“You were the downstairs maid at the Holbrooke residence before you were dismissed?”
Betty’s puckered brow smoothed out in relief. “Is this what yer about then? Aye.” She regarded him steadily. “I heard the master done cocked up his toes the other day. I ain’t got nothin’ ter do with it. Her ladyship dismissed me a fortnight ago. Refused ter give me a reference too. Bloody bitch!”
“She didn’t like findin’ out she was gonna be a grandma?”
The barmaid snorted. “Ack, that Mr. Holbrooke was a bold ’un, always tryin’ ter turn me head with his flummery.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Looks like some of that flummery might’ve worked.”
Surprisingly, Betty grinned at him. “Well, as ter that, Mr. Holbrooke weren’t me only beau.”
Sam grunted. “What was his relationship like with his da?”
“Ack, it was peculiar, it was. Don’t know why he hated the master. It weren’t like Sir Giles was home most of the time.” She shrugged. “Suppose it was the master’s threat ter send him off ter some foreign place because Mr. Holbrooke was a tats man.”
“His game was dice, eh?”
“Aye. But he weren’t good at it. Fallen inter the River Tick, he did.”
Even though he knew all this, Sam decided to continue. He’d always found he got more information by gentling a possible witness into the conversation rather than asking bold questions immediately. “That must’ve troubled Sir Giles.”
“Well, it bloody well didn’t make him happy. That’s why he was gonna send him away ter some foreign place.”
“How did Mr. Holbrooke react ter that?”
“He said he weren’t gonna go.” She looked at the wall behind Sam, her expression thoughtful. “Reckon he was the most angry I’ve ever seen him. But what’s he gonna do, eh? Gerard—Mr. Holbrooke was always one fer a soft bed and food in his belly.”
“Bets!” The publican behind the bar yelled, glaring at Betty. “Stop wit yer prattling, wench. Ye got folks ’ere wit parched lips!”
Betty rolled her eyes. “’Tis me sister’s husband’s brother that owns this place. I got hired on as a downstairs maid, hopin’ one day ter become a lady’s maid. But that’s not looking bleeding likely. Still, I gotta do me job, or me sister will box me ears.” She placed her palms on the table, fingers splayed, and began to shove herself up. Sam stopped her by laying a hand over one of hers.
“A moment, lass.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “Do you think Mr. Holbrooke could have killed Sir Giles?”
“Gor, what a thing ter say! Maybe he weren’t nobility, but he was a nob.” But her response was automatic, and as he watched, something changed in her face.
“Even nobs have been known to kill,” Sam said quietly.
She bit her lip, but shook her head. “Nay. I can’t imagine it.”
Sam let her hand go and leaned back in his seat. “Did he ever mention ter you about wishing his da would cock up his toes?”
“Well, maybe, but it was more talk when he was in his cups. It weren’t like he was makin’ plans ter do the deed. More like he was wishin’ fer it to happen.” She lowered her eyes for a moment, then she slid a sideways assessing look at him. “Do ye think he did it?”
“It’s something we’re looking into.”
“Bets!” the bartender roared.
She ignored him, still staring at Sam. “He won’t know I talked ter ye, will he? I don’t want no trouble.”
Sam raised an ironic eyebrow, shifting his gaze to the other men in the pub.
She recognized the look in his eyes, and waved a hand impatiently. “They don’t give me no trouble. And if they did, ’tis regular folk trouble. I don’t want trouble with me betters.”
Sam nodded, understanding. “What about Sir Giles?”
Confusion puckered her pretty forehead. “He’s dead. He ain’t gonna give me no trouble.”
“I mean, did you notice anything different about him? I heard that somethin’ upset him about a month ago. Did you see anythin’ unusual?” He was watching her carefully, and observed the flicker of her pale eyelashes. “What did you see?”
Betty shrugged. “I don’t remember the exact date, mind you, but it could’ve been a month ago. It was a bit before her ladyship realized I was increasin’ and sacked me . . . The master got all in a dither about somethin’. Even the little one, Ruth, noticed it. She’s a queer one, ain’t she? Do you know what the last thing she said ter me was?”
