Chapter 10

Iwanted to speak to Lord Whitchurch without his domineering mother ordering us out of the house, so we decided to wait for him to leave. After thirty minutes, Harry gave up and went to fetch a boy to deliver a message while I wrote it on a page of my notebook. If his lordship was inside, hopefully it would flush him out.

When Harry returned with a lad in tow, I tore out the page and handed it to him. We watched him head up the steps to the front door and hand the note to the butler.

"What did it say?" Harry asked as the butler closed the door.

"‘I know what you did,'" I said. "‘Meet me at your club.' I left it unsigned. Arthur's imagination can fill in the name."

"Do you know which club he frequents?"

"No, but we'll soon find out."

"I'd better arrange a cab." Harry paid the lad, then set off to find a hansom.

Just as it pulled up a few minutes later, so did the Whitchurches' private carriage. Lord Whitchurch climbed in and the carriage set off at a brisk pace. I had to scramble into the cab quickly or we'd risk losing our quarry.

We followed the carriage to St. James's Street where it stopped outside White's. Lord Whitchurch alighted and looked around. Spotting us stepping out of the cab, he charged toward us, nostrils flared.

"Did you send me that message?" he demanded. At that moment, he looked like his mother. It was easy to imagine him being angry enough to kill.

Harry moved forward and a little in front of me. "Calm yourself, sir. We just wanted a brief conversation away from your family."

"Why?"

"Because what we have to say is delicate. You may not want to be overheard."

Lord Whitchurch glanced at the doorman standing on the porch of White's, pretending not to notice us. Lord Whitchurch signaled for us to move even further away.

"Go on then," he snapped. "Say your piece." He spoke to Harry.

Harry looked at me.

I cleared my throat. "Sir, you told us that you didn't recognize Mr. Hardy."

"Who?"

"The Campbells' butler. But you did recognize him, didn't you? He was altered since the last time you saw him twenty-two years ago. He was older and he'd grown a beard, but he was still very familiar to you."

Lord Whitchurch stilled.

"He was your brother, Rupert, wasn't he?"

Lord Whitchurch's eyes widened. Then he grunted a laugh. "What a ridiculous accusation."

I couldn't tell if he was lying or not, so I pushed on. "You were seen arguing with him at the Coach and Horses on Hill Street."

"By whom? A few drunks, I imagine. You can't trust drunkards, Miss Fox."

"You also argued with Mr. Hardy in the courtyard of the Campbells' residence."

"I did no such thing." He peered down his nose at me. "If you represent the quality of female detectives, it's no wonder the men get all the better cases."

Harry stepped even closer, forcing Lord Whitchurch's gaze to shift upwards. "Insult her again and I will have to force you to apologize."

Lord Whitchurch swallowed. "This entire conversation is absurd. Good day."

Drat. If I didn't say something to make him stay, we'd lose the best, and perhaps only, opportunity to question him alone. "You lied about being in your room on the night of Charlotte's murder."

He rounded on me. "I beg your pardon?"

"You lied to the police. You weren't in your room when the murder occurred."

He stretched out his neck and pursed his lips in a show of bravado that I didn't believe. "All right, I confess. I was out of the house for a few hours before midnight, visiting…a friend. I went nowhere near the kitchen when I came home, however, and learned about the murder along with everyone else in the morning."

"Then why lie?"

"To protect my friend's reputation."

"Was it a woman?" Harry asked.

Lord Whitchurch's lips pursed again and I thought he'd refuse to answer. Then he finally gave a single nod. "I suppose it no longer matters since she became my wife. Yes, I was with her that evening until midnight. I snuck into her bedchamber after dark so no one can verify my story. Except her, of course. Ask her if you don't believe me."

"Wives don't make the best witnesses when their husbands are accused of lying," Harry said.

