn’t thought of that.”
They spent a few moments focused on their lunch. Kendra polished off her sandwich and then pushed herself to her feet. She crossed the room, snatched up the piece of slate, and began to write the new information down on the board. “Sir Giles was targeted,” she said, stepping back to review the notes. “We know that. But the unsub didn’t want to kill unnecessarily to get to his target. That indicates a level of compassion.”
“I’m not so certain,” Alec disagreed. “Head injuries are precarious. The hackney driver could have died from such a wound. And the fiend could have moved him to a doorway so he wouldn’t be found so quickly and raise the alarm.”
“Okay, that’s possible,” she conceded, jiggling the piece of slate in her hand as she reconsidered. “However, he could still have killed the driver, and dumped his body in the doorway to keep it out of sight. The fact that he didn’t says something. Compassion might be the wrong word. He’s obviously calculating, but maybe he isn’t as cold-blooded as we originally thought.”
“At least not for anyone other than Sir Giles,” murmured the Duke.
She nodded, meeting his eyes. “Exactly. You’d be surprised at how many killers have no qualms about taking out other people in order to get to their target.” At the Bureau, she’d studied John “Jack” Gilbert Graham, who in 1955 had blown up an airplane with forty-four people onboard in order to kill one passenger—his mother. Obviously the unsub that they were currently dealing with wasn’t quite the psychopath Graham had been.
Kendra became aware that everyone was staring at her. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere,” she muttered. She could hardly share the story with Sam and Rebecca, who had no clue what an airplane was.
She cleared her throat, and looked at Sam. “Did Richardson mention anything about being followed, or feeling like he was being watched?”
Sam shook his head. “Nay. Maybe the fiend just got lucky.”
Organized, Kendra thought again. “This isn’t a crime of opportunity. Our unsub isn’t going to leave something like that to chance. This is about strategy. It was a setup.”
The Duke picked up his teacup, surveying Kendra over the rim. “So you believe the murderer followed Mr. Richardson. Do hackney drivers have established routines?”
“Aye,” said Sam. “They have certain territories they stay in and routes that they follow.”
“The unsub probab
ly shadowed several hackney drivers,” Kendra said. “Richardson was the one he chose because his routine or route worked for him. To set up the crates and block the road, he had to be sure that Richardson was the only one driving down the street at that time. This takes planning.”
Alec said, “And planning takes time.”
“Well, he didn’t need ter waste time with Sir Giles,” Sam pointed out. “His routine was consistent.”
Kendra nodded. “All he had to do was send in a note, and Sir Giles would come out to him.”
“Clever, isn’t he?” Aldridge mused, taking a long sip of tea.
“He’s not an idiot,” Kendra agreed, and shrugged when the Duke grinned. “You’re right. We’re dealing with someone with above average intelligence or cunning.”
“Do you really think Mr. Holbrooke is that clever?” Rebecca asked.
Kendra stopped pacing to look at her. “You don’t?”
Rebecca spread her hands. “I confess he struck me as an arrogant, spoiled young man, which is very typical of the Ton, but not terribly clever. You think differently?”
“I think I’d like to keep an open mind,” Kendra said. She jiggled the slate in her hand as she thought about it. “Sir Giles had a high IQ. The daughter as well. There’s no reason to think that Holbrook isn’t just as intelligent.”
Sam smiled slightly. “She’s a peculiar lass, ain’t she?”
Kendra nodded, but didn’t say anything. She’d been called that too often for her to think it was funny. My issue, she thought. Instead, she said, “As far as facts go, we know that a week ago, Holbrooke was in debt and his father was going to ship him off to India. But with his father’s death, Holbrooke is now the head of the household, which includes controlling the purse strings. Nobody can tell him what to do anymore. And he sure as hell isn’t going to India.”
“Put like that, Mr. Holbrooke certainly has motivation to kill his father,” said the Duke.
Kendra shrugged. “People have killed for less.”
Sam ate the last bit of bread on his plate before pushing his plate away. “If I may ask, what’s an IQ?”
Betrayal in Time Page 18