“What?”
“That her papa was anxious about ghosts.” She gave a little laugh.
“Ghosts?”
“Aye. I told you she was a queer one. I said ter her, ‘Your papa is too tough ter be afraid about ghosts.’ I said, ‘Your papa will give those silly old ghosts a facer, so you needn’t fret about it, dearie.’ Do you know what she says ter me? She says that ghosts ain’t corporeal—that’s what she said. Cor-por-eal.” Betty enunciated each syllable carefully. “She said that means a body, and if they ain’t got a body, no one can give them a facer! Don’t that beat all?” She shook her head. “I asked her why she was talkin’ about ghosts and such, and she said it was her papa who’d been talkin’ about them.”
Sam wondered aloud, “What can it mean?”
“It means the gal’s touched in the attic, that’s what it means. The master’s trouble weren’t no ghosts. It was a woman. A foreign lady.”
Sam stared at her. “How do you know that?”
Betty leaned forward with a conspiratorial look on her face. “One of me duties was ter dust around the house, ye know. I came inter the master’s study ter do some tidying up, but he were there, sitting behind his desk, burnin’ a piece of paper on that silver tray the old butler used ter bring the letters in on.”
“He was burning a letter?”
“Aye.”
“BETS!” the publican bellowed again.
“Bleeding Mary and Joseph,” she breathed, then glanced around. “I’m coming! Ye don’t need ter shout so!”
Sam retrieved another coin and slid it toward her. “I could use a hot whiskey.”
She grinned at him. “Aye.”
He sat back, thinking, as Betty jumped up and hurried back to the tap. He could hear sharp words exchanged between her and the publican. A moment later, she returned with his hot whiskey.
Sam prodded, “Tell me what happened next.”
Betty didn’t sit down. “Oh, well, not much ter tell, really. The master slapped out the flames—they weren’t much—and got up and left the room without sayin’ a word.”
“Was that odd for him ter do?”
“I don’t expect him ter talk ter me. But he did look . . .” She thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Not hisself, that’s for sure. Kind of like he was gonna cast up his accounts. He was ill, but not ill, if ye know what I mean.” She grinned suddenly. “Maybe like he had seen a ghost, and all.”
Sam kept his eyes on the maid. “What did you do then?” he asked, although he suspected.
“I gotta admit that I was curious, on account the master looked so . . . queer-like.” She had the grace to blush as she said, “I sort of sifted through what was left on the tray. Most of it was burnt up, but I saw a word or two.”
Sam paused in lifting the hot whiskey, surprised. “You know how ter read?”
Insult flashed across her pretty face. “Me sisters and me were taught ter read by our vicar’s own wife when we were half-grown.”
“My apologies,” he offered, and tipped back the glass, enjoying the warm whiskey as it slid smoothly down his throat. He sighed, setting down the glass on the scarred table with a soft thud. “What did you read?”
“I already told you. A foreign lady’s name—Magdalena, it was. I think it was right around that time that the master began havin’ his troubles.” She nodded sagely, and for some reason, Sam found his gaze lowering to the swell of her belly. When he jerked his gaze up, Betty gave him a sly smile, almost as though she knew where his m
ind had wandered.
“Aye,” she nodded as though they shared a dark secret. “The master wasn’t havin’ ghost-troubles. He was havin’ women troubles.”
29
There was something absurd about having only a tongue resting on the autopsy table while Munroe, Barts, Alec, Kendra, and even Rebecca—although she held a hankie firmly to her nose—stared down at the damned thing.
An hour ago, after her gentleman callers, Humphrey and Roland, had fled, and Lady Atwood had been revived with smelling salts and taken to her bed, declaring that her nerves were now shattered, Kendra had used the tissues that had been scattered across the floor to shove the pulpy organ back into the box. The only thing she could think to do was whisk the package to Dr. Munroe’s anatomy school to have him look at it.
“I suppose it could have belonged to Sir Giles,” Dr. Munroe said slowly, his black brows drawn together in a frown as he stared down at the severed tongue.
