Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER 7, 1840. JEREMY STREET, LONDON.

C harlie Hastings sank deeper into his favorite armchair beside the hearth in his Jermyn Street house and turned the first page in that morning's news sheet. To Charlie's mind, this was the very best time of his day, when, while digesting the excellent breakfast his housekeeper, Mrs. Swann, had provided, he could sit in peace and comfort and indulge his curiosity over what his fellow men were doing with their lives.

Inevitably, the answer was more exciting than what he was doing with his life, a situation that routinely left him feeling quietly smug. He infinitely preferred the calm and orderly peace of "nothing happening" to the alternative.

Reaching for the corner of the next page, he paused as a niggle, a small one, wormed its way through his brain. There were times when he wondered if being cocooned in such untrammeled comfort while life passed him by was truly as pleasant as he told himself it was. That perhaps "nothing happening"—at all, ever—was just a trifle dull. Boring, even.

He contemplated that question for all of a minute, then quashed it deep.

Comfort and "nothing happening" was his cup of tea.

Determinedly, he gripped the next page and was about to turn it when a sharp rat-a-tat-tat fell on his front door.

Charlie frowned, wondering who on earth would call at such an early hour; a quick glance at the mantelpiece clock confirmed it was barely nine o'clock. He wasn't surprised to hear his man, Garvey, hurry up the front hall. There was something about the solid, deliberate nature of that summons that demanded an immediate response.

Garvey opened the door and, faintly breathless, inquired, "Yes?"

Charlie heard a deep voice rumble a from-this-distance-incomprehensible yet somehow ominous reply.

Apparently, Garvey recognized the visitor's claim to entry and admitted him.

After trying and failing to identify the man's voice, Charlie folded the news sheet and set the paper aside. He heard heavy footsteps approaching the parlor door and got to his feet, schooling his expression to one of mildly curious civility as the door opened and Garvey ushered in the visitor.

"Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard to see you, sir," Garvey intoned.

Charlie felt his expression blank, then his eyes widened as they landed on the man who followed Garvey into the parlor. "Stokes?"

Detective Inspector Basil Stokes halted and nodded in greeting. "Hastings."

Stokes's expression was unreadable, yet Charlie couldn't imagine this was a social call. His curiosity morphed into puzzlement, tinged with confusion and a touch of apprehension.

Charlie had always considered Stokes an unexpected policeman. Tall, well built, and broad shouldered, with steely gray eyes, dark-brown hair, and a face that appeared hewn from granite, Stokes effortlessly projected an imposing and faintly menacing presence, but unlike the vast majority of the force, he was gentry born and grammar school educated. While most policemen struggled to navigate the upper echelons of society, Stokes possessed the background, insight, and experience to do so. His success in solving several high-profile cases involving the aristocracy had seen him rise through the ranks to his present position as one of the more senior inspectors at Scotland Yard.

Over the years, Charlie and Stokes had crossed paths several times when Charlie had been assisting his good friend, the Honorable Barnaby Adair, with solving some mystery or crime. Charlie was aware that Barnaby—now joined by his wife, Penelope—continued to assist Stokes in cases involving the ton; he'd heard that Barnaby and Penelope were now called on in an official capacity as consultants to the Metropolitan Police, of which institution Barnaby's father, a close friend of Charlie's father, was one of the overseeing peers.

Despite all those connections, Charlie couldn't imagine what had brought Stokes directly to his door. He drew in a breath and asked, "Is there something I can help you with?"

Smoothly, Stokes replied, "A situation has arisen on which, I believe, you might be able to shed some light." Stokes's gray gaze cut to Garvey, who was hovering behind him.

Charlie took the hint and nodded a dismissal to Garvey, then waved Stokes to the second armchair, which was angled to face Charlie's favored seat. "Of course. I'm happy to assist in any way I can."

Charlie waited until Stokes sat, then resumed his seat, crossed his legs, clasped his hands loosely in his lap, and bent an inquiring expression on Stokes.