Lord Whitchurch's nostrils flared again, but he didn't challenge Harry. He must know he'd be a fool to do so. "She was engaged to Rupert at the time, but he'd been beastly to her earlier, so I went to comfort her. We were in love. We had been for some time and were working up the courage to tell our parents when the maid died and Rupert disappeared. The point is, I didn't tell the police because I was protecting her from scandal. I was in my room at the time of the murder. I didn't lie about that. Satisfied, Miss Fox?"

I answered him with another question. "If you left her at midnight and went straight home, why were you seen by one of the maids leaving your room fully clothed when the body was discovered just before dawn? It implies that you had just come in."

He slapped his hands together behind him. "I simply didn't change. What of it? More to the point, which maid saw me?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

He huffed. "Is it Virginia? The one who left service to get married? If so, she's lying, Miss Fox. The maids weren't allowed to wander onto the floor where the family's bedchambers are located during the night because of my brother's lecherous ways. The rule was there to protect them. If Virginia was outside our bedchambers, then she was either disobeying the rules for some nefarious reason of her own, or she lied to you about seeing me."

"Why would she lie?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said hotly. "But I do recall that she disliked the deceased maid. Virginia was a zealot, and her strict beliefs made her hateful toward anyone whose morals didn't live up to her own. She was always complaining to my mother about other members of staff that she considered unprincipled." He glanced again at the doorman on the porch of White's. "That's enough questions. Good day to you both."

He headed up the steps to his club, where the doorman greeted him and opened the door.

With a release of breath, I turned to Harry. "What do you think?"

"I think the doorman isn't a young man."

"That's unkind."

Harry took the steps two at a time and asked the doorman how long he'd worked there.

"Twenty-nine years, sir."

Harry put out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Harry Armitage and this is Miss Fox. We're detectives."

The doorman looked confused but shook Harry's hand anyway, then placed his own hand in his pocket. I suspected Harry had just passed him some money. "How may I help you, sir?"

"Have there ever been any rumors about the gentleman who just entered, Lord Whitchurch?"

"Rumors, sir?"

"Amongst the staff here. Rumors about him or his brother, and a maid who was murdered in their kitchen."

The doorman's brows shot up. "There are no rumors about the current Lord Whitchurch. He's a good man, pleasant to the staff. His brother was…not as well liked. He was rude and abrupt, like his father." The doorman glanced at the closed door, then leaned toward Harry. His voice was so quiet, I hardly heard it. "At first, we all thought he done the girl in."

"The late Lord Whitchurch?"

The doorman nodded. "He kept a room here at the club for when he came to London with his wife. Lady Whitchurch stayed at the house, but he loathed her, so he slept here. He brought his mistress here sometimes. Members are allowed to, as long as they're discreet. His lordship's mistress was the murdered maid."

"Charlotte?" I blurted out.

"I didn't know she was their maid until after she died. Nasty business, it was. Caused a real stir here, amongst the staff. Some wanted to tell the police that she was his lordship's mistress, but the manager at the time forbade it. He said her death was nothing to do with Lord Whitchurch. When it came out that the eldest son ran away on the night of the murder, well, it was clear he was guilty, not his father, so we all stopped worrying about going to the police."

The shocking revelation sent my mind reeling. Had the late Lord Whitchurch killed Charlotte out of jealousy when he learned his son was also having a liaison with her? Had he taken his jealousy out on Rupert, too, by banishing him? This new information, coupled with Mr. Gannon's statement that his lordship's jacket had blood on it made for compelling evidence.

The revelation threw up other suspects, however. If Rupert discovered his father's liaison with his mistress, he could have killed her out of jealously. Lady Whitchurch may have been angered, too. Or perhaps Charlotte had tried to blackmail her ladyship and the dowager refused to pay, preferring to silence her once and for all.

How did this new information tie in with Arthur's lie about where he was that night? Or did he have nothing to do with Charlotte's murder, and was only guilty of Hardy's—Rupert's—after accidentally coming across his brother all these years later? We could be looking for two separate murderers.