“Suppose? Is anyone else running around London without a tongue? Or have you had any dead corpses come your way that were missing their tongues?” asked Kendra. She dropped her gaze back down to the grotesque bit of flesh.
Behind his round spectacles, Munroe’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “As you know, I am a thorough man, Miss Donovan. Last evening, I released Sir Giles’s body to his son, Mr. Holbrooke, for burial, so I no longer have it to make a visual comparison, and therefore cannot say with one hundred percent certainty that this tongue belonged in Sir Giles’s head. However . . .” He brought up the magnifying glass to study it. “This appears to have been cut with the same type of knife. If you note, the flesh has been cleanly excised. We’re dealing with a very sharp blade; the removal was swift—which matches with what had been done to Sir Giles.”
Rebecca suddenly made a gagging sound. “Forgive me, I . . . I . . .” She turned and bolted to the door, and let out a soft cry when she ran into the hard body that had materialized in front of her.
Muldoon placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “There now, Princess, is the devil himself after you?”
“Oh, you . . . oaf !” Rebecca jerked out of his arms and continued her flight out of the autopsy chamber.
With a concerned frown, the reporter stared after her for a moment, then turned to look at them. “What has happened?”
Kendra frowned at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked in return.
Muldoon whipped off his battered tricorn hat as he came into the room. “I’ve been calling upon Dr. Munroe every afternoon to see if there’s been any new development regarding Sir Giles.”
“That he has.” Munroe gave the reporter a disgruntled look. “Despite me telling him that the dead can speak for only so long, and Sir Giles gave up his secrets when I conducted the autopsy.”
“And yet here I find you with a sizeable audience, doctor,” the reporter pointed out with an impudent grin, his gaze drifting to the autopsy table. As Kendra watched, Muldoon’s eyes widened, and he hurried across the room to gape at the blackened muscular organ on the table. “Sweet Jesus, is that what I think it is?”
Kendra said, “If you think it’s Sir Giles’s tongue, then yes.”
“Most likely,” Munroe corrected, and bent forward again, training the magnifying glass on the wider part of the tongue. “As I was saying, the blade used was sharp enough to make a clean cut. And the decomposition matches Sir Giles. I’d say as of three days ago, this tongue was still attached to its owner.”
“How did you find it?” asked Muldoon, fascinated.
“You might say it found us,” Kendra murmured.
A muscle pulsed on Alec’s jaw, his green eyes dark with temper as he fixed his gaze on Kendra. “Not us—you. Someone sent it to you.”
Muldoon’s reddish blond eyebrows rose as he looked at her. “Why would the fiend feel the need to send you Sir Giles’s tongue, Miss Donovan?”
“That is what I’d like to know,” Alec said.
Muldoon answered his own question. “Obviously he is attempting to frighten you,” he murmured. “But why? What do you know?”
Kendra found herself being thoroughly examined, his gaze shrewd. She shook her head. “I don’t know anything. Not at this stage.”
“Ah, then I suppose the killer is worried about the next stage.” He scratched behind his ear. “You must be making somebody nervous.”
Kendra said nothing. He was right. Sending her the tongue was as much of a message as it had been when the killer had removed it. While she didn’t know what was behind the invisible ink symbols or even cutting off the tongue, Kendra had a pretty good idea what this message meant: Stay away.
“Are you going to let this go, Miss Donovan?” Muldoon asked, and again Kendra felt his gaze on her like a physical weight.
Alec glared at the reporter. “This is your fault, Muldoon. If you hadn’t been trying to be clever by putting Miss Donovan in your damned newspaper—”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t take me for a simpleton. You did everything but spell out her name.”
Muldoon cocked his head as he returned Alec’s hostile gaze. “And here now I was thinking this little gift might have more to do with the lass running about, quizzing everybody about the murder. The killer might take exception to having his identity exposed,” he said sarcastically.
Alec advanced on him, and the reporter took several prudent steps back.
“Enough!” Kendra slid in front of Alec and slapped a hand on his chest. “Stop it. Both of you.” She shot a brief warning look at Muldoon, then dropped her hand. “Let’s stay focused. Muldoon’s right—I must be making someone nervous. And that’s good for us.”
