“And survived.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying either. But an idea was beginning to take shape, the elusive threads slowly solidifying. She just needed more information.
She asked, “Would you mind if I speak to your daughter?”
“Ruth? Why?”
“Sometimes children see and hear things that adults overlook.” Especially a girl like Ruth.
Lady Holbrooke thought it over. “Nanny Howe took her to Hyde Park,” she finally said. “They ought to be by the lake. They asked for a loaf of bread to feed the ducks.”
“Thank you. I’ll show myself out.”
Kendra left the older woman, staring sightlessly out the window, a troubled look on her face, her book abandoned on the sofa.
Kendra found Ruth and her nanny standing on the banks of the Serpentine, where the manmade lake began to curve to the east. A cold breeze churned the waters, but the scattering of ducks looked content to bob up and down on the choppy waves. Despite the chilly temperature and occasional drift of snow, the area appeared to be a popular hangout for children. Rebecca had apparently been right about doctors urging parents to take their children outdoors and embrace the cold. Although looking around, Kendra didn’t see any parents. Instead the dozen or so children who were running across the stiff grass, madly shrieking, were all doing it under the watchful eyes of their governesses.
Ruth was not part of that boisterous crowd of children. Instead, she cut a solitary figure dressed all in black—save her mittens, which were a pale blue. Kendra watched the little girl’s gaze track the energetic play of the other children. The stout figure of her nanny stood about five feet away, breaking off crumbs from a loaf of bread to toss at the ducks on the water.
“Why don’t you join them?” Kendra asked as she came up to Ruth. “The other children. I’m sure they’d let you play with them.”
Ruth wrinkled her nose. “They aren’t playing a real game. They’re just running about being silly.”
Kendra eyed the little girl. Maybe there were similarities between her and Ruth, but this was not one of those areas. She thought back to her often lonely childhood, and knew that given the chance, she’d have been out with the other children, and at least trying to conform to the social group.
“I tell her all the time to go and talk to the other children,” Nanny Howe said, trudging over to them. “Better than standing there doing nothing.”
“I am doing something. I am looking at the Serpentine,” Ruth said, frowning at her nanny. “It is not a natural body of water. It was created when the River Westbourne was dammed.”
“Oh, heavens, child, you think too much about things that do not need thinking about!” The older woman all but rolled her eyes. Her expression smoothed out as she smiled at Kendra. “Good afternoon. I’m Nanny Howe. I remember you. You were at the house the other day. Forgive me, but I don’t recollect your name?”
Ruth piped up, “Her name is Miss Donovan. She’s a Bow Street Runner, although . . .” She turned her solemn face up to Kendra, regarding her with intelligent eyes. “Nanny says you were telling me a Banbury Tale, because there is no such thing as a female thief-taker.”
“Ack, now, I said that Miss Donovan was obviously teasing.” The other woman’s already ruddy face pinkened. She shot Kendra a sideways glance that was half apologetic, half embarrassed. “We know that ladies do not become Bow Street Runners, especially gently bred women.”
Ruth’s frown deepened. “No, you specifically said Banbury Tale. I have an excellent memory, and I know what you said.”
“I’m sure you do,” Kendra said quickly, smiling at the other woman to reassure her that she wasn’t angry. She shifted her gaze back to the little girl. “In fact, I’m hoping your memory is as good as I think it is, because maybe you can help me.”
Ruth’s face brightened. “How can I help you, Miss Donovan?”
“The other day, when I met you, you asked me if I believed in ghosts. Why did you ask that?”
“Oh.” The little girl’s gaze dropped to the ground, and she stretched out a toe to push a rock into the snow.
The nanny looked uneasy. “What’s this about ghosts?”
Kendra said nothing, watching Ruth. The little girl kept her gaze on the rock she was nudging with her foot, but finally said, “You wanted to know if Papa was upset by anything. I never believed in ghosts, but Papa believed in them.”
“He was upset by ghosts?”
Ruth nodded. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I went into Papa’s study to borrow a book. I didn’t know Papa was at home. He usually was not. He was sitting behind his desk, but the room was dark. I asked Papa if he wanted me to light a candle for him, but he said that some ghosts were best dealt with in the dark.” Ruth glanced at Kendra. “That is a strange thing to say, isn’t it?”
“Why do you think he said that?”
“I don’t know, but I told Betty when she mentioned him being vexed. I told her that he was vexed over ghosts. She told me that I oughtn’t worry about ghosts, because Papa was strong enough to fight them.” She wrinkled her nose in disdain. “It was a stupid thing to say. You can’t fight an apparition. They do not belong in the physical world. Isn’t that a stupid thing to say?”
“Did your father say anything else?”
“I asked Papa if ghosts were real, but he said it was his dilemma, and that I was not to worry about it.”
“He used that word precisely? Dilemma?”
“Yes. ‘Do not worry, Ruthie. ’Tis my dilemma,’” she said in such a way that Kendra knew she was repeating her father’s words exactly. The little girl cocked her head to the side, her brown eyes regarding Kendra with solemn intensity. “Will this help you find who killed Papa?”
