“Book club? How very edifying.” She beamed again at Amy. “It must be your influence, my dear.”
Amy cleared her throat. “Actually, my lady, his lordship belonged to the book club before I did.”
Undaunted by that revelation, Lady Wethington waved her hand. “Women are always good influences on men. Don’t you agree?”
Amy had no desire to be an influence on anyone. She had a hard enough time trying to keep herself out of trouble. But she just nodded and offered an innocuous murmur.
A young maid entered the room with the refilled teapot and placed it on the tray in front of the three of them. Lady Wethington smiled warmly in Amy’s direction. Apparently it was expected for her to continue to play the hostess, which had thrown her so off guard that it almost had her choking and fumbling.
Lady Wethington appeared to be a lovely woman, but Amy had the feeling that whatever William’s mother set her mind to was accomplished posthaste.
William still sat like a stone statue. A terrified stone statue. Amy wanted to hit him over the head with the teapot. She couldn’t do this all by herself; she needed rescue.
“How was your journey, my lady?” As far as social intercourse went, that was probably the dullest question she could ask. Right now, however, she was feeling far from brilliant.
Lady Wethington took a sip of the tea that Amy had just poured and fixed for her.
“The trip was not overly unpleasant. I came from London, as I’m sure my son told you, but the roads, in part, have improved. I do believe the city of Bath itself could do with improvement, however.”
“Why did you not take the railway?” William asked.
Lady Wethington waved her hand. “I don’t trust them. It is risky riding with all those strangers. A carriage is much better. However, as I stated, ’tis past the time the roads were fixed.”
Silence fell, since Amy couldn’t think of another thing to say. She could see William’s chest rising and falling, so she knew he hadn’t died from fright; he’d merely been struck dumb.
It would be far too rude for Amy to take her leave so soon, so she would just have to make the best of it. “My lord, how far into the new book have you read?” At this point, Amy was so rattled that she couldn’t even remember the book they were currently reading. Hopefully William did.
He took a deep breath, obviously realizing he would have to contribute to the conversation. “I would say about a third of the way through the book.” Since he didn’t mention the title, she had to assume he didn’t remember which book they were reading either.
“What sort of books do you read in this book club?” Lady Wethington took a delicate bite of a biscuit. Amy couldn’t help but notice that everything about the woman was delicate, graceful, and elegant. She sighed. Another Aunt Margaret.
“It is the Mystery Book Club of Bath. We meet once a week at the Atkinson and Tucker bookstore.” William had actually put two sentences together.
“Oh, I do love mysteries. Do you ever read E. D. Burton’s books?”
Amy sucked in a breath just as she was biting down on a biscuit. A full three minutes of coughing, being pounded on the back by William, and hand-wringing by his mother commenced.
Amy patted her eyes with the handkerchief William had handed her—an action, Amy noted, that was not lost on his eagle-eyed mother.
“Yes. We have read one or two of his books,” William said.
Lady Wethington leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I have read every one of Mr. Burton’s books.”
“Mother! I would think they were too—intense for you.”
His mother waved her hand. “Nonsense. Men always think women are such weak creatures.” She turned to Amy. “I will wager you don’t believe that gibberish, do you, Lady Amy?”
“No. I do not believe we are too weak-minded to read Mr. Burton’s books.” There, she had managed to get that one out without choking. But she really did need to take her leave. She placed her napkin alongside her plate. “I am so sorry to break up our little visit, but I have an appointment later today with my dressmaker.” Lie number one. “I would love to stay and chat.” Lie number two. “I hope we can have a longer visit another time.” Lie number three.
Amy rose, and William stood. “Mother, I escorted Lady Amy here, so I will be seeing her home.”
Lady Wethington beamed at the two of them in a most disconcerting way. “That is fine, children. Run along.”
William looked as though he would love to throttle the woman, but one did not do such things to one’s mother. No matter how strong the urge.
Amy and William hurried to the front door, shrugged into their coats, and practically raced down the path to where his carriage stood. They climbed in and settled themselves.
As the vehicle moved forward, William raised his hand, palm facing her. “Do not say a word. Please.”
Amy nodded and grinned. Yes. There really weren’t too many words to cover what they’d just experienced.
* * *
It had taken William two days to get the key he needed from the managing agent to search Harding’s flat. Once he received the key, he’d sent a note around to Amy that he would arrive at two o’clock to escort her to the building.
It had been a trying two days with his mother settling in. As much as he loved her, he could see where this new arrangement could be difficult. For him. She had pestered him for hours after he returned from escorting Amy to her home Monday afternoon.
With a pounding headache and his third glass of after-dinner brandy, he’d finally suggested that she retire for the evening because she needed her rest after her journey.
Thank goodness she had agreed, because he’d been about to pull all his hair out. He’d tried very hard to impress upon her that he and Amy were merely friends, that they attended the same church and the same book club.
Nothing more.