Stokes studied him for a moment, then grimaced. He drew out a small black book and a pencil from his coat pocket and, finally, volunteered, "A body was hauled from the Thames yesterday, and items found on the corpse suggest the dead man is Viscount Sedbury."

Charlie's eyes flew wide. "Sedbury?" After a moment of stunned stupefaction, he repeated with more force, "Sedbury?"

When Stokes did nothing but watch him closely, Charlie blustered, "But good God, man! Sedbury was a great hulking fellow. How on earth did someone kill him?"

Stokes mildly replied, "I don't have any details as yet, but currently, we're working on the hypothesis that he was attacked and killed or stunned on one of the bridges and tipped into the river."

"Good Lord!" Charlie just stared.

After scribbling some note, Stokes searched Charlie's face, then on an exhalation that was close to a sigh, Stokes went on, "The reason I'm here is that while investigating Sedbury's recent movements, I learned of an altercation between you and the viscount that occurred at White's on Saturday evening. I was told that Sedbury bailed you up in the card room, and you responded to his statements with some degree of heat, the subject under discussion being a previous encounter between you and Sedbury earlier in the day." Stokes trapped Charlie's gaze. "Would you care to elaborate on that earlier encounter?"

Charlie met Stokes's scrutiny with his best blank expression while his wits whirled. Sedbury dead? After…

It took less than a minute for Charlie to conclude that he would rather be talking to Stokes than being interrogated by anyone else. He huffed out a breath and considered giving the man a less-than-full account. Regretfully jettisoning that notion as a recipe for misunderstanding, he reluctantly accepted the inevitable, filled his lungs, fixed his gaze on the far wall, and admitted, "I was strolling in Long Acre at about eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, intending to look in at several establishments to see whether anything caught my eye. People were gathering on the pavement just ahead, and when I reached the edge of the crowd, I saw that everyone was watching Sedbury, who had a young lad—a street sweeper—by the scruff of the neck and was shaking the boy like a rat. Sedbury was furious—red-faced and spewing threats the like of which were enough to chill anyone's blood. Then he hauled the boy into the street and reached for his whip."

"Whip?" Stokes looked up from his notebook.

"Sedbury carried a short-handled horsewhip in the same manner other gentlemen carry swordsticks." Charlie shook his head. "An affectation, true enough, but Sedbury definitely knew how to wield that whip. He was famous for it."

Frowning, Stokes nodded. "Go on."

Charlie blew out a breath. "Well, it was clear Sedbury was going to whip the tyke, and in the mood he was in, he would have flayed the skin from the boy's back. Then I heard a cry, and I saw a girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen screaming for the boy, and I—well, we, the whole crowd—realized that the boy had only been trying to protect his sister from Sedbury's unwanted attentions." Charlie huffed. "Well, I could hardly stand by and let Sedbury whip the lad for that. I couldn't hope to physically overcome Sedbury, so I waited until he raised his whip, and I stepped in and filched it from his grasp." Charlie smiled cynically. "I might not be up to meeting the man at Gentleman Jackson's, but I do know whips." He shifted his gaze to Stokes's face. "As I'd expected, Sedbury rounded on me—and the boy seized the chance to wrench free. I walked steadily backward, and predictably, Sedbury stalked toward me, scowling and swearing, and meanwhile, the boy and his sister vanished down an alley." Reliving the moment, Charlie acknowledged, "Mind you, by then, the crowd had definitely taken against Sedbury. Not that he paid them any heed." After a second, Charlie focused on Stokes and concluded, "Once the boy and girl were well away, I halted and handed Sedbury his whip."

"You didn't fear he'd use it on you?"

"He certainly threatened to," Charlie admitted with a reminiscing smile, "but there are some lines even Sedbury knew he couldn't cross." Holding Stokes's gaze, Charlie added, "I don't regret my actions, Stokes—not that morning or that evening, either. If Sedbury went and got himself killed later, well, I doubt you'll find anyone evincing any degree of surprise. He was a nasty piece of work—the absolute antithesis of a credit to the ton."

