by C. J. Archer
Neither Harry nor I spoke. We both watched as Mr. Drummond worked through the implications, following the thread of the theory until eventually arriving at the end. “No!” His voice was a low snarl and the color returned to his face as his anger rose. “You have it all wrong. Bertie didn’t kill her. He can’t have. He was at the club.”
“Were you at the club that night?” Harry asked.
“No. I was at home.”
We fell silent. Once again, Mr. Drummond took a few moments to reach the conclusion we had. When he did, he leapt to his feet. “You think I did it! You think I killed her because I love him? Are you mad?”
After retrieving the negatives from the safe, Harry hadn’t rejoined me behind the desk. He now moved to block the door.
“Get out of my way!” Mr. Drummond shouted.
“Please calm down,” I said, also standing.
“Calm down? You are accusing me of murder! I think that gives me every reason to shout. I am innocent, Miss Fox! Your accusation is absurd. Why would I want to kill Isobel?”
“For him.”
“Why would he want to kill her? She was a convenience, not a hindrance. A politician who loves men needs a wife, Miss Fox.”
“Then why was he was going to divorce her?”
His mouth snapped shut.
“We actually know the answer to that,” I went on. “He was going to divorce her because she was with child. She must have confided her suspicions before the doctor confirmed it the day before she died.”
Mr. Drummond didn’t look surprised by the news. “I didn’t know.”
“I think you’re lying. Mr. Warrington told you that she wanted him to bring up the child as his own, but he didn’t want that. Did he?”
Mr. Drummond had gone quite still. Not even his gaze moved to meet mine.
“They argued just before she died,” I went on. “Earlier that day, she learned that he wanted to divorce her. She was going to be a ruined woman with a baby, unsure if her lover would rescue her and marry her. She tried to convince her husband to stay married, but he refused.”
“If he was going to divorce her, why kill her?”
“Because she was going to tell the world about his proclivities if he insisted on a divorce. You said yourself, it would be disastrous for him. Once she threatened him with public exposure, there was only one sure way to save him. You had to silence her.”
“Not me,” he whispered. “It wasn’t me.”
“It must be you. It can’t be him because he was at the club. You’re the only who loves him enough to do it and you don’t have an alibi. You just told us you were home alone.”
The hands clutching the photographic negatives trembled. “I swear to you, I didn’t do it. I wasn’t even at the house that night.”
“You climbed up the pipe and through the window,” Harry said.
“No! No, that’s impossible. I overheard the butler tell Bertie he’s sure he locked the window.”
Harry and I exchanged glances. “Why weren’t we told this?” Harry asked.
“I assumed you’d already spoken to Henderson about it and dismissed it, thinking the butler got confused. The night must have been chaotic and he simply misremembered.”
It was likely, of course. Henderson might have made a mistake. Or he might not. Either way, he had told Mr. Warrington, and Mr. Warrington had not informed us.
“May I go now?” Mr. Drummond cautiously approached Harry, as if Harry were a vicious dog guarding the door. “After all, you have no evidence. You can’t detain a man without proof.”
Harry’s chest heaved with his intake of breath. He stepped aside and watched as Mr. Drummond departed. His footsteps could be heard pounding down the stairs, culminating in the slamming of the front door.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think we need to speak to the butler and find out whether the window was closed or not.”
“And if it was? If the only way the killer could have entered the house is through the front door? What then?”
He shook his head. “I have no idea.”
Once again Mr. Henderson refused to speak to us, but Harry was not going to let that stop him.
“We have authority from your employer,” he said. “He wants you to answer our questions.”
Mr. Henderson lifted his chin. His nostrils flared. “He’s not here.” He went to shut the door.
Harry put his shoulder to it and forced Mr. Henderson back. He barreled through to the entrance hall and I followed. He was proving rather useful to have along when questioning witnesses.
“Can we go somewhere to talk?” I asked.
“No,” Mr. Henderson said. “Get out or I’ll call the police.”
“No, you won’t,” Harry said mildly. “Because if you do, we’ll be forced to tell them how you were in love with Mrs. Warrington and jealous of her lover. That jealousy led you to kill her.”
The butler gasped and took a step back, towards the stairs. Harry stepped forward, perhaps worried he would run off. He couldn’t go anywhere but up, however.
“I…I…you’re mistaken.” The butler’s breathing came hard and fast and I grew worried he was going to have an episode in the entrance hall.
“Is there somewhere we can go and sit?” I asked.
Again, Mr. Henderson shook his head, but I wasn’t sure if it was in answer to my request, or a denial of Harry’s accusation. “I would never harm her. I’ve known her for years, ever since she came here as a young bride.”
“And you fell in love with her then.” Harry arched his brows.
Mr. Henderson swallowed heavily.
“Were you two lovers?”
“No! Good lord, what do you take me for?” Mr. Henderson scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “Please, you have to believe me when I say I would never harm her. You’re right. I did love her.” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I miss her terribly. It’s not the same here without her. It never will be.” He clutched the newel post and lowered his head. His breathing became shallow.