“Possibly,” Kendra said slowly. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Donovan?”
Kendra opened her mouth to say no, but then thought about the more complicated answer, about how ghosts could take on many forms and were not necessarily just the spirits of the dead. But she knew Ruth’s literal mind wouldn’t understand, so she smiled and gave the child a wink instead. “Let’s just say that I’m keeping an open mind.”
37
Having control of the carriage gave Kendra a heady jolt of freedom, not quite equal to getting behind the wheel of a Jaguar—hell, any car—and driving herself to wherever she wanted to go, but close. Instead of returning to Grosvenor Square, Kendra directed Benjamin to take her to the Larson residence. It was a victory of sorts that Benjamin didn’t argue with the new directive. He scowled—but that was normal for the coachman—and did what might have been an eye roll, eventually shrugging his acceptance. Maybe the Duke’s staff was starting to get used to her. Or maybe she was just wearing them down. Whatever worked.
Molly fidgeted nervously when the carriage began rumbling down the road. “We’re not goin’ ’ome?”
“Not yet. I need to conduct a few more interviews. You can wait in the coach while I go inside. It shouldn’t take too long.”
Molly looked horrified by the suggestion. “Oh, no, miss. It wouldn’t be proper for ye ter go into a ’ouse all by yerself.”
Kendra said nothing for a long moment. Who’s wearing who down? she thought wryly. “Do you think while I’m speaking to the Larsons, you can talk to the servants?” she said finally. “Find out if the family was around last night, after ten?”
The maid’s eyes widened, but she nodded. “Aye. Oi can maybe ask for a cuppa tea.”
“See if you can also find out how many servants the Larsons employ.” She thought of her own attempt to sneak out of the Duke’s residence days earlier. The Duke employed an army of servants, but she’d still managed to sneak out of the house.
The carriage drew up outside the Larsons’ redbrick mansion. Benjamin unfolded
the steps, and Kendra thrust open the door, stepping down. She had no calling card to present, so she went up the path to knock on the door herself. It was probably audacious. She heard Benjamin mutter something behind her, but he made no move to stop her.
The butler’s eyebrows rose when he opened the door to find Kendra and Molly.
“I need to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Larson,” Kendra told him.
The majordomo hesitated, but then stepped back to allow them into the entrance hall. “If you will wait here, I shall see if Mr. Larson is home,” he said, making no move to take her coat and gloves or bring her into a lesser drawing room to wait. “Miss Donovan, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
She watched as the butler strode off. Because it was Sunday, she expected the Larsons to be at home. Whether they would be at home to her was another matter. She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do if they declined to see her. Come back with the Duke, she supposed. And how annoying would that be?
After several minutes, the butler reappeared. “If you will come with me,” he said.
Kendra followed, leaving Molly to linger behind in the entrance hall. The butler still didn’t ask to take her coat and bonnet, which she thought was a sign that she wouldn’t be staying long, until the servant ushered her down the hall, past the drawing room that she’d been in the other day, and into another corridor that led to French doors that opened to the conservatory.
“Miss Donovan,” the butler announced as he opened the doors, stepping aside to let Kendra go through.
Aldridge Castle had a conservatory, an enormous glazed glass structure that was used to grow fresh vegetables in the winter months. The estate also had an orangery for more exotic fruits. Kendra had been in both buildings only twice in the months she’d been in the 19th century, but she’d been impressed at the self-sufficiency of country estates.
The Larsons’ conservatory was similar to the one at Aldridge Castle, and yet different. The sloping, glazed glass walls were the same, but this room wasn’t for growing asparagus and broccoli. This was serious horticulture, with tables filled with terracotta pots, dirt, and seedlings, and larger pots with full-grown plants and herbs. The air was heavy with the pungent scents of dirt and fertilizer. And this is how you became a wealthy apothecary in this era, she thought with a flash of amusement.
It wasn’t freezing in the greenhouse, but the air was moist and chilly—hence the butler not taking her coat. Astrid was also wearing a loose-fitting wool coat over her apple-green cotton morning gown as she stood behind one table, carefully cutting off stalks from a potted plant with a small knife. David was the only one not wearing a coat, but he was in the process of hauling a large hemp bag of what looked like dirt over to another table. Several similar bags were stacked up against the wall. Undoubtedly the work he was doing was keeping him warm. Bertel was bent over another table, peering into a microscope. Now he straightened, looking over at Kendra as she entered the greenhouse.
Once again Kendra was struck by the sheer physical beauty of this family. Beneath the physical appeal, though, was one of them a murderer?
“Forgive us for not greeting you in a more proper manner, Miss Donovan,” Bertel said, coming forward to join his wife. “We are not gentry, and must work for a living.”
“I think your operation is admirable,” Kendra said honestly, and lifted a gloved finger to touch a nearby flowering stalk. “What’s this?”
“Actaea racemosa—black cohosh,” Astrid identified. “Used for stiffness of the joints and muscle pain.”
“And this?” Kendra shifted to another flowering plant.
“Aesculus hippocastanum—horse chestnut. Toxic unless processed properly. But I don’t think you have come here to be educated on the medicinal properties of plants and herbs, have you, Miss Donovan?” Astrid said coolly.