Stokes grunted and scribbled several lines, then met Charlie's gaze. "So, to the incident at White's."

Involuntarily, Charlie grimaced. He saw Stokes take note and felt a faint blush rise in his cheeks. "That was…uncalled for and…quite unseemly. I had no idea Sedbury was in the club until he bowled up, brash and bold as only he could be, and interrupted our game. He started flinging insults and followed up with threats. I can't say that it was an edifying moment for any of us forced to hear him."

Consulting his notebook, Stokes said, "I understand that at the table with you were Viscount Mollison, Mr. Carruthers, and Lord Abercrombie."

Charlie nodded. "Quite. And there were others about—the room was rather crowded—and the longer Sedbury ranted, more wandered in to see what the commotion was about."

"Was Sedbury with anyone? Any friends?"

"No." Considering the point, Charlie frowned. "I don't think he has any. Friends, I mean, as distinct from mere acquaintances. He is—was—a loner, was Sedbury. Very much one who preferred his own company."

Stokes continued busily scribbling. "So, what happened to make Sedbury leave?"

Charlie huffed contemptuously. "I might not be top-o'-the-trees, but I am reasonably well-connected and well-known within the ton. The family is, too. Sedbury was loud and getting louder by the second, and the others who had gathered around started to object. Increasingly forcefully. In his inimitable fashion, Sedbury sneered at us all, then flung an order at me to stay out of his path or else and spun on his heel and stalked out." Charlie looked at Stokes. "That was the last I saw of him."

Stokes came to the end of his jotting and looked up. "Thus far, the last time for which we have witnesses to Sedbury being alive was when he quit White's."

Stokes studied the man before him. He'd met Charlie Hastings several times over the years, and his reading of the man was of a quiet gentleman who liked and, indeed, preferred the simple pleasures of tonnish life. However, behind the well-cut blond hair, the rather kindly brown eyes, and the pleasant features almost perennially set in a genial, easygoing expression was a steady solidity that spoke of principles and sound character. While intellectually, Charlie might be a lightweight compared to his good friends Barnaby and Penelope, the very fact that they'd remained close friends for decades spoke volumes.

Mentally reviewing his previous encounters with Charlie, Stokes acknowledged that the man before him had matured—physically, emotionally, and almost certainly socially. Hastings was a little over average height, lean rather than heavy, and cut an unobtrusively elegant figure. Stokes pegged him as a gentleman who would rather inhabit the background than take center stage.

Evenly, Stokes observed, "I understand that you left White's soon after. Alone."

Charlie looked faintly uncomfortable. "Well, my evening had gone downhill, thanks to Sedbury." He met Stokes's eyes. "But you can't have found anyone to say I went after Sedbury because I didn't. I came home—here."

Stokes inclined his head. "I admit that we have no witnesses who saw you and Sedbury together after you both left the club."

"That's because we weren't together later." Charlie flung up his hands. "Just think of it—at that time, Sedbury was literally the last man in London I would seek out, much less look to spend more time with!"

Stokes studied Charlie. "I can certainly see how that might be. However, we also have it on good authority that you and Sedbury are rivals of sorts in the matter of collecting whips." Stokes trapped Charlie's gaze. "That was why, in Long Acre, you were confident in your ability to take the whip from him."

Stokes hadn't previously heard of gentlemen collecting whips, but given the time and attention gentlemen of the ton paid to all things to do with horses, he couldn't say he was surprised that such a fraternity existed.

Charlie frowned, but readily admitted, "Yes, that's true, but I can't see what that has to say to anything. There are several whip collectors in London, and we don't go around murdering each other over whips." He spread his hands. "What would be the point?"

Stokes had to admit that was a reasonable question; men with collections of any stripe liked to display their acquisitions to others.