Harry's steadying hand on my lower back steered me down the steps. "I think this requires a large bowl of Luigi's pasta before we return to the Whitchurches' house," he said.

I tugged my watch out of my waistcoat pocket. "I can't. I have a picnic to attend in Regent's Park. Perhaps I can think of an excuse…"

"No. Absolutely not. You told Sir Ronald you'd attend every social engagement if he allows you to continue investigating and this is no exception. You don't want to give him a reason to change his mind."

I sighed. He was right, but it didn't make it any easier to pause our investigation now. We were on the cusp of another discovery, I was sure of it. All we needed to do was apply a little pressure on the family and hopefully one of them would crack. It wouldn't be the dowager, of that I was certain. And I wasn't entirely sure if Lady Whitchurch knew the answers we sought. We'd also already just confronted the current Lord Whitchurch, so he was unlikely to give us anything else just yet.

I was beginning to see why Harry had suggested lunch at Luigi's to discuss our next steps before charging off to the Whitchurches' house. His head was generally cooler than mine, and this time was no exception.

* * *

The picnic lasted a few hours,as picnics on pleasant afternoons tend to do. We would have been back at the hotel by four, giving me plenty of time to call on Harry to discuss the case, except that Flossy and her friends decided to go to the zoo since we were close by. Not only did they want to see every animal on display, but they wanted to stop for ice creams, too. None of my attempts to gently hurry them along worked. It only made Flossy suspicious.

When I suggested for the third time that it was getting late and we had a dinner party that evening to get ready for, she hooked her arm through mine and gave me one of her sly looks. "So, who is he?"

"Who is who?"

"The gentleman you want to look pretty for tonight. The dinner is hours away, yet you want to go home and get ready now. You never usually spend more than an hour to dress, so I assume he's very special indeed."

"Flossy, there is nothing in my preparations that couldn't be done in one hour. I'm simply concerned that Harmony needs to prepare us both, and I know how long you take."

We stopped at an intersection of paths behind her friends while an elephant carrying six children seated on the benches across its back, and another boy on its head, ambled past alongside the keeper.

"You have a point," she murmured. "The dinner doesn't begin until eight, but Harmony does take a long time to do my hair."

"She wants it to be perfect."

"And I do want a bath first."

I didn't have to say another word. She told her friends it was time to go. When I counted heads, I noticed we'd acquired another two somewhere. Flossy offered to drive them all home.

We found our carriage in the parking area with the Mayfair's symbol of an M inside a circle painted on the door. Cobbit sat on the coachman's seat with his arms crossed over his chest and his hat pulled low. A soft snore rose from beneath the hat brim.

Flossy woke him up and gave him instructions to drive each of the girls home before returning to the hotel. There were six of us now, too many to fit comfortably inside the cabin. I decided to sit beside Cobbit. Flossy and the girls made a show of telling me we'd all fit, but I declined.

"I'd rather the fresh air," I told them.

No one pointed out that the air in London was never fresh, and they piled inside the cabin.

I accepted Cobbit's hand and climbed up to his perch. "Did you have a pleasant afternoon?" I asked him as he flicked the reins.

"Pleasant enough, Miss Fox. You?"

"Yes and no." I didn't want to go into the mixed feelings I often felt when I went to the zoo. I was fascinated by all the exotic animals and the distant lands they came from, yet seeing them cooped up so far from home saddened me. "How is the mood in the stables and coach house nowadays?"

"Well enough, although I hear another of those bloody contraptions will be stabled with the horses next week when one of the country toffs comes to stay."

"An automobile?"

"Aye. Smelly, dirty machines."

I didn't point out that horses were smelly, too. Cobbit most likely wouldn't agree, and I didn't want to spend the journey listening to him extol the virtues of the animal while denigrating the machine.

"At least not all the toffs think the same," he went on. "Many still like the traditional ways and don't want to see horses retired along with us old coachmen. Some even sought me out to tell me they support my plight."