Until she learned—he still hadn’t figured out how, but his mother was quite clever—that he had escorted Amy to several Assembly dances. Then the questions, innuendos, and hints—the devil take it, they weren’t hints but flat-out statements—had begun all over again.
Aside from that, however, his mother had been a help. True to her nature, she’d formed an instant bond with Mrs. Pringle and coerced Cook into making healthier dishes. That was both good and bad. He enjoyed his unhealthy food.
The maids seemed a bit busier, but they all adored his mother. She had a way about her that made people do what she wanted and think it was their own idea. She’d been counting the linens and silverware and sent word to an agency to send over a footman, a lady’s maid for herself (since her maid, she explained, had decided to stay in London), and another maid of all work.
If only he could find other ways for her to occupy her time once the house was running to her satisfaction. He knew without a doubt what—and who—her next project would be.
But now he was free of the endless suggestions and on his way to hopefully find his files and any other items that might be of interest. The day was warm for early February, with a bright-blue sky. Not too common, especially in winter.
Amy’s maid Lacey opened the door and moved back so he could step in. Amy stood behind the maid, her coat and hat on, ready to go.
“Good afternoon, my lady.”
“Good afternoon to you, my lord.”
He took her arm, and they made their way down the stairs. Once they were on their way, he said, “I don’t think we will have a problem.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I got the key from the managing agent’s office. And since we have permission to be in the flat, we will not have to hurry through our search. We can take our time and hopefully find the missing files.”
“Aside from your business arrangement, how well did you know Mr. Harding?” Amy asked.
“Quite well, I thought. But now it seems I didn’t know him at all. I had no idea he was cheating me until recently. We had dinner on occasion to discuss business matters, and he was a member of my club,
so we saw each other there sometimes.”
Amy looked out the window, her lips pursed in thought. “How did you first come to employ him?”
William leaned back and rested his foot on his knee. “About three years ago, I had been handling all my own businesses and felt the need to have help. Instead of hiring someone to do so full-time, I decided a man of business would suit me better. I asked around, and a few men suggested Harding. I interviewed him, determined we could work well together, and hired him.
“It appeared to be a fine arrangement because I do like to keep my fingers in the pie, so to speak.”
Amy turned from the window and studied him. “But not enough to figure out he was stealing from you.”
“Yes. I agree. I think what happened was I grew complacent, trusting more than I should. It has only been in the last year or so that I haven’t been diligent enough. Since it was my money, I should never have turned it all over to him. You can be sure I will not do so again with my next man.”
The carriage rolled up to a very elegant-looking building. “You own an interest in this?” Amy asked, her admiring gaze making him smile.
“Yes. It’s one of my investments. I also hold an interest in two restaurants—both in London—a hotel in Bristol, a small bank here in town, and a small printing company. Although Harding advised against it, I also put some of my money into a couple of industrial ventures in the United States.”
Amy appeared dutifully impressed. “My goodness. You are quite busy.”
“Too busy, apparently. I left too much to Harding.” The carriage stopped, and the driver opened the door. They approached the building and found the entrance unlocked. William rattled the doorknob. “I shall have the managing agency put a lock on this door.”
Inside, Amy took in the well-kept entrance hall. The wooden floor was polished to a high gleam. A gas chandelier hung over the space, highlighting a wooden-framed mirror and two plants alongside a small table that appeared to hold mail for the tenants.
“Harding’s flat is on the first floor.” They made their way upstairs, and William stopped at the first door, which bore the number 1. “This is it.” He withdrew a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. It turned easily, and they entered the flat.
“I wonder if the police have searched here yet.” Amy wandered around, looking at some of Harding’s knickknacks, which William felt were far too many for a man to have.
“I’m not sure the police have yet decided that Harding’s drowning was not an accident.” William moved to the bedroom. Everything was in order. Bed neatly made, clothing all hung up. Shoes lined up against one wall. A brush, comb, and a flowered bowl with a pitcher set inside rested on a dresser across from the bed.
“I will start in here. Amy, why don’t you search the kitchen and drawing room?” It would be far better for him, rather than an unmarried woman, to go through Harding’s personal belongings.
“That sounds like a good plan. I’ll start in the kitchen.”
William methodically searched the room. He pulled open drawers, looked under the bed, scoured the wardrobe, and went through a cedar chest at the foot of the man’s bed.
No files.
He proceeded to the drawing room, where Amy had moved her search. “Nothing in the kitchen.”
William pulled out several books and flipped through them. Amy picked up sofa cushions and looked under chairs and behind drapes.
William put three books back on the shelf and took out two more. An envelope dropped to the floor from inside one of the books. He bent and picked up a letter addressed to Mr. James Harding from a Mr. Martin DuBois and began to read.
“Amy. I think I found something here.”
She walked over to him. “What it is?”
“Here.” He handed the letter to her.
Her eyes moved back and forth over the paper. When she finished, she folded it up and looked at him. “Your Mr. Harding had a partner.”
“So it appears.”