He was aware that Charlie was studying his face and knew there was nothing to be read there; he was long past the stage of allowing his thoughts to show.

Eventually, Charlie shifted, then stated, "I say, Stokes—I didn't murder Sedbury, and I have absolutely no idea who did."

Stokes believed him, not least because Charlie's emotions were easy to discern; he was somewhat affronted to find himself considered a suspect in a murder, but at the same time, he understood what had brought Stokes to his door and was trying to be reasonable and helpful without in any way incriminating himself. There was also, Stokes judged, the early stirrings of curiosity over how and why Sedbury had been killed. Yet the critical point in stamping Charlie as highly unlikely to be Sedbury's murderer was the disparity in size, weight, and strength.

Stokes had never encountered Sedbury, but the initial description of the corpse from the Thames River Police was of a great hulking brute of a man in excellent physical shape, with no obvious injuries—not shot, not stabbed. Charlie's comments had only added to the picture of Sedbury's strength. Consequently, while Charlie was hardly a stripling or a weakling, it was seriously difficult to imagine how he could have overcome a man of Sedbury's stature.

Still studying Stokes's unrevealing face, Charlie frowned. "Here, I say, this is truly serious, isn't it? I mean, Sedbury is Rattenby's heir, so there's bound to be a huge ruckus over his murder even if no one's all that surprised."

That was the second time Charlie had referred to people not being surprised to learn of Sedbury's murder. Before Stokes could ask for clarification, Charlie straightened and went on, "Perhaps involving Barnaby and Penelope might be wise. I've heard that you're now working with them on a more formal basis, and clearly, this case qualifies as one in which their input would help."

With a quick smile, Stokes shut his notebook. "I agree." He paused, then added, "I need to get permission from the commissioner to bring them in as consultants." He met Charlie's gaze. "While I head back to the Yard for that, why don't you go to Albemarle Street? At this hour, Barnaby and Penelope should both be at home, and you can bring them up to date with what I've told you and your recent interactions with the man." Stokes paused, then rose and added, "And you can ask for their help in ensuring you're not taken up for the crime."

"Here, I say!" Charlie got to his feet. "I'm not truly a suspect, am I?"

Stokes smiled more definitely, headed for the door, and didn't reply.

Behind him, Charlie huffed, then followed him into the hall. Stokes quit the house, leaving Charlie shrugging on his coat and instructing Garvey to fetch his hat.

Barnaby sat on one of the sofas in the garden parlor and laughed at the sight of his wife and two sons rolling on the rug before the hearth while the family's new addition—a puppy named Roger—gamboled about the three, yipping and darting in to playfully tug on any available clothing.

The puppy had been a gift from Barnaby's father, the Earl of Cothelstone. Roger was a spaniel puppy of prestigious lineage, a product of the earl's kennels, which were renowned for producing excellent gun dogs. Barnaby was looking forward to taking Roger, once he was old enough, out with the pack when they visited Cothelstone.

Meanwhile, Roger was proving an excellent source of distraction for the entire household; the pup had quickly ingratiated himself with Mostyn, their majordomo, and, of course, Cook.

A smile wreathing his face, Barnaby watched Penelope encourage their younger son, Pip, just eight months old, to sit up so he could grip the end of the rope that Roger had between his jaws and tug.

Pip tugged, then chortled happily when Roger obligingly tugged back. Meanwhile, Oliver, now nearly four years old, gathered up and made a pile of the soft toys the boys had donated to the puppy.

Barnaby felt a definite inner glow as he watched the three most important people in his life laugh and have fun. He and Penelope had vowed to make a conscious effort to spend at least a little time each day with the boys—just him, her, and their sons.

And now, the puppy. Barnaby seriously doubted Oliver and Pip would willingly be parted from the small black-and-white dog, and as young children and pets went, that was how things ought to be.

