And that brought up another point. Why had the unsub killed Cross so quickly? He hadn’t even waited until the viscount had finished with the sex worker.
Kendra’s skin prickled. Was the killer escalating? Sir Giles’s murder had been carefully plotted and planned. But Lord Cross was more impulsive. Not disorganized necessarily, but—
“Miss Donovan.”
She turned sharply. She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard Harding open the door or come into the room. “I apologize for startling you,” he said.
“No, that’s all right. I was thinking. What is it?”
“Mr. Kelly is downstairs. He said that he has discovered Viscount Wentworth’s address, and wishes to know if you and His Grace want to accompany him. Of course, I informed him that the Duke is not at home.”
Kendra gulped down her coffee and set the cup down. “Tell him to wait. I’ll go with him. I just need to get my coat.” And use the chamber pot.
Harding’s expression was stern enough for Kendra to think that he was channeling Mrs. Danbury. “You will be bringing your lady’s maid, will you not? You cannot simply leave unescorted with Mr. Kelly.”
“Yeah, yeah.” There was no point in arguing. “I’ll get my coat and my maid.”
Viscount Wentworth lived in a small Georgian, white-stucco terrace near Regents Park, off Marylebone Road. The gray-haired butler who answered the door didn’t seem inclined to let them inside without a calling card. Apparently saying that she was the ward of the Duke of Aldridge didn’t cut it, especially since she said it with an American accent. And Sam’s gold-tipped baton only elicited a sneer. Patience snapping, Kendra pushed past the majordomo.
“Now, see here, young lady!” he began indignantly.
She rounded on him. “Lord Wentworth was involved in a murder last night. Either you can bring him here to us or we’ll go to him. Your choice.”
His mouth fell open. “This . . . this is quite outrageous!”
Sam said, “This is important, Mr.—?”
“Thompson.”
“Mr. Thompson, we need ter speak ter your master about the murder of Lord Cross.”
“Well, he certainly never . . . Lord Cross?” His eyes widened as the name registered. “Lord Cross is dead?”
Kendra watched the butler closely. “Yes. Lord Wentworth didn’t say anything to you about it?”
Thompson hesitated. “I have not seen his lordship this morning. It’s only half past ten, madam. The master is still abed.”
“We’d appreciate if you could wake him so we can speak to him.” Kendra watched the uncertainty flit across the butler’s face, and added, “We’ll wait.”
He seemed torn between trying to toss them out, and giving in. He finally let out a put-upon sigh, perhaps realizing that evicting them wouldn’t be easy. “Very well. If you will follow me.”
Thompson led them into a drawing room decorated in deep green and blue jewel tones and heavy masculine furnishings. Above the carved fireplace hung an oil painting of a naked, golden-haired nymph languishing on a Greek sofa. Kendra didn’t need to examine the painting to know that it wasn’t a Botticelli. It was, Kendra decided, the 19th century’s version of a centerfold. And this room was a 19th-century bachelor pad.
“Gor,” Molly said, ogling the nude painting.
“I shall have a footman take your coats.”
Kendra turned to face Thompson. “We won’t be staying long. We just need to ask Lord Wentworth a couple of questions.”
Still he hesitated. “Do you wish tea? Ale?”
“No, thank you,” Kendra said.
“Nay,” Sam added.
The butler bowed slightly and departed, leaving them to wander the room.
Sam said, “I spoke ter the doxy again before I came ter see you.”
Kendra looked at the Bow Street Runner. “Is she sober?”
“As much as she can be, I suppose. But she ain’t changed her story. She still says a demon from Hell came up ter kill Lord Cross.”
She shook her head. “Our one witness and she’s useless.”
“Did she really see a demon?” Molly asked, eyes round.
“Of course not,” Kendra said.
“Then why’d she say it?”
“’Cause she was foxed,” said Sam.