“That partner went to prison for embezzlement.”
“That’s what it says.”
“He is out of prison now.”
“Yes.”
“And he threatened Mr. Harding.”
“So it would seem.”
Amy tapped the envelope with her fingertip and grinned. “My lord, I believe we have our suspect.”
CHAPTER 8
“How much are you willing to tell them?” Amy asked as she stepped out of William’s carriage and straightened her skirts.
They had just arrived at the police station in answer to a summons from Detective Carson. The officer had sent around a note to William asking to speak with the two of them and requesting an acceptable time to call. Completely panicked at the idea of the police visiting his house with his mother present, William had offered to fetch Amy and bring her with him to the station.
“I will attempt to answer their questions as honestly as possible,” William replied.
Amy smirked. “A very nebulous response, my lord.”
William gave her a curt nod and opened the door to the station, stepping back so Amy could enter first. “Just so.”
They were quickly escorted to the room in which they had been interviewed during the investigation into St. Vincent’s murder.
The room was empty, and William found it difficult to sit, so he paced. The space was oppressive and confining. No windows, sickly-green-painted walls, one long table, four chairs, and nothing else. No doubt these rooms were kept stark as a reminder to those being questioned that this was a police station and the room was strictly for serious business.
The door swung open, and Detectives Carson and Marsh entered.
They were an unmatched duo. Marsh was close to six feet tall, slender, with enough lines around his mouth and the corners of his eyes to indicate that the man had lived more than twoscore years. Carson was round and bald and barely reached Marsh’s shoulders.
“Thank you for answering our summons, my lord, my lady.” Detective Carson settled into one of the chairs, and William took the one next to Amy. The two detectives sat side by side across from them.
William still wasn’t sure why they had requested Amy’s presence, but he was certain they were about to find out.
Marsh flipped open his notepad and licked the end of his pencil. Detective Carson took the lead. “We have reason to believe Mr. Harding did not stumble into the river while drunk.”
Since that wasn’t a question, William and Amy remained quiet.
Carson cleared his throat. “Along those lines, we have opened an investigation.”
William nodded.
“Now here is the interesting part of our investigation.” Carson leaned forward, his hands folded on the table. “We visited Mr. Harding’s office yesterday.”
It soon became clear why the two of them had been summoned. He remained quiet. He who speaks first loses.
Carson attempted a befuddled look but didn’t quite pull it off. “We confiscated the man’s files, and do you know what was confusing about that?” The detective tapped his fingers on the table. Very much an annoyance. On purpose or just a habit?
William was not prepared to play games with the detective. They had crossed swords with the men before. “I have no idea why you were confused, Detective, but I have a feeling you will shortly enlighten me.”
Marsh grumbled as he continued to write.
Carson leaned forward again, an intimidating move, but William did not flinch. “What was questionable was that there were no files with your name on them.”
“Indeed?” William almost smiled; he already knew that, and he also knew his file was not in Harding’s flat either. There was no reason, of course, to pass that information along to the detectives. “Is there a question there, Detective? Because if there is, I missed it.”
“You know, Wethington, your title and connections will only protect you to a certain degree.” Carson slammed his hand down on the table. William, Amy, and Marsh all
jumped. “We will not have the two of you interfering again in a police investigation!”
The man’s face was bright red, and he looked as though he might soon collapse. William did the man a favor and did not smile.
“You want a question, my lord? Well, here it is. Did you or did you not remove your file from Mr. Harding’s office?”
“No. I did not.” No lie there.
“Then why was there no file with your name on it? The reason you were requested to confirm the identity of Mr. Harding was because he was your man of business.” Carson’s voice rose. “He had your business card on his person when he was dragged from the river!”
“I will tell you what I know.” William glanced over at Amy, who held a completely bland expression on her face. The woman had been through this before.
“Mr. Harding was my man of business for three years. We worked well together. Why my files were not in his office is as much of a puzzle to me as it is to you.”
Marsh licked his pencil again and flipped the page. Carson continued. “Yet Mr. Tibbs, who shares the space with Mr. Harding, told us you and her ladyship here visited the office and indicated you were going to fetch your files. Is that true?”
William hesitated, then decided that giving a little information to the police might look like cooperation and get the detectives to leave them alone so he and Amy could solve the puzzle. He had more at stake than just Harding’s murder. He needed to find out how far into deception Harding had been. And how much of his money was gone. “Yes, Detective. We did visit the office with the intention of retrieving my files—”
“This is a police investigation! You had no right to interfere and remove possible evidence.”
“Ah. It was not a police matter when we visited Harding’s office. If memory serves, you indicated when we identified Mr. Harding’s body that you deemed it an accidental drowning.”
Carson switched his attention to Amy. “My lady, can you vouch for your cohort here that his file was not among those in Mr. Harding’s office?”
Amy nodded. “Yes, Detective. There was no file among those in the office of Mr. Harding that had his lordship’s name on it.”
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