Today, they'd come to the parlor directly after breakfast and had been there for more than half an hour. Focusing on Penelope, he caught her eye and asked, "What are you planning on doing today?"

She glanced at the boys, then left them to their game of tug and swung to face Barnaby. "I have that translation for the museum in Sheffield. It's only half done, and I suppose I should get back to it while I can. That said, there's no rush." From behind her spectacles, she opened her eyes wide at him. "You?"

He confessed, "I have to admit I'm at loose ends."

"Good gracious!" the wife of his heart riposted. "How has that come about?"

He grinned. "I'm not quite sure."

Their banter was interrupted by the pealing of the new front doorbell.

Barnaby blinked, then met Penelope's gaze. As the pealing continued in what could only be termed an agitated manner, he arched his brows in surprise.

Even the boys and the dog registered the implication and stopped their game to look at the door in expectation.

Distantly, Barnaby caught the sound of voices—Mostyn's and another male's—then footsteps approached in rapid and determined fashion.

Penelope caught Barnaby's gaze and tipped her head toward the bellpull. "Hettie?"

Barnaby was already rising; Hettie was the boys' nursemaid. "An excellent idea."

He tugged the bellpull, then turned as the door opened and Mostyn ushered Charlie Hastings into the room.

One look at his old friend, and Barnaby could tell he was seriously unsettled.

Penelope was every bit as observant as Barnaby. She got to her feet and, with a welcoming smile, went forward to take Charlie's hands. "Charlie—how lovely to see you. Do come in."

Charlie grasped her fingers and half bowed over them, mumbling his thanks for the welcome and, with a glance at Barnaby, added that he was relieved to find them at home.

If Barnaby and Penelope had needed any further hint that something was drastically wrong, that "relieved" provided it.

Penelope turned and beamed at the boys. "We were just playing with these two." She bent and hoisted Pip to her hip. "Oliver—come and make your bow to Uncle Charlie."

Oliver was delighted to front up and do so.

Charlie smiled and duly offered his hand for Oliver to shake, which the boy did with gusto.

"Er…" Charlie cast a helpless glance at Barnaby.

Understanding the look, Penelope stated, "The boys were about to go upstairs."

On cue, Hettie appeared in the doorway. She'd heard Penelope's dictum, saw the way Oliver's face fell, and, reaching for Pip, brightly said, "Cook has, just this minute, taken a sheet of shortbread biscuits from the oven." She smiled at Oliver, then at Pip. "Shall we go to the kitchen and see?"

Shortbread biscuits trumped adult conversation every time. "Yes!" Oliver paused only long enough to command, "Come along, Roger!" then, with the dog at his heels, hurried off with Hettie.

Smiling benignly, Mostyn followed the small procession from the room and closed the door behind him.

Immediately, Penelope tugged Charlie to the sofa, sat, and waved him to the place beside her.

Charlie dropped onto the pale-green silk, and Barnaby sat opposite as Penelope directed, "Tell us what's wrong."

Charlie looked from her to Barnaby. "I'm a whisker away from being charged with murder, that's what!"

"Murder!" Penelope exclaimed.

Frowning, Barnaby asked, "Whose?"

"Sedbury's!" Needing no further urging, Charlie poured out the somewhat amazing tale of Stokes's morning visit to Jermyn Street and what Stokes had revealed. "In the end, Stokes and I agreed that this was one case where your assistance was most definitely required, and he went off to ask the commissioner for approval." Charlie glanced toward the door. "He said he would join us here."

"Sedbury." Frowning, Penelope glanced at Barnaby. "I can't remember ever meeting the man. Are we sure he's of the ton?"

Barnaby grimly nodded. "Most definitely. He's Rattenby's eldest child and heir, the only child of his first marriage."

"Then that I've never met him is even more strange," Penelope pointed out. "I've met the marquess and the current marchioness several times, and I've met their children. All of them." She widened her eyes at Barnaby. "Why have I never met the oldest son?" She blinked, then added, "Until now, I didn't even know there was an older son."