Kendra allowed her gaze to travel over the other woman’s beautiful, proud face. There was strength of will that she saw beyond the splendor. It was the kind of determination that could garrote a man, she thought, or drag an unconscious hackney driver into a doorway.
Her gaze dropped to the knife Astrid had been using to make the clippings. Too small to be the murder weapon. She shifted her attention to the other table that held bags of dirt, bags tied off with rope that Kendra would bet her paycheck—if she actually had a paycheck—was made of hemp.
“No,” she finally said, swinging her gaze back to the Larsons. “This is not a social call. Can you tell me where each of you were last evening, after ten o’clock?” Again, she didn’t like doing a group interview, but she couldn’t see them agreeing to split up so she could question them separately.
Her inquiry brought on a moment of silence, thick with tension. Slowly, Astrid brushed the dirt from her palms. “Why are you asking about last night?”
Kendra debated her answer, but decided she had nothing to gain by keeping the information to herself. “Lord Cross was murdered last night.”
Astrid’s frigid blue eyes fixed on Kendra’s. “And you think one of us might have killed this man?”
“It would be nice to eliminate you from the list of suspects.” She watched them exchange glances. “Or would you rather a Bow Street Runner ask you these questions?”
David was the first to break the silence. “I was in the laboratory until quite late.”
Kendra looked over at him. “The laboratory at the shop, or do you have one here?”
“The shop,” he answered, and shrugged his broad shoulders. “And I was quite alone.”
Kendra kept her eyes on the gorgeous face. “Inconvenient.”
“I had no reason to believe that I would need someone to vouch for my whereabouts today,” he said simply.
“My son did not kill Lord Cross,” snapped Bertel, his handsome face flushing with temper.
“I’m not accusing anyone.” Not yet. “When did you return home, David?”
“I can’t say exactly. Sometime after one, I think.”
Kendra nodded, and looked at Bertel. “Where were you last night, sir?”
“My husband and I were at home,” Astrid answered, and laid a hand on her husband’s arm as she had on Kendra’s first visit. Kendra wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of comfort or strength. Or caution.
A wife alibiing her husband—or vice versa—was, in general, a terrible alibi. Especially when the wife clearly loved her husband. “Together?” Kendra pressed.
Astrid hesitated. “For much of the evening, yes.”
“And from ten o’clock on?”
“I spent the evening in here, Miss Donovan,” Bertel said. “Ever since my son died, I have found sleep to be elusive. I told you. We are not gentry. We work for our livelihoods. I find comfort tending to these plants, experimenting with cross-pollination. It keeps my mind occupied. My wife was in bed around that time.”
In interviews, one learned just as much from what wasn’t said as what was. Kendra thought it was interesting that no one asked her how Lord Cross had been killed. It was usually the first thing out of people’s mouths when they learned of a murder. Maybe the Larsons didn’t care. Or maybe one of them already knew, and the other two chose to look the other way. A willful oblivion.
Kendra changed gears. “Did you ever ask to see the official reports on what happened in Spain at the time of your son’s death?”
Bertel’s mouth tightened. “I asked Giles what happened. He would have told me what was in the reports.”
“So you never actually saw them?”
“No.”
“Did you ever speak to Lord Cross and Captain Mobray about what happened? As the only two survivors, they were the only ones privy to the details.”
“After learning of my son’s death, I approached both men, but they were remarkably short on details,” said Bertel. “They told me that my son was captured by the French while attempting to rescue them. They were held in different areas of the camp.” Bertel’s lips thinned, his eyes darkening with temper. “There was an ex
plosion and fire. Cross and Mobray escaped amid the confusion. At least, that is the story they told.”
Kendra raised her eyebrows. “It sounds like you don’t believe them.”
David looked at her. “Would you?”
Probably not. She asked, “What do you think happened in Spain?”
David hesitated, but shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Kendra glanced at Bertel and Astrid.
“I only know my son is dead,” Astrid said coldly.
“Do you know a woman named Magdalena?”
Kendra had thrown the question like a sucker punch, and found it fascinating to watch the play of expressions that flickered across each face. Surprise. Fear. Then each of their expressions smoothed out into blank masks. Tension, however, seemed to crackle in the air like electricity.
“No,” Bertel said, his voice harsh.
Again, Kendra thought it was interesting there was no follow-up question: What does this woman have to do with anything?
When no one else spoke, Kendra nodded. “Okay. Thank you for seeing me. I appreciate it.”
“I shall show you out, Miss Donovan,” Astrid said abruptly. Even in the drab wool coat, the woman looked like a queen. She came around the table and fell into step beside Kendra as they exited the conservatory.
“Why are you persisting in these inquiries?” Astrid demanded once they were walking down the hall. “They can only cause my family pain. And we have gone through enough of that.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Larson.” Kendra met the other woman’s searing gaze. “Two people are now dead. Someone murdered them. I think it ties back to Spain. To Evert. Don’t you want answers on what might have happened over there, to him?”
Astrid said nothing. Because she didn’t want answers? Kendra wondered. Or because she already had them?
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