The door opened, and they turned as Lord Wentworth came into the room. The viscount was probably in his mid-twenties, with sandy blond hair limp around a long face with even features. He might have been attractive if not for the deathly pallor and haggard appearance that made him look at least a decade older. His blue eyes were painfully bloodshot. He looked like he was having the mother of all hangovers.
“Good morning,” he greeted them carefully. He frowned as his gaze slid over Kendra and Molly, settling on Sam. “This is about Cross, isn’t it?”
Sam nodded. “It is.”
“God.” He raised a trembling hand to press against his brow. “I . . . I wasn’t certain, you know. I had hoped that it had been a dreadful nightmare. Please, let us be seated.” He didn’t so much sit as collapse in one of the chairs.
Kendra and Sam took seats opposite him, while Molly chose to hang back, trying to blend in with the furniture like a good servant.
“Tell me what happened last night,” Kendra prompted.
The viscount shook his head, then wished he hadn’t, a pained expression crossing his face. “I really do not know. The whore came running in, screaming. It took a glass of gin to calm the creature down. And then she said a demon was murdering folks. I thought it was a joke until we . . .” He licked his lips, revulsion flitting across his face. “Until we went out to the alley. Bloody hell. That’s when we saw him, the poor fool. Someone—I don’t know who—began shouting for the watch.”
Kendra regarded him steadily. “You didn’t stay for the watch’s arrival?”
“I . . . no. I cast up my accounts.” He flushed at the memory, and Kendra recalled the smell of vomit in the alleyway.
He continued. “Afterward, I just wanted to get away. I hailed a nearby hackney and came home. It’s not as though I could have done anything for Cross,” he added, his voice rising defensively. “What use would I have been to the watch? I didn’t see anything!”
“How did you and Lord Cross come ter be at the Bell & Swan?” Sam asked.
“I invited Cross to the theater. My father has boxed seats at Drury Lane.”
Kendra regarded him. “How did you know Lord Cross?”
“Our fathers have a connection. And we went to school together.”
“Eton,” Kendra guessed.
Wentworth’s eyebrows pulled together. “How did you know?”
“It’s a popular school,” she said. “Did you know Evert and David Larson?”
He looked surprised. “At Eton, yes. But they were not people one maintained a connection to outside of school. Their family is in trade, you know. It’s odd that you mention them, though. I have scarcely given a thought to either of them, but I believe Cross mentioned Evert’s name last night.”
Kendra exchanged a quick glance with Sam. The Bow Street Runner leaned forward, his golden eyes narrowing. “What did he say?” he asked.
“Ah, as to that, I’m afraid my memory of last evening is faulty.” The viscount lifted his hands, pressing his fingers against his eyes, as though he could force the memory from his skull. After a moment, he dropped his hands, saying, “It had something to do with the war, some complaint that only if his brother had cocked up his toes earlier, he would’ve been his father’s heir and never been sent to Spain . . .” He shrugged. “It was a common grievance for Cross. He was captured by the Froggies, you know. It affected him. Turned him a bit melancholy.”
Kendra asked, “Did Cross ever tell you what happened to him while captured?”
“Good God, no. And I wasn’t going to pry. Best to get on with life.”
“But you said that he complained about being in the military,” she pressed.
&nb
sp; “Only when he was in his cups. Seemed to think that if he hadn’t been there . . . ah, I think that’s where he mentioned Evert Larson. Guilt, plain and simple.”
“Guilt about what?” Kendra asked.
Wentworth shook his head. “I don’t know, really. Can’t blame yourself for what happens in war, can you?”
That depends on what you’ve done, Kendra thought again. Out loud, she asked, “Did Lord Cross ever mention a woman by the name of Magdalena?”
“A woman? You mean, a . . . a doxy?” He colored slightly. It seemed to occur to him for the first time that this might be an inappropriate conversation to have with a lady.
Kendra shrugged. “Maybe.”
Normally, she wouldn’t have even given him the name Magdalena, preferring the information to come from the witness. False memories could be too easily planted, witnesses too easily manipulated. But Wentworth’s altered state the night prior might require a nudge.