Barnaby met her gaze. "The reason for that very likely feeds into the motive for his murder."

"Indeed," Charlie averred. "Sedbury was a rum 'un and rarely appeared in wider society. The clubs, hells, and so on, yes. Racing tracks and the like. But generally speaking, you wouldn't expect to find him in the ballrooms."

"That said," Barnaby concluded, "given Sedbury's status, Stokes was entirely correct in thinking that we need to be involved in this case."

On the words, the front doorbell rang, and a minute later, Stokes walked into the room.

He smiled at Barnaby and Penelope, who eagerly welcomed him and waved him to join them. Claiming the place on the sofa next to Barnaby, Stokes inquired, "Did Hastings here fill you in?"

"He did," Penelope replied. "So are we now officially on the case?"

Stokes grinned at her. "If you're willing."

Penelope huffed. "Of course we are, on Charlie's account if for no other reason. Now, is there anything more you can tell us?"

"Such as," Barnaby put in, "what information led you to Charlie's door this morning."

Charlie looked much struck. "I hadn't thought to ask." He looked at Stokes.

Smiling faintly, Stokes obliged. "After being informed that the body hauled from the river was presumed to be Sedbury's—a card in a card case found on the body carried the name and an address—I headed for Sedbury's rooms and thought to call in at White's on the way, hoping someone there could give me a decent description of the man. As it happened, the porters gave me an excellent picture and a great deal more. Enough that instead of going to Sedbury's rooms, I diverted to Jermyn Street and Hastings's abode." Stokes glanced at Charlie. "Have you told them of your two run-ins with Sedbury on Saturday?"

Charlie nodded.

"But," Penelope said, swiveling on the sofa to fix her dark gaze on Charlie, "you didn't really give us the details. So…"

Stokes watched and listened as she and Barnaby led Charlie through more or less every minute of both altercations in an inquisition of mind-numbing exactitude. Courtesy of Penelope's connection with the Foundling House and the children of the lower classes she interacted with there, she had incisive insight into the incident in Long Acre, while Barnaby, with his knowledge of White's and those who inhabited its halls, knew what questions to ask to draw Charlie into giving a much more complete account of the clash there.

Quietly listening without interrupting, Stokes added to his notes. This was precisely why he—and Scotland Yard—needed the help of this pair of consultants.

When it seemed that Barnaby and Penelope had extracted every last detail of Charlie's recent encounters with Sedbury, Stokes turned to another issue of which he didn't as yet feel sufficiently informed. "This business of whip collecting." He looked at Charlie. "You mentioned there are other whip collectors in London. Who are they?"

"Well." Charlie blew out a breath. "There are six others, including me. The other five are Crookshank, Quisley, Ellerton, Napier, and Hoskings."

"And you each have a collection?"

"Yes, although mine, Quisley's, and Napier's are the best known." Charlie frowned. "I knew Sedbury was a collector because he would occasionally outbid one of us when a notable whip was auctioned, but I've never heard anyone describe his collection." He tipped his head, considering. "In fact, I couldn't tell you how extensive Sedbury's collection is. It might be quite sizeable."

Stokes grunted. He looked over his earlier notes, then said, "The way you spoke of the whip Sedbury was carrying in Long Acre, it sounded as if it was a specific whip. You called it ‘his whip' as if it was a particular one." He raised his gaze to Charlie's face. "Was it?"

Charlie nodded emphatically. "He had a favorite whip—a particular type of horse whip known as a Duckleberry Longe—that he carried most frequently. That was the whip he had in Long Acre."

"I see." Stokes added the name to his jottings.

Penelope fixed her gaze on him. "You must know more about how Sedbury—his body—was found."

