The Sign of Death

by Callie Hutton

  William leaned in closer to the man. “Go on.”

  “The last time ’e was ’ere, there was a big ’rgument.”

  “And?”

  “Wif wahn of them ’igh-flautin’ dames.” He hitched his thumb at Amy. “Loike ’er”

  Amy leaned closer. “What did she look like?”

  “Tall, skinny, red Barnet Fair.” The man snatched up the coin, bit it, and dropped it in his pocket.

  William and Amy looked at each other. “Miss Gertrude.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The carriage rumbled along to the next pub they planned to visit, both of them still in shock from what the man at the last pub had told them. William looked over at Amy when he finally found his voice. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I don’t believe Miss Gertrude killed Mr. Harding. No matter how many times I go over it in my mind, I don’t see it.”

  “If the man was drunk, she would certainly be strong enough to do it.”

  “William.” She sat forward and glared at him. “Think about Miss Gertrude, with the flowered dresses and straw hats. Pretending she’s a twin. In church. Every Sunday.”

  He leaned toward her, coming almost nose to nose with her. “Think about Miss Gertrude suddenly interested in murder mysteries. And think about Miss Gertrude being blackmailed. There has to be something in her background scandalous enough to make her pay Harding for years.”

  They had decided to continue with the last pub on their list. Just because it appeared that Harding had been meeting some of his victims in the last pub didn’t necessarily prove it was where he had met his fate.

  Their third stop was an inn as well as a pub. Most likely because of the addition of rooms, this one was fairly decent. The Tiger and the Lion was a two-story building of undetermined years. A groom trotted up to them when they arrived and advised William’s driver where he could put the carriage.

  The inside was clean, and wonderful smells came from somewhere in the back. “I wonder if it’s safe to eat here,” Amy whispered as they took seats at a table on the right side of the room.

  “I have found in my travels that inns, as opposed to pubs, generally have excellent food. It’s what keeps the travelers coming back. When you’re on the road, it is not always easy to find a place with clean rooms and decent fare. Once an innkeeper has established himself, word passes among those who need accommodations when they travel.”

  Amy grinned. “I’m assuming from my simple question and your lengthy diatribe that the answer is yes? I hope so, because I find myself quite hungry.”

  William smiled back. His Amy was certainly quick with a sharp retort.

  His Amy?

  Although, considering how much his mother had fawned over her at lunch this past Sunday, no doubt Lady Wethington was now spending her time writing wedding invitations.

  And he found himself somewhat pleased at the notion.

  A middle-aged woman with an apron wrapped around her considerable belly approached the table, a huge friendly smile on her face. “Good evening, my lady, my lord. I am Mrs. Brodack. My husband and I own the inn. How may we help you?”

  “Something smells wonderful. What’s for supper?”

  With pride in her stance and voice, Mrs. Brodack said, “Aye, I just finished cooking a lamb stew. I have bread ready to come out of the oven and two desserts”—she counted off on her fingers—“my famous lemon tarts and an apple charlotte.”

  “Good heavens, I believe my mouth is actually drooling,” Williams said. He turned to Amy. “What say you, my lady?”

  “Yes.” She grinned at the woman. “Everything.”

  The woman hustled away, obviously quite pleased with their response.

  “I thought you were a vegetarian. Since you are a vegetarian who eats fish, are you also a vegetarian who eats lamb?” He grinned at her.

  Amy raised her chin. “I must be flexible. If that is what the inn is serving, then I must have the lamb stew.”

  She glared at him as he laughed out loud. Then with a sniff, she said, “I think, since the innkeeper’s wife is so friendly, she might be the best person to ask about the flask. Or if Harding was meeting people here as well.”

  Within minutes Mrs. Brodack returned, carrying a tray loaded with bowls of stew, fresh bread, butter, and both tarts and slices of the apple charlotte. She placed all the items on the table.

  “I don’t suppose you have tea, do you?” Amy asked.

  “I certainly do, my lady.” She turned to William. “Ale for you, my lord?”

  “Actually, tea will be fine.” The ale he’d had in the last two pubs had left him with a sour stomach.

  Mrs. Brodack gave a curt nod and left.

  Amy stared after the woman as she departed. “How does she know we’re lady and lord?”

  William laughed. “You might think we can dress in a working-class manner, but our accent and the way we move and walk all deny what we’re trying to portray. But,” he continued, “dressing this way is still a wise thing to do to avoid drawing too much attention to ourselves.”

  Conversation ceased as they consumed their meal, until all the bowls and plates were empty.

  “Mrs. Brodack, you are a wonderful cook,” William said as she took away their dishes.

  The woman blushed. “Thank you, my lord.”

  When she returned with their refilled teapot, William asked, “I am looking for a silver flask that I misplaced. I have reason to believe someone picked it up. It is a family heirloom that I would love to get back. Have you seen anyone in here in the last couple of weeks with such an item?”

  Mrs. Brodack placed her hands on her ample hips. “No, I didn’t. But funny you ask that, because there were two police officers in here yesterday who had a silver flask with them. They were trying to identify the person who might have used it here.”