“Magdalena,” he murmured, a frown behind his eyes. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What about Captain Mobray?”
“I can’t remember if he mentioned him last night, but he’s spoken about Captain Mobray in the past. They were in Spain together.” Wentworth chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, thinking.
Kendra watched him carefully, and saw when his face changed subtly. “What?” she asked.
“It may be nothing . . .”
“Nothing might turn into something.”
“Again, I don’t know about last night, but when he’s spoken about Mobray in the past, I got the impression that he didn’t like the man.”
“What else?” Kendra prompted.
He shook his head. “It may be my imagination, but I always thought he was fearful of him.”
“Have you ever met Captain Mobray?”
“We’ve never been introduced.”
“Did Cross ever mention Sir Giles?”
Wentworth frowned. “Yes, but I don’t remember the context. I know they had a connection. And, of course, he mentioned him last night when we spoke of his murder. The horror.”
Kendra kept her gaze on the viscount. “Did he tell you that he’d spoken to Sir Giles on the night he was murdered?”
Wentworth’s eyes widened. “Good God, no.”
“Did you notice anything different about Cross in the last month? Did his demeanor change at all?”
“No. But I’ve been out of town at my family’s estate for Christmas. I only returned last week.” He shuddered. “I’m inclined to go back to the country immediately. There’s been talk of establishing a more permanent police force here in London, and I may now agree. Seeing Cross like that . . . dreadful business.”
“Murder is always dreadful business,” Kendra allowed, and pushed herself to her feet, ending the interview. “Thank you for your time, Lord Wentworth. If you remember anything else about last night—anything at all—please send word to me at the Duke of Aldridge’s residence or to Mr. Kelly at Bow Street.”
34
We need to speak to Captain Mobray immediately,” Kendra said as soon as they were outside. They’d come by a hackney, so they hailed another. “I want to see if he has an alibi for last night. In fact, we need to run through all our suspects to see if they have alibis. It would be nice to narrow down the list.” She glanced at Sam. “And figure out how to find Magdalena.”
“I’ve got me men making inquiries.”
“Where?” She remembered her earlier hopelessness at finding the woman, and was honestly curious about the 19th-century detective’s strategy. “We don’t know anything about her. We don’t even know if the letter was posted from London or even England.”
“Ah, that would be the rub,” he admitted. “Right now, I have some of me men going into the areas of the city where Spanish immigrants live. They’ll start with markets and churches. Folks gotta eat, and they usually go ter mass.”
It wasn’t a bad starting point, Kendra decided. London was a vast metropolis, but it wasn’t exactly a melting pot. London’s ethnic, racial, and religious groups operated in their own sphere, just as the classes were segregated.
“If the lass is in London, we’ll find her. It’s just gonna take a bit of time.”
Kendra said nothing. Her gaze went to a carriage pulling up next to the curb, and the tall man stepping out of it. It was Alec, carrying his beaver hat in his hand, which allowed the light breeze to ruffle his dark hair as he walked toward them. He looked grimmer than usual, his green eyes intense as they fixed on her.
“I heard about Lord Cross,” Alec said in lieu of a greeting when he joined them. “What the blazes is going on?”
“I’m not sure,” Kendra admitted. “How did you know we were here?”
“Harding informed me that you and Mr. Kelly went to speak with Lord Wentworth. He was with Cross last night?” He glanced at the residence behind them.
“Yes.”
“Did you learn anything?” he asked.
“Not as much as I’d like. You could say that Wentworth and Ella Browne were both in altered states last night.”
His grim expression lightened slightly, and he lifted one eyebrow. “Altered states?”
“Completely foxed,” Sam put in.
Kendra looked at the carriage. “Would you mind giving us a lift, milord? It will save us from finding a hackney.”
“I’m at your service, my lady.” Now the well-shaped mouth moved into a crooked smile. He opened the door. “To Grosvenor Square?”
