by C. J. Archer
This man sickened me. He might not be our murderer, but he was revolting nevertheless.
“What about Tuesday night?” Harry asked. “Did you work for Mrs. Parker that night too?”
“I didn’t work for no one on Tuesday night. I was at The Three Sails down by the docks. Why? What’s Tuesday night got to do with anything? The job she paid me for was last night, Thursday.” We must have given him blank looks, because he felt the need to clarify. “I always get payment in advance. The job you saw her pay me for yesterday was to be done last night, not Tuesday and not Wednesday.”
Harry sat on the edge of the desk, his hands pressing on the surface on either side of him. He looked as deflated as I felt. Mrs. Parker hadn’t hired Ricketts to kill Mr. Warrington in the drawing room on Tuesday or the lane on Wednesday. She could be struck off our suspect list.
Unless she did it herself. Perhaps murder was a job Mrs. Parker felt required her personal attention since Ricketts clearly couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut. And Mr. Warrington claimed a woman attacked him in the lane. If Mrs. Parker was his attacker, it stood to reason she was also the one who tried to murder him on Tuesday night, but unfortunately mistook Mrs. Warrington for him.
Harry jerked his head at the door. “Get out.”
“I want more.”
Harry placed another coin with the other two, but this time it was a mere sixpence.
Ricketts screwed up his face. “That all?”
“That’s what your information is worth to us.”
Victor opened the door and stood by it. Ricketts made a point of towering over him as he passed, making sure Victor noticed the difference in their sizes. Victor merely watched him with mild amusement.
Ricketts tugged on his forelock. He had no hat or cap. Perhaps he lost it in the scuffle with Victor. “Pleasure doing business with you. If you ever need a businessman like me, let me know. I can be useful.”
Victor closed the door on him. “He’s slow and tires easily,” he said. “He might fit through a window, but I don’t reckon he could climb up pipes to the first floor.”
Harry and I both agreed. Bob Ricketts hadn’t killed Mrs. Warrington, but Mrs. Parker was still a suspect.
How to find evidence against her? Or against anyone, for that matter?
Our investigation was once again at a standstill.
Victor left, and I opened my bag to retrieve a pencil and notebook to make notes on our suspects. I hoped something would jump out at me when I saw their details in writing, something I hadn’t realized earlier.
“Do you pay them?” Harry asked.
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Victor, Harmony and the others. “Not as much as I’d like, although I don’t think they do it for the money. Anyway, I’ve only had the one murder case where I’ve been paid. Mr. Warrington has only paid me for the investigation into his wife’s lover, and that wasn’t much.”
He sat in the chair behind the desk and passed the small knife I’d given him back to me. He hadn’t needed it. “What’s Victor’s background?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Thief? Swindler?” I rummaged in the bottom of my bag for the pencil, but couldn’t find it.
“You should be more careful about who you trust.”
“You’re a thief, and I trust you.”
He flinched and I felt sick at how casually I’d tossed out the barb. “I’m sorry, that was awful of me. I didn’t mean it.”
“You didn’t mean to say you trust me?”
I tilted my head to the side and regarded him. It was difficult to determine if he was poking fun at me or not. His eyes were flat and his handsome features set, but I swear his lips twitched at one point. “Of course I trust you. What I meant to say was that I trust Victor, too. He’s been helpful in my investigations.”
“The question is, why? If you’re not paying him, what is he getting from it?”
“Something interesting to do?”
“You think dragging hardened thugs around London is interesting?”
“It’s certainly more challenging than working in the hotel kitchen, even when a feud is brewing between the two factions of cooks. Anyway, perhaps he’s simply doing it to please Harmony. There’s something going on between those two, I’m sure of it.” I continued rummaging in the bottom of my bag and finally found the pencil.
I pulled it out, managing to grab hold of a loose piece of paper too. I couldn’t remember putting it there and unfolded it. It was the list of places Mrs. Warrington had visited in the days before her death, given to me by Mr. Henderson on his employer’s orders.
I skimmed the list of names and addresses. They were mostly shops and the private homes of women who must be her friends. Except one. A doctor in Earl’s Court.
“Mrs. Warrington had a medical appointment last Monday, the day before she was murdered.” I handed Harry the list. “Shall we see what it was about?”
“We have no other leads at this point.” He stood and handed the list back. “Do you want to go now?”
“I have nothing better to do this afternoon.”
“What about your uncle? Won’t he be checking up on your movements today?”
I sighed. “Probably.”
“Then go back to the hotel,” he said gently. “I’ll visit the doctor alone.”
The very notion of not following the investigation to the end was disagreeable and I told him so.
“Then what will you tell your uncle when he asks where you’ve been all day?” he asked.
“I’ll say I went to the museum.”
He opened the door for me. “And how long will that excuse last?”
“For as long as I need it to.”
He caught my arm as I passed. “Cleo…” He released me and dragged his hand through his hair before putting on his hat. “You can’t afford to antagonize him further. I had no idea about your situation—”
“My situation is none of your concern.” I regretted my snippy tone when he flinched. I wasn’t sure why I was angry at him. None of this was his fault. My face heated and I turned away. “Let me handle my uncle’s moods. I’ve done a fine job so far and there’s no reason to think I can’t continue.”