That wasn't a question. Stokes faintly smiled. "All I've heard thus far is that two boatmen pulled the body from the river about noon on Sunday and ferried it to the River Police. They found a card case in his jacket pocket and made out enough to guess his identity and notify the Yard. The commissioner dumped the investigation in my lap first thing this morning, and that sent me to White's and, subsequently, to Hastings's door. When I went back to get permission to call you in, there was a note from the sergeant at the River Police office, saying that the postmortem will be carried out sometime today, and they'll send word so I can speak with the examiner. The only other tidbit the sergeant imparted was that when the examiner came in, he glanced at the body and declared that Sedbury had been strangled and, either dead or unconscious, was then tipped into the river. They'll have more details when I get there later."

Barnaby pulled a face. "That's really not a lot of information regarding the actual killing."

"It isn't," Stokes agreed. "We'll have to wait for the postmortem and hope the examiner can tell us more."

"All right," Barnaby said. "So what do we actually know to this point?" He glanced at Charlie. "Sedbury was known to be an aggressive, belligerent, pugilistically inclined brawler. He was larger and significantly heavier and stronger than most gentlemen and was widely known as a bully of the worst sort."

Barnaby transferred his gaze to Stokes. "I have to say that, all things considered, it's really not credible to assert that Charlie strangled Sedbury, then heaved the body into the river."

Penelope put in, "Certainly not without sustaining some degree of damage himself, of which there appears to be precisely none."

Stokes and Barnaby obediently looked at Charlie, who stared innocently back, his face and hands entirely free of marks, scrapes, cuts, or bruises.

"Right," Stokes said. "I believe we can all agree that Hastings does not fit the bill for our murderer." Stokes flashed them all a sardonic smile. "I confess that I wasn't enthralled by the notion of Hastings as murderer, but given the situation as it currently stands, that only underscores the urgent need to find the real murderer."

Barnaby blinked as the situation—the one Stokes had already seen—blossomed in his mind. "Ah. Yes. I hadn't thought that far ahead."

For a moment, Penelope regarded him in mystification, then understanding lit her features. "Oh, good heavens! Yes, of course."

Proving that he was not as slow-witted as he sometimes appeared, Charlie somewhat waspishly retorted, "While I'm delighted at no longer being the prime suspect, we all know what the ton is like, and with Stokes having already interviewed various staff at White's, some version of my altercation with Sedbury immediately before his death will already be doing the rounds, and ton gossip being what it is, my name and reputation will be mud—besmirched beyond repair—unless the real murderer is laid by the heels, and quickly, too!"

Penelope grimaced. "Unfortunately, you are one hundred percent correct. Just the weight of mere suspicion will be a cloud over your name."

Barnaby glanced around the circle. "I believe we're all on the same page. We need to find Sedbury's murderer with all speed."

"And then there's the complication of Sedbury's family." Penelope looked at Stokes. "Has the next of kin been informed?"

Stokes stirred. "The commissioner has taken on that task. However, he didn't mention who the next of kin actually was." He looked inquiringly at the others.

Barnaby replied, "That would be Sedbury's father, the Marquess of Rattenby."

Stokes groaned. "I knew he was a viscount, but a marquess's heir?"

Penelope tried not to smile. "Late heir."

Stokes grumbled, "So I can expect a visit from the marquess, breathing fire and demanding an immediate arrest, at any moment."

Penelope tipped her head. "Actually, you'll most likely be spared such a meeting for at least a few days. If I'm remembering correctly, Rattenby prefers to remain in the country at his principal seat in Gloucestershire. I know that he and the marchioness are not in London at present."

Stokes reached for his notebook. "What do you know of the family?"

"Well, I know the marquess and his current marchioness have five children. The eldest is a daughter, Claudia, who must be about twenty-eight by now." Penelope frowned slightly. "She's of similar age to me. It's odd that she hasn't married, yet I'm sure she hasn't. Next in line is a son, Jonathon, who must be twenty-six or so, followed by another son, Bryan, who I think is about twenty-two, and a daughter, Margot, who is eighteen and due to make her come-out next year, and last, another son, Conrad, who must be just fifteen."