  William glanced over at Amy.

  The woman continued. “You might want to check with the police. It sounds like they have your flask.”

  William nodded. “Thank you. That is a very good idea. I am glad it was found.”

  * * *

  Friday morning, Amy forced herself to sit at her desk and get some writing finished. She’d been too involved in the search for Mr. Harding’s killer to devote enough time to her current book. She had a deadline to meet, and it was not going to be met if she didn’t spend some time writing. The book was not going to write itself.

  She and William had not discussed the murder since their visits to the three pubs on Tuesday afternoon, nor had they talked about where they would go from here. They had others on their suspect list besides Miss Gertrude: Mr. Lemmon, Mr. Montrose, and Mrs. Whitney. However, Amy didn’t want to assume one of those individuals was the killer.

  William had been busy all day Wednesday and Thursday. He’d told her he would be visiting with his solicitor to have him petition the courts to have Harding’s estate reimburse him for the money stolen. The problem with that, he’d said, was that until he received the files from the police department, he had no idea how much was missing, and more importantly, he needed to make sure he was still solvent.

  Although he had said those last words with a hint of humor, she could see in his eyes that he was troubled.

  The sound of a carriage drawing up to the front of the townhouse had her pushing her chair back and strolling to the window in her office that faced the street.

  Her jaw dropped when her papa and brother stepped out of the carriage and made their way to the front door. Papa had not written that he was going to be visiting.

  Then her stomach clenched. Had he heard about her publisher wanting to have her appear at the book fair? She wasn’t quite ready to face him with that matter yet. She was still toying with the idea of agreeing to the publisher’s request.

  And therefore bringing Papa’s wrath down onto her head.

  She took a quick look in her mirror to make sure she wasn’t disheveled enough to warrant comments about her untidiness, then
left the room.

  “Papa!” She walked into his outstretched arms and received a warm hug. For as much as she hadn’t seen much of her papa over the years, what with her living mostly in Bath and him staying in London, they still had a warm relationship.

  Except when he wanted her to do something she did not want to do. Then they butted heads, and he used those occasions to remind her that she was too much like him. And then when she rejected marriage offers, he complained that she was too much like his sister, Margaret. Amy liked to think she was too much like herself. And she wanted to stay that way, thank you very much.

  “I didn’t know you were coming for a visit. Why didn’t you write?” She turned to her brother, Michael, the image of her papa. They looked alike, walked the same way, used the same facial expressions, and had a similar stance. If it hadn’t been for the lines on Papa’s face and a few extra pounds he had gained over the years, they could have passed for twins. Papa had even retained his full head of hair, although it was streaked with silver.

  “Michael, you too! I can’t believe you are both here.” She drew back from hugging her brother and turned to her papa. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong, my dear. We’re here for Lady Wethington’s dinner.”

  “Tonight?”

  Papa draped his arm around her shoulders and led them to the library. “Is there more than one dinner?”

  Amy shook her head, confused. “Not that I’m aware of, but I didn’t know Lady Wethington had invited the two of you.”

  Aunt Margaret glided into the room. “Me as well.”

  Amy swung around. “You too?”

  A sinking feeling hit her stomach. Why in heaven’s name would Lady Wethington invite her entire family? She broke into a sweat when she came up with the most obvious reason. Surely William would not do something so foolish as to propose marriage in front of everyone? Lord, she felt like running to her room and hiding under the bed.

  “Yes. The invitation came earlier in the week. I’m surprised that you are surprised.” Aunt Margaret looked closely at her. “Are you well, Amy? You look rather pale.”

  “No. I am fine.” She tried a smile and doubted that she carried it off. She had to speak with William before this dinner tonight. Didn’t they have enough on their hands with this murder investigation without something as foolish as a marriage proposal in the middle of it all?

  She turned her mind off and hurried back upstairs. Papa would never allow her to take the carriage to William’s house by herself. Yet she didn’t want to take Lacey or Aunt Margaret with her.

  She grabbed Persephone, found her leash, and hurried downstairs. “I’m taking Persephone for a walk,” she called out to whoever was still in the library. She shrugged into her coat and opened the door.

  And was met with a virtual downpour.

  She stomped her foot like a toddler and didn’t even care if someone saw her. From the voices coming from the library, it appeared that her brother, papa, and aunt were in a lively discussion and had forgotten about her.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she looked at the carriage still parked at the end of the pavement. The driver, Malcolm, was just starting to move the horses forward toward the mews at the back of the house. With a quick look over her shoulder, she raced down the stairs, dragging Persephone, who howled the entire way.

  “Lord Wethington’s house, Malcolm.” She jumped in and kept staring at the front door, waiting for Papa to come barreling out to stop her.

  Once they were on their way, she took a deep breath and let it out. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, all of them scrambled. She wasn’t even sure William was at home, and if he wasn’t, whatever would she say to Lady Wethington about her visit without sounding like a half-wit?

  She tapped on the carriage ceiling. Malcolm slid open the small door in the roof and looked down at her. “When we arrive at Lord Wethington’s home, please drive around to the back first to make sure his carriage is there.”