Harry went to ask another question, but I put my hand out to stop him. Perhaps a gentler approach was in order. He relinquished the interrogation to me.
“You have avoided speaking to us from the beginning,” I said. “You have refused to talk, and slammed the door in our faces. Mr. Henderson, do you see how that looks?”
He gave a small nod. “It makes me look guilty. But I didn’t kill her. I swear to you. I didn’t want to speak to you because I knew what angle you were pursuing, and I owed it to her to save her reputation.”
“She’s gone, Mr. Henderson. You can’t save her now.”
“I can. I must. Her reputation is all that’s left. She was a good woman with a good heart and spirited nature. She doesn’t deserve to be remembered as a harlot. And I know—I know—if anyone found out about her relationship with that fellow, her name would be blackened in the newspapers.” He looked up. He was crying now, his tears flowing down his cheeks. He dashed them away with the back of his hand and reached for a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Whatever you tell us will remain private,” I assured him. “We won’t sell any information to the journalists.”
He spluttered a humorless laugh. “Is that so? You will protect her reputation? You, a lackey for her husband employed to find evidence of her adultery? Forgive me, Miss Fox, but I don’t believe you.”
I drew in a breath. This was going to require as much delicacy as I could muster. “I was initially employed to do that, it’s true. But after her murder, everything changed. Now I want to find her killer. Don’t you want that too, Mr. Henderson? Doesn’t Mrs. Warrington deserve justice?”
He dabbed at his eyes with the handkerchief.
“At this point, the police don’t care,” I reminded him. “Mr. Armitage and I are the best chance she has of receiving justice. If you want that for her, then you must answer our questions honestly.”
He choked back more tears and nodded into his
handkerchief. “She needs to rest in peace. Go on then. What do you want to know?”
“It’s come to our attention that the drawing room window was locked at the time of her death.”
“It was. I check all the locks when it gets dark. It’s part of my evening routine. I do it every night, and I did it that night. But the police insisted it was unlocked when they arrived.”
“Was there anyone else in the house that night other than you, Miss Jennett, the housekeeper, and Mr. and Mrs. Warrington?”
He shook his head. “The coachman was in the coach house, and the cook had gone home.”
“Could someone have come into the house through the front door without you noticing?”
“Yes, if they had a key. If they were quiet, I wouldn’t have heard it opening from the servants’ hall.”
“Who has a key besides Mr. and Mrs. Warrington?”
“Mr. Drummond.”
Harry and I exchanged glances.
“He rarely uses it, but I know he has one. I caught him once, coming out of Mr. Warrington’s chambers when Mr. Warrington was not at home. I asked the other servants and no one had let him in. I realized that’s where the spare key had gone. Mr. Warrington had asked me to have one made some weeks before.”
“Take us through the events of Tuesday evening again, the night of the murder.”
He was calmer now, the tears having abated. His hands shook a little, and he was pale, his eyes hollow. He no longer resembled the formidable man I’d first encountered. “Mrs. Warrington was dressed in men’s clothes to go out for the night. She needed to speak to her husband so I directed her to the drawing room where I knew he was reading. She closed the door behind her, but I heard them arguing. I couldn’t make out the words, however. That was about nine. Several minutes later, he came out. I’d waited nearby, in case she needed me, and I saw him emerge. He went immediately to his rooms.”
“And Mrs. Warrington remained in the drawing room?” Harry asked.
He nodded.
“Then what happened?”
“About nine-twenty, Mr. Warrington asked me to have the coach sent around. He was going to his club. Ten minutes later, he left. I returned to the servants’ hall, where Miss Jennett and I both did some mending. The housekeeper was doing her accounts. We were surprised Mrs. Warrington had decided not to go out, but we assumed the argument had upset her and she changed her mind. Then at ten, the bell for the drawing room rang. I answered it and Mrs. Warrington asked me to bring her tea.”
“Tell us how the room looked,” Harry said. “Picture the window in your mind.” He paused to allow Mr. Henderson time to think. “Was it open?”
He shook his head. “It was closed. I would have noticed a draft if it were open. But I didn’t check if it was locked. I assumed it was. I know it was.”
“And the rest of the room?” I asked. “How did it look?”
“As it often did on cold nights, with one of the wingback chairs angled to the fire.”
“And how did Mrs. Warrington seem? Was she upset?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her face and—”
“You didn’t see her?” Harry echoed.
“No. I told you, her chair was facing the fire. At that angle, the seated person isn’t visible to anyone entering the room. Or from the window, for that matter.”
My mind whirred as the new information clicked into place. It was all starting to make sense now, although I was well aware of some very large holes opening up too. “What did Mrs. Warrington say to you at that point?”
“She said ‘tea.’”
“Just one word?” When he nodded, I asked, “Is she usually so short with you?”
“No. I thought it odd. She’s always kind, but I assumed she was still upset over the argument with her husband and had no wish for a lengthy exchange.”
“So you made the tea and brought it up,” Harry prompted. I could tell from the pitch of his voice that he was on the same path as me. “Where did you place it?”
“On a table near the door.”