The reporter’s eyebrows sprang up in surprise. “It is?”
“The killer inadvertently helped us narrow down the pool of suspects. We can cross Silas Fitzpatrick off the list. I never interviewed him, never met him. He has no reason to send this to me.”
Alec scowled. “He probably reads the Morning Chronicle.”
Kendra said, “It’s a warning, but it’s personal. It’s a warning specifically for me.”
“This does not comfort me,” Alec muttered.
Kendra decided to ignore that, turning to look at Muldoon. “I’ve wanted to talk to you. Do you know Captain Mobray?”
“By reputation only. His stock in Whitehall has been rising in the last year, and there’s talk that he may run for political office. At the moment, he works in the Home Department.” Muldoon seemed to consider the matter. “His record is exemplary.”
“What about Spain?”
“He served in the Fifty-Second Regiment of Foot during the campaign in Spain and was captured by the French. He managed to escape. I don’t recall the specifics. Why? What does that have to do with Sir Giles?”
Kendra asked a question of her own. “Can you find out more about Captain Mobray’s capture and his escape?”
“I might be able to get my hands on the official reports. But the war is over. What could that possibly have to do with Sir Giles’s murder three nights ago?”
“I’m not sure—yet,” she admitted. “Have you heard of Evert Larson and Lord Cross?”
“Evert Larson . . . the name sounds familiar. Lord Cross, I don’t think so. Who are they?”
Kendra said, “Evert Larson worked for Sir Giles in intelligence. Lord Cross served with Captain Mobray, and was captured with him.”
“And escaped with him,” Alec put in, his expression brooding. “Evert Larson wasn’t so lucky. He died while trying to rescue the captured British soldiers.”
Muldoon frowned. “I seem to recall the incident. All the soldiers perished, didn’t they?”
Alec nodded. “Except for Captain Mobray and Lord Cross.”
“Hmm.” The reporter rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll see what I can do about getting ahold of the report. But I have to ask again, what could an incident so long ago have to do with the killing of Sir Giles?”
“Two yea
rs isn’t very long,” Kendra said softly.
She thought of the Larson family with their grief and rage, and Gerard Holbrooke with his festering resentment—a lifetime of bitterness. And Captain Mobray and Lord Cross? Where did they fit in? She thought of Lord Cross and his tense conversation with Sir Giles before Sir Giles was murdered, and Captain Mobray’s cool, watchful gray eyes.
Something had happened in Spain besides the death of Evert Larson and the British soldiers. She was sure of it. But whether that tragedy had anything to do with Sir Giles’s murder, she didn’t know.
30
Kendra, Rebecca, and Alec arrived back at Grosvenor Square at the same time the Duke was stepping out of his carriage. “Good afternoon,” he greeted them with a smile. “Your countryman, Mr. Hicks, gave an impassioned speech against the abomination of slavery.”
“I would hope so,” Kendra murmured as they walked up the steps together, where Harding held open the door.
“My father was quite horrified when he inherited the sugar plantation in Barbados from his uncle and learned that it was run by slave labor,” Rebecca put in as she untied the bow to her bonnet and handed it over to Harding. “It took longer than he realized it would, but he managed to free them. Still, Papa was upset to realize his uncle had engaged in such a practice, and had even kept a Negress mistress.”
The Duke didn’t seem surprised by the admission. “Your father and I discussed it. It was bad ton of his uncle to be part of such an abhorrent practice. I hope America will soon follow Mr. Hicks’s lead and overthrow the bonds of slavery. What say you, Miss Donovan? Will your countrymen end this ugly arrangement?”
Kendra met his keen gaze, and knew he was asking her what would happen, not her take on what might happen. “It may take a while, but I’m certain those who share Mr. Hicks’s viewpoint will be vindicated,” she said carefully.
“Very good,” he said, smiling, and patted his breast pockets. “I spoke with Mr. Hicks at some length after his lecture, and he gave me this.” The Duke produced a gray stone, roughly one inch in length, that had been hammered and honed to a sharp point.
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