  The good servant that he was, Malcolm merely nodded and continued on his way, the rain dripping off the brim of his hat. It occurred to her now that Malcolm might have been parked at the front of her house waiting for Papa or Michael to go somewhere. No, she assured herself. The man had definitely been moving the horses toward the mews. She gave her full attention to the prospect of speaking with William.

  The traffic had been light, so they arrived at the Wethington townhouse sooner than she would have thought. Once she was free of the carriage, with Persephone wailing in distress, she hurried up the steps. A man Amy had not seen before opened the door and gave her a slight bow.

  “I am Lady Amy Lovell, here to see Lord Wethington.” Her words came out breathless from her jaunt up the steps. She stepped into the house as he moved back. “Is he at home?”

  “I shall check, my lady.” He waved toward the drawing room. “If you will be so kind as to wait here, I will see.”

  As he started to move away, she said, “Wait!”

  Startled, the man turned back. “Yes, my lady?”

  She moved closed to the man and lowered her voice. “Is Lady Wethington at home?”

  “I shall check on that also.”

  “No!”

  His eyebrows rose. Good gracious, the man must think her a lunatic. Like all good servants, however, he merely stopped and stared at her with no indication that he thought there was anything odd about her behavior. She could picture him laughing wildly when he returned to the servants’ quarters and told all and sundry about the daft woman who had just called on his master.

  “I, um … I do not wish to, um, disturb her.” She patted her upper lip with her gloved finger. Why did she always get herself into these messes?

  “Very good, my lady.” He bowed again and left the room.

  She paced as she waited for William to arrive. She glanced out the window, the rain still coming down in torrents, as if she should be preparing for another great flood.

  At the sound of footsteps, she turned, then breathed a sigh of relief when William stepped into the room.

  “Amy! Whatever are you doing here?” He walked over to her and took her hand in his. “Is something wrong?”

  She pulled her hand away and placed her hands on her hips. “Why are we having dinner tonight?”

  He stepped back, his brows rising to his hairline. “Because we will most likely be hungry?”

  She waved her finger at him. “Don’t try to dodge that question. Your mother invited my entire family to dinner tonight.”

  “Yes. I just found out myself.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides. “You didn’t plan this?”

  “Plan what?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “Did I what? Amy, you are not making sense. I feel like I’m in some sort of a crazy dream.”

  The man who had answered the door entered the drawing room. “My lord, you have guests.”

  “Already?” He turned to Amy. “I thought dinner was at eight o’clock tonight.”

  Amy shook her head and shrugged as Detective Carson and Detective Marsh sauntered into the room.

  “Well, look who we find together again. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.” Detective Carson grinned.

  CHAPTER 14

  Before William could even begin to make sense of what Amy was talking about and attempt to answer her nebulous questions, he was faced with the two men who were as irritating as a swarm of mosquitoes.

  William ran his hand down his face. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Detectives?” He attempted a smile, trying to at least be well-mannered, although his first instinct was to toss the men out the door. Headfirst.

  “We have a few questions for you.” Detective Carson walked farther into the room. William, Amy, and Detective Marsh followed him to a grouping of chairs near the fireplace. As if the man was the host, he waved at the chairs. “Shall we sit?”

  William and Amy took the chairs next to each other. Carson and Marsh sat across from
them.

  Detective Carson removed a flask from his inner jacket pocket. He waved it in William’s direction. “I hear you’ve been looking for this.”

  Deciding that silence was his best response, especially since Detective Carson had not raised a direct question, William said nothing, his brows rising slightly.

  Visibly annoyed at William’s lack of response, the man continued. “In the course of our investigation—and by that I mean police work—we visited a few pubs near where the late Mr. Harding’s body was found floating in the River Avon.”

  Again, no question, so William remained silent.

  “Imagine how confused we were to discover that a man and a woman had visited one of these places asking about a ‘stolen’ flask.”

  Still no question. Still silence on William’s part.

  “Do you know what is peculiar about that?” Carson asked.

  Finally, a question. William looked the man straight in the eye. “No. But I assume you are about to tell me.”

  “You are bloody right about that, lad.” He glanced in Amy’s direction. “I apologize for the language, my lady.”

  Amy waved him off, and Carson continued. “We warned you two before about staying out of police business. There can be only one reason why you would be nosing around those establishments asking questions.”

  Again, William rewarded the man with silence.

  “Remember, my lord, you are a suspect in a murder investigation.”

  “What!” Lady Wethington had quietly entered the room, unnoticed by any of them. Her face was pale as she stared at the two detectives.

  William groaned. This could turn into a catastrophe. “Mother, all is well. The detectives are asking questions about my man of business, who drowned recently.”

  “And they suspect you? Of murder? A peer? A member of the ton? An upstanding, moral, loyal, and honorable man?” Her voice rose as she spoke, and her face now turned bright red.

  Carson looked over at Marsh. “His mother. No surprise there.”

  William walked over to Lady Wethington, taking her hand in his. “Mother, this won’t take long. I suggest you retire to your bedchamber, and I will attend you once the men have left.”