“Actually, Captain Mobray is first up,” she said as they piled into the carriage. “Lord Cross, Sir Giles, Evert Larson. What do they have in common?”
“Spain,” Alec said immediately. “Mobray has that in common with them as well.”
“Yes, he does. Except for one major point.”
Sam frowned. “And what’s that, lass?”
“They’re all dead. And he’s alive.”
Kendra was surprised by how quickly Sam found Captain Mobray’s place of residence. Because of Mobray’s background and current employment at Whitehall, Sam’s first stop was a coffee house that catered to soldiers and government workers. He returned with information that Mobray rented rooms on Sackville Street, off Piccadilly.
After telling Molly to stay in the carriage, they climbed the stairs to the second story, where the captain’s apartment was located. Because he wasn’t nobility, landed gentry, or the burgeoning nouveau riche like the Larsons, the captain opened the door himself. Kendra watched him closely. The only sign that he was surprised by his unexpected guests was the slight tightening at the corner of his eyes. Otherwise his expression remained inscrutable. He would be, she decided, a formidable poker player.
Kendra took the lead. “Captain Mobray, may we come in?”
In answer, he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Certainly. May I inquire what this is about?”
They entered a small receiving room. Oddly enough, there was an almost 21st-century vibe to the room, with tufted leather club chairs and a sofa. The side tables and credenza were simple, fluid designs carved out of oak, masculine in feel. The only thing separating this room from a man cave in her era was the lack of a big-ass, 70-inch-screen TV.
Mobray’s chestnut hair seemed slightly damp, his jaw a little red, as though he’d recently bathed and shaved. “When was the last time you saw Lord Cross?” Kendra asked.
“Cross? Why?”
She summoned a small smile. “Indulge me.”
Mobray indicated the sofa and chairs. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you refreshments. I do have a maid-of-all-work, but Sunday is her day of rest. Shall we sit?” He waited until they were seated before lowering himself to a chair. He allowed his gaze to drift over the three of them before focusing on Kendra. “As odd as I find this inquiry, I believe I will indulge you, Miss Donovan. The Smyth-Hope ball. Why?”
“Is there any reason he was upset?”
“Upset? I have no notion. He wasn’t upset at the ball.”
“Well . . .” He reached into his jacket, emerging with the porcelain snuffbox. “That is understandable, Miss Donovan. Spain was not a pleasant time for either one of us. It’s best forgotten.”
“Is that possible?”
“I have done so.” He took a delicate pinch and sniffed it into each nostril. His gaze shifted to Alec, dismissing her. “What is this about, sir?”
Kendra leaned forward, catching Mobray’s gaze again. “Do you know a woman named Magdalena?” she asked, and wondered if the gray eyes flickered just a bit.
“No.”
“Where were you last night, between ten and two?”
He stared at her. “Last night? Why? What’s happened?”
Answering a question with another question was a well-known delaying tactic. Kendra wondered if that was what he was doing, and, if so, why he needed the delay. To come up with an alibi? She said, “If you could answer the question, please.”
He didn’t like that, she could tell. Whether it was because she was a woman telling him what to do, or because he didn’t like the question, she didn’t know.
“I was here last night, if you must know,” he finally said. “What happened?”
“Can anybody verify that?”
Mobray’s mouth tightened, irritated that she had yet to answer his question. “No. I was home alone.”
“On a Saturday night?” She infused the question with skepticism, knowing it would piss him off.
His gray eyes narrowed. “Why would that matter? I worked yesterday in the Home Office, and spent the evening reading.”
Kendra had to remind herself that weekends had little meaning in this era. Even the name weekend wouldn’t be coined for another sixty-three years. It was strange to her that a concept so familiar in her timeline was unheard of here. The five-day work week would be implemented in the early 20th century, a byproduct of a New England mill allowing their Jewish workers the day off to observe their Saturday Sabbath. Until then, you worked when you worked. Which meant there was no TGIF or lounging around in your bathrobe on Saturday morning.
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