"It's good of them to go out of their way to reassure you."

"They came to talk to the horses, not me." His fingers adjusted their grip on the reins and the two horses responded, veering right. It never ceased to amaze me that such strong creatures reacted to such light touches. Carriage driving truly was an art form.

"Do you mean they actually talk to them?" I asked.

"Some. They like to feed ‘em, too, and groom ‘em. For gen'lemen who grew up on country estates, horses are in their blood, and when they come to the city, they want to connect with that part of themselves again. It's like a longing deep inside, I s'pose."

We picked up the pace as we traveled along Albany Street, and I held on to the brim of my hat to stop it flapping in the breeze. "You are quite the philosopher, Cobbit."

He chuckled. "I get a lot of time to think up here." A swiftly traveling hansom cab cut in front of us. Cobbit shouted at the other driver to be more careful then resumed his philosophizing without missing a beat. "I find that a man who's good with horses is a good man, overall. He treats the staff with respect, even friendship, sometimes. Well, the outdoor staff, that is. No one respects indoor staff much. Too soft, that's their problem. Not the maids, mind. They work harder than anyone, I reckon."

I tuned out his prattling for the rest of the journey. It had just occurred to me that the list of witnesses in my bag didn't include any of the Whitchurches' outdoor staff. For some reason, the police never questioned them after Charlotte's murder. They only spoke to the indoor staff. I'd also forgotten about the grooms and coachman, a fact I wasn't proud of. I knew Rupert liked horses. Mr. Gannon had even told me as much. It was very likely Rupert had spent a great deal of time in the stables on their country estate and got to know the grooms rather well. It was also likely that the coachman and at least one of the grooms had traveled to London with Lord and Lady Whitchurch.

Sir Ian and Lady Campbell had dismissed all their outdoor staff and sold off their equipage as a cost-cutting measure, but the Whitchurches still kept them. Hopefully, they were the same ones that had worked for the family twenty-two years ago and would be willing to talk. With some of the suspects now deceased, they might not be as afraid to come forward as they perhaps were then, and hopefully they would be willing to share any secrets they might have been keeping. A little bribery might help sway them.

I checked the contents of my purse, but wasn't sure if I had enough. I wished I'd asked Harry how much he'd paid the doorman at White's.

One of Flossy's friends lived close to the Whitchurches, so instead of traveling back to the hotel, I alighted with her and told Flossy I wanted to walk the rest of the way.

As with the last time, the staff were a little reluctant to speak to me at first, but after I explained that I simply wanted to ask questions about the Whitchurches' outdoor staff, the housekeeper invited me in. She directed me to the parlor where a maid and a footman sat with their mending, cups of tea close to hand. The kitchen staff didn't join us, but I could see them working.

"How can our grooms help with your investigation into the death of the Campbells' butler?" the housekeeper asked.

"We believe it all hinges on the butler's death being linked to the murder of Charlotte twenty-two years ago, right here in that very kitchen."

The footman and maid stopped their mending to glance toward the kitchen then at each other.

"Mind yourself, Miss Fox," the housekeeper warned. "I won't have you frightening everyone."

"There's nothing to be frightened of, I assure you. You see, Rupert liked horses and was most likely on good terms with the grooms. However, the police never interviewed them at the time of the murder. I'd like to rectify that and ask them some questions."

She glanced over my shoulder at something behind me. "You think one of them helped Master Rupert escape?"

I wanted to tell her the truth, but instead, I assured her they weren't under suspicion. She might not speak openly if she was worried about incriminating them. "They may have seen something, but not know it could be a clue."

Again, she glanced past my shoulder. "I'm afraid I only know where one of them is now." She addressed the footman while pointing at the wall. "Take down that photograph, the one dated 1877."