Still frowning, Penelope shook her head. "I must admit that with the marquess and marchioness rarely being in town, I'm not as up to date with the latest regarding their family as I would like to be."

Charlie gently scoffed, "You still know more than the rest of us combined."

"Regardless," Barnaby said, addressing Stokes, who was busy scribbling, "you won't have Rattenby breathing down your neck just yet."

Stokes grunted. "A small mercy, but I'll take it."

"Actually…" Penelope caught Stokes's eye and lightly grimaced. "There's a paternal aunt, Lady Selborough, who lives in town, and her husband is quite influential politically, and I believe Sedbury's older three half siblings—Claudia, Jonathon, and Bryan—are also currently in town. I'm not sure how close any of them were to Sedbury, much less how they'll react to the news of his death."

Stokes softly groaned and wrote some more.

Penelope frowned more definitely. "It's annoying that I know so little about the Hales—that's the marquess's family name—but I will rectify that situation as soon as possible. Meanwhile, to confirm, Lord Jonathon Hale, being Sedbury's oldest half brother, is the next in line to the marquessate and, therefore, is now Rattenby's heir."

Stokes looked up from his notes. "Well, that's something—someone I'll need to check on." He closed his notebook and tucked it away. "And while it's a minor relief to know that I won't immediately be hauled before the marquess to face demands for definitive and conclusive answers, given those involved, the commissioner himself will be demanding answers all too soon. Members of the nobility being murdered tends to make everyone in the force extra nervous."

His expression sympathetic, Barnaby suggested, "We should plan what next we need to do." He glanced at the others. "We know what facts we have thus far. Working from those, what do we most urgently need to learn?"

They cogitated for a moment, then Charlie offered, "Stokes said that Sedbury walking out of White's was the last time he was seen alive, but someone must have seen him after that." Charlie looked around the circle. "Sedbury walked out onto St. James Street at a quarter to midnight or thereabouts on a Saturday night. Quite aside from members of the ton, there would have been jarveys and street lads about, and one thing you have to say of Sedbury, he cut a figure that was hard to miss. Someone had to have seen him."

Stokes slowly nodded. "You're right. And yes, we should follow that up and see what we can find."

"By the same token," Penelope said, "we should seek witnesses who saw Charlie leave White's and walk home to Jermyn Street."

Barnaby nodded. "And check with Garvey for the time Charlie arrived home."

Charlie looked happier.

"And top of my list," Stokes said, "is finding anyone who witnessed a meeting between Sedbury and someone else on one of the bridges later that night. Jarvey, boatman, passerby—someone must have seen him or heard an argument or fight."

Barnaby said, "Given the victim was Sedbury, who loved to brawl, then any fight that resulted in him being overcome and tipped off a bridge had to have been noticeable." He paused, then added, "Sedbury wasn't the sort of man who would have been taken unawares."

Stokes humphed. "We'll see what the postmortem tells us. Perhaps someone slipped a knife between his ribs, but from what you and the coroner have already said, that seems unlikely."

"In essence," Penelope said, "we need to gather all the information we can on Sedbury's last hours. He left White's at a little before midnight—where did he go next?"

Stokes nodded. "That's our most obvious avenue to pursue."

"And while you and Barnaby and Charlie are looking into that," Penelope said, "I'll see what I can learn about the Hale family members currently in town."

The sound of the doorbell reached them, and they paused expectantly.

Moments later, Mostyn appeared and announced, "Sergeant O'Donnell has arrived, Inspector. He says you've been summoned to the morgue of the River Police. Apparently, the medical examiner has completed his task and says there's information you need to hear."

"Well!" Stokes uncrossed his legs and rose. "That sounds promising." He glanced at the others. "I'll return here with whatever insights the examiner has to share?—"

"And while you're gone," Barnaby said, "we'll put our heads together and work out how to learn all we need to know."

Stokes grinned, saluted the company, and strode for the door.