“A fine job? He berated you in front of the staff and guests.” He locked the office door and followed me down the stairs to the ground floor. “Bainbridge must have been furious to make a scene in the foyer. It’s not like him.”
“He doesn’t like being defied, and I defied him. It inflamed his temper further.” I went to open the door, but he reached past me and put a hand to it, keeping it closed.
He stood close, his arm touching mine, his head dipped so he was more level with me although he still towered above me. I was never more aware of his height and his broad shoulders, or how handsome he was.
“Don’t antagonize him, Cleo,” he murmured. “The consequences aren’t worth it.”
I drew in a deep breath, drawing the pleasing scent of him into my lungs. “Let me be the judge of that.”
He released the door and I opened it. He fell into step alongside me as we headed in the direction of the omnibus to Earl’s Court. My awareness of him remained constant for the entire journey.
It wasn’t easy to extract an answer from the doctor. He refused to tell us what ailed Mrs. Warrington, even after we explained we’d been hired by her husband to find her killer.
“I will speak to Mr. Warrington if he comes here in person,” Dr. Fitzpatrick told us. “But I cannot speak to you. I have an ethical responsibility to my patient, deceased or not.”
He sat across from us on the other side of the desk, his hands clasped over his protruding stomach. For a doctor, he wasn’t the healthiest looking man, with florid cheeks and nose, and yellow teeth. He didn’t seem unsympathetic to our plight. Indeed, he told us he’d been very upset when he read about Mrs. Warrington’s murder in the newspapers. He’d only seen her the day before.
This hint of a sympathetic nature might work in
our favor, if we played our cards right.
“You will have to speak to the police if they question you,” Harry said. Frustration was making him desperate. Did he think his father would come here on our behalf? I wasn’t so certain Detective Inspector Hobart would be willing to step into an investigation that wasn’t assigned to him.
“If they come, I will.” Dr. Fitzpatrick checked his watch but refrained from asking us to leave.
We had mere minutes to convince him. I sat forward and leveled my gaze with his. “The police won’t come,” I said. “The thing is, they believe they’ve caught their killer and are in the process of closing the investigation. We believe they have the wrong man, as does Mr. Warrington. Please, sir, help us give poor Mrs. Warrington justice. She didn’t deserve to die so horribly. Her killer should be held accountable for taking her life.”
His small wince was slight, but encouraging. I was getting through to him.
“Doesn’t your ethical responsibility towards your patient include catching her killer?”
He shifted in the chair, making it creak under his weight, and shifted back again. He gave a single nod. “You’re right, Miss Fox. The killer should be held accountable…for taking two lives.”
I sucked in a breath. “She was with child?”
He nodded. “I informed her that day.”
“How did she seem when you told her?”
“Not as thrilled as a woman usually is upon hearing that news. I assumed she was worried about the birth, as many women are, so I told her if she wished to return the next day with her husband, I would talk to them both, to reassure her, you see. She told me she would make an appointment in due course.” He cleared his throat. “She left here looking somewhat dazed.”
We thanked the doctor and exited the clinic. As soon as we set foot on the pavement, we turned to one another. I imagined my eyes were as bright with excitement as Harry’s.
“It must be Xavier’s child,” I said, at the same time that Harry said, “The father isn’t Warrington.”
“The question is, who knew about it?” I asked. “If it were me, I’d tell the father first.”
“It falls into place now. She told Xavier and he decides he’s no longer content with their current arrangement. He wants to claim their child as his own, and to do that, he must marry Isobel. He can’t wait for the divorce—it would take too long and it would also ruin her reputation, damaging their future together as well as that of the child.”
“So he plans to murder Warrington, but kills Isobel instead after thinking she is her husband,” I finished. “Dear lord, it’s a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. The poor man.”
“That poor man is a murderer, Cleo.”
“Perhaps. It’s only a theory at this point. I’ve made the mistake in the past thinking I know the culprit only to find out that I don’t.”
He grunted in wry amusement. “So I recall. Very well, we won’t assume anything. Not until we have proof. But I’m putting him at the top of our suspect list.”
“As am I.”
Xavier had given his address as a flat in one of the handsome red-brick mansion blocks in Earl’s Court Square, popular with well-heeled bachelors, according to Harry. It was furnished with old, thick-legged chairs and tables that were more suited to a smoking room than sitting room. There was a small cluster of framed photographs on top of a cabinet. One of them was of Mrs. Warrington standing next to a seated Xavier, her hand on his shoulder in a touching gesture of unity.
Xavier welcomed us without reservation and his manner was courteous. He told us he worked for a financial company in the city, but had taken the entire day off to mourn Mrs. Warrington. He looked as miserable as he had this morning at church.
Harry and I had decided to speak to Xavier as if he were helping us, and not a suspect. We agreed that we’d get more answers that way. If he knew we suspected him, he might close up and tell us nothing.