I'd been so intent on my mission that I'd not taken note of my surroundings. There were several framed photographs on the wall of the parlor, all showing staff lined up in what appeared to be a courtyard. The maids were dressed in their black uniforms with white aprons, while the footmen and butler wore formal attire, and the grooms wore clothes more suited for working in the stables. In the bottom right corner of each picture, someone had written the address of the townhouse with a date. The footman handed me the one dated 1877.

"A staff photograph was taken every five years when Lord and Lady Whitchurch came to the city," the housekeeper told me. "This one is the nearest to the date of the maid's murder, just one year prior." She pointed to the man wearing a top hat, a long coat, and knee-high boots. "The coachman died soon after I started working here." Her finger moved to the three young men all dressed in breeches, shirts, waistcoats, and flat caps. "This groom is also dead. Horse kicked him in the head. This one now works at a country manor in Kent as head groom. Young, his name is. I have his address somewhere. I don't know where the last fellow is now. I don't recognize him, so he must have left before I started. Turn it over. The names are written on the back."

I turned the photograph over and scanned the names. I recognized all the indoor staff from the list of witnesses, but one name at the very end made my heart flutter in my chest. It was the same one the housekeeper pointed to.

"Harding," she read. "It sounds like the name of the butler whose death you're investigating, Miss Fox."

It did indeed. Was it a coincidence?

I flipped the photograph back over and inspected the young man standing on the far right, looking directly at the camera without smiling, as the photographer would have instructed. Without knowing what the deceased butler looked like, I couldn't say whether they were one and the same. But others could.

"May I borrow this for a little while?"

"You may."

It was too large to fit into my bag, so I tucked it under my arm. "Thank you. This could be very helpful."

"I'll show you out."

The footman jumped up. "I'll do it."

He walked with me to the front door and even followed me outside to the steps. He closed the door behind him after glancing back inside. "I didn't want to say anything in there, but I have some information that might be relevant. The housekeeper is happy to help you with the Hardy murder, because she doesn't believe it's related to anyone here, but she draws the line when it comes to speaking ill of the Whitchurches."

"But you have no such qualms?"

"I don't know what to believe, but if I can help, then it's my moral duty to do so." He glanced at the closed door. "A week ago, the dowager and Lord Whitchurch argued."

"What about?"

"I don't know, but I did hear him tell her to ‘Say something.' He spoke loudly and sounded frustrated. The thing is, I've never heard them argue before. She rules the roost when she comes to London, and he always capitulates to keep the peace. She's a mean old crow. No one likes her, not even her son and daughter-in-law. It's why Lord and Lady Whitchurch live here in London and not with her on the estate."

"Can you be more precise about the day you heard them arguing?"

"It was Saturday afternoon."

Saturday was two days before Mr. Hardy's death. It was also the same day that the landlord of the Coach and Horses had seen Lord Whitchurch talking heatedly to Mr. Hardy.

I walked quickly to the Campbells' house a few streets away. The footman's information about the argument, as well as the photograph under my arm, had given me renewed enthusiasm. I had to be careful not to let my imagination run away with me, however. Even though my instincts were screaming at me, not wanting to be ignored, I reined in my excitement.

Until I spoke to Mrs. Turner. The Campbells' housekeeper pressed a hand to her chest and took a closer look at the photograph. Then she blinked tearily at me. "Good lord. That's him. That's Mr. Hardy. He's younger, of course, and without the beard, but it's definitely him."

I drew in a deep breath, smiled and thanked her. Once again I walked, my steps brisk, my mind focused, albeit not on my destination. I wasn't at all surprised to find myself entering Broadwick Street in Soho, however. It seemed natural to tell Harry about the development in my investigation. He'd want to know that Mr. Hardy had worked as a groom for the Whitchurches at the time of Charlotte's murder, meaning he wasn't Rupert, after all.

My theory was completely shattered. I didn't mind in the least, because instead of guesses and possibilities, I now knew for certain how Hardy was linked to the Whitchurches.