“Why there? Isn’t that far away from where she was seated?”
“Yes, but that’s where she directed me to leave it. She pointed at the table.”
“Pointed? She didn’t speak?”
“No.”
“What did her hand look like?”
Mr. Henderson frowned. “Like any hand wearing a glove.”
“And what happened then?” I asked.
“That was about ten past ten. I returned downstairs where I continued with my work. At midnight, Miss Jennett decided to see if Mrs. Warrington needed anything. She wanted to retire for the evening herself. That’s when she screamed and…” He pressed his trembling lips together and closed his eyes. After a moment, he drew in a shuddery breath and continued. “Mr. Warrington was sent for, and then we telephoned the police.”
“The coachman will confirm this?” Harry asked.
“Of course. You can ask him now. He came home after driving Mr. Warrington to his office this morning.”
He took us through to the back of the house where we exited through the rear door and crossed the courtyard to the stables and coach house in the mews. The coachman confirmed that he took Mr. Warrington to his club, arriving at approximately nine-forty-five, and fetched him around midnight after the murder had taken place.
“So we potentially have a new time of death,” Harry said as we walked out of the mews. His strides were long and I had to quicken my pace to keep up. I doubted he was aware of how fast he walked. “If the butler didn’t see her face and didn’t hear her voice except for that one word, tea, then she might have already been dead by ten. And the killer pretended to be her so that the butler would think she was still alive when he delivered the tea at ten past ten.”
I clutched my throat and nodded. “It must have been Warrington. He must have killed her when they argued then left to go to his club, only to come back and re-enter the house.”
“Probably through the window which he unlocked before he left the drawing room earlier. He seems fit enough to climb up the pipe.”
“He rang for tea then sat in the chair, perhaps moving her body aside and squeezing in beside her.” I shivered at the gruesome image. “He ordered tea and, with gloves on, pointed to the table when Henderson brought it in ten minutes later. Then he left through the window, returned to the club, and waited for the alarm to be raised.”
“There’s only one problem,” Harry said heavily.
“He was at the club during that time,” I finished. “The coachman took him and he remained there, according to the manager.”
He nodded. “He was seen arriving and checking in, as well as throughout the evening. There’s a book that records the arrival and departure times of members, and the manager checked it for me. He even asked around and many of the members claimed to have seen him. According to the register, Warrington was there from nine-forty-five and didn’t leave until just after midnight. He couldn’t have come back to the house and ordered tea at ten.”
It was so frustrating. I felt as though we were so close and yet a wall had been thrown up, blocking us, and I could see no way around, over or through it.
Chapter 15
“Mr. Warrington must have killed her,” I said. “I’m sure of it. But someone else returned to order the tea.”
“Drummond,” Harry said. “Warrington killed her at the time of the argument, then unlocked the drawing room window so that Drummond could get inside when Warrington was safely at his club, making himself visible to all and sundry.”
“Mr. Drummond pretended to be Isobel to make it appear as though she was still alive at ten past ten,” I added.
It made sense. Indeed, it was entirely logical. But it didn’t seem quite right to me. Mr. Drummond had seemed genuinely shocked to be accused of her murder. I’d got the feeling he hadn’t been involved at all.
But I couldn’t rely on instinct. I’d be laughed out of Scotland Yard if I told the
m I had a feeling Mr. Drummond was innocent. I must only deal with known facts.
I gave Harry a flat smile. “What do we do now? We have no proof.”
“I have to tell my father what we learned today. He never believed the vagrant story and has been on the verge of bringing it up with his superiors. Our information might give him the leverage he needs to force the case to be re-examined.”
He was right. It was time for Scotland Yard to take over and find the definitive evidence that we couldn’t.
“I’ll stop by your office tomorrow and see how you fared,” I said.
With a heavy sigh, he tilted his head back and searched the clouds. “Cleo…I…”
I narrowed my gaze. “Go on.”
“I prefer it if you don’t come to my office anymore.”
I bristled. “I’ll telephone your parents’ house then.”
“No. I’ll update Uncle Alfred and he can pass on any news to you at the hotel.”
“This is because of my uncle’s warning, isn’t it?” I threw my hands in the air and walked off. I didn’t get far. I turned back and strode up to him. “I didn’t expect you to bow to my uncle’s ridiculous demands.”
He lifted a hand to my shoulder, only to drop it before touching me. He crossed his arms. “Cleo, your present situation is reliant on his goodwill. If you break his rules, there’ll be consequences.”
“Let me worry about those consequences.”
“I will, if they don’t concern me. But he has specifically forbidden you from seeing me, and that makes it my concern.”
“I can handle my uncle.”
“Cleo—”
“Harry.”
He pressed his lips together. I waited, but he didn’t say anything further. He simply looked at me with eyes full of pity. It only made my blood boil more. I didn’t want his pity. I didn’t want anyone’s pity.
I wanted his acknowledgement that I could fight my own battle. But I wasn’t going to get it. He was too gentlemanly to let me face a battle alone, even one that was not his to fight.
And that only made me more frustrated because a gentleman’s honor was unbreakable.