“We have just come from the practice of Dr. Fitzpatrick,” I said gently.
Xavier’s eyes remained a little unfocused, as if he were only half listening. If the name meant anything to him, he was a very good actor.
“He told us that Isobel was expecting,” I finished.
Slowly, as if my words sank into him like drips of water, he lifted his gaze to mine. His face paled, his lips parted but it took several heartbeats for him to speak. “My god. Are…are you sure?”
I nodded. “Do you think it was yours?”
“Y-yes. Of course. She was faithful to me and I to her.”
“You didn’t know?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“She found out on Monday and died on Tuesday night. Why wouldn’t she have told you as soon as she knew?”
Xavier sat back and rubbed his fisted hands along his thighs, up and down, up and down. “I don’t know.” He continued to rub, his gaze focused on the floor.
Harry and I exchanged glances, neither of us quite sure what to say next.
Xavier suddenly stopped rubbing and looked up. “She would have told Warrington.”
“Before informing you?” Harry asked.
He nodded eagerly. “She would have tried convincing him to raise the child as his own. She would have seen it as the best way, not just for her but for the baby. After all, Warrington has a solid reputation and I am merely a clerk.” The more he warmed to his theory, the more animated he became, his eyes growing wider and wilder. I worried he might be going mad. “Perhaps that’s why he wanted a divorce now, after all these years of a mutually beneficial arrangement. Because he didn’t want to raise another man’s baby.”
Harry merely nodded, and I did too. Neither of us wanted to agitate Xavier any more than he was. If he were going mad, we didn’t want to say something to push him over the edge.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Xavier went on. “You think if I discovered another man was going to raise my child, I would get angry and kill her. But I didn’t do it. I swear to you, I didn’t. I loved her, and I would welcome our child, even if she insisted another man was acknowledged as the father.”
“We believe you,” I said to placate him. “But it begs the question, who did kill her?”
“My money is still on the butler, out of jealousy. He seems like the type to go to such an extreme.”
We thanked him and left. It was growing late and we were both hungry, having forgotten to stop for lunch. It also looked like it would rain. Harry suggested we discuss the new evidence at a teashop and we found a quaint one with pretty pink and green floral curtains and matching tablecloths. Inside there were a few gentlemen accompanying their wives or mothers, so Harry didn’t feel too out of place. It was also perfectly acceptable for an unwed woman and man to be seen together in such a respectable establishment.
We ordered tea and sandwiches, and as soon as the waitress was out of earshot, we both leaned forward a little. Harry allowed me to speak first.
“Do you think Xavier was telling the truth and knew nothing about the baby?”
“It’s hard to say,” he said. “He was acting oddly, but that could be because it was the first he’d learned of the pregnancy. Or it could be because he knows we suspect him.”
“Let’s assume he was telling the truth and hadn’t known. And let’s assume he’s right and Isobel did tell her husband. It explains the divorce proceedings if she confided her suspicions about her condition before the doctor confirmed it. Warrington wanted to hire you several days before the murder took place, after all.”
“I’m not sure. If I were him, I might want a child, even if it weren’t my own.”
I shook my head. “Mr. Trickelbank once told me that the Warringtons didn’t want children. Heirs, he called them. To me that means Mr. Warrington never wanted a child. Perhaps Isobel did but had resigned herself to never having any. But then she finds herself with child and decides she does want it, and she wants her husband to claim it as his. He refuses and decides to divorce her.”
“S
he only learns about the divorce on the morning of her death, when her maid overhears you talking to Henderson about it,” he noted.
“The first opportunity she has to talk to Mr. Warrington about the divorce is that night,” I went on. “That’s the argument the servants overheard at nine. If faced with ruination from a divorce, and uncertain if her lover would marry her afterwards, she would fight back to save herself. That’s what I’d do.”
“And how would you fight back?”
“I would use the best weapon in my arsenal—damning information. Warrington has a very big secret that if the world discovered, he would be more than ruined. He could find himself in prison, like Oscar Wilde. He would lose his reputation, his friends and be demoted by his party if not ousted altogether. He would be publicly shamed. It would be utterly devastating.”
He nodded along as I spoke, warming to my theory. “So that night, when they argued, she threatened to expose him if he continued with divorce proceedings.”
We paused and sat back as our tea was delivered in a silver teapot and dainty china cups were placed in front of us. I picked up a cucumber sandwich as the waitress poured our tea.
She flashed a small smile at Harry as she filled his cup. “I hope everything is to your liking, sir.”
He hadn’t been watching her, but now looked up and returned her smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be over there if you need anything else.” She sauntered off, hips swaying. Unfortunately for her, it was a wasted effort as Harry was more interested in the food.
I pressed my lips together to suppress my smile.
“What’s so amusing?” he asked.
I didn’t think he could be so oblivious to the waitress’s flirtations, but perhaps he was so used to it, he no longer bothered to flirt back unless he was genuinely interested.
My uncle’s words echoed in my head—he has a silver tongue and a way with women. He could have been referring to something as innocent as flirting. Or he could have meant something more.