Chapter 11

Harry looked pointedly at the clock upon my arrival at his office. "I thought you'd banished me for good this time and decided to continue the investigation without me." He sounded annoyed and I realized he'd been wondering when I would return. I was only supposed to be gone for lunch, but it was now almost six o'clock.

"I'm surprised you're still here this late. Were you waiting for me?"

"I had work to do." Going by the way he avoided looking at me, I suspected I was right and he was feigning indifference.

"We went to the zoo after the picnic, then I made two stops before coming here. Your presence at those stops wasn't essential. I'm sorry your self-esteem is bruised, but in all honesty, it could do with a little deflating, anyway."

To my surprise, he grinned.

I frowned. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"Because you wouldn't speak to me with such brutal honesty if you didn't feel comfortable enough to do so. I like this change in you."

Somehow, he'd managed to turn my attempts to tease him to his advantage. He was supposed to blush, and yet I was the one trying to hide my reddening cheeks by tugging on my hat brim.

"Where did you stop after the zoo?" he asked. He still sounded amused, drat him.

I cleared my throat. "On the journey home, I sat with Cobbit and had an epiphany."

"That sounds profound. Does it have anything to do with that?" He indicated the framed photograph under my arm.

I clasped it between both hands and turned it to show him. "Cobbit helped me realize the police missed interviewing some important witnesses twenty-two years ago."

"Cobbit did?" He frowned as he followed the thread I'd laid until he realized the mistake we'd made. "We didn't consider the coaching staff."

"I returned to the Whitchurches' house to find out if any of them still worked there. None did, but the housekeeper showed me this. It's from 1877 and shows all the staff working in the London residence during one of the visits from Lord and Lady Whitchurch."

He studied it and shrugged. "Am I supposed to recognize one of them?"

"Turn it around and read the names."

He read them aloud, stopping when he reached the end. "Harding? It's similar to Hardy, I grant you, but it's not a very good alias if he's trying to disappear."

"It is Hardy. I showed this to Mrs. Turner and she recognized him."

Harry sat back and studied the groom in the photograph. "So Hardy isn't Rupert."

"No. But perhaps he helped Rupert escape the night of Charlotte's murder. By all accounts, Rupert was quite drunk. He may have needed assistance. Who better to help him escape than a groom, someone he knows better than most of the other staff because they've bonded over their love of horses, someone he can trust?"

"Someone with access to a horse and vehicle," Harry added. "The question now is, who killed Hardy twenty-two years later? My money's still on Arthur. He recognized Hardy—Harding—at dinner and realized he probably helped his brother escape years ago because Harding also went missing that night. Arthur confronted him at the pub, but Hardy refused to tell him where to find Rupert, so Arthur killed him."

"Then he'd never find Rupert. And he can't have accidentally killed him in anger because if he was murdered it was with poison."

"There is still the possibility that Hardy's death is just a coincidence and he died of natural causes."

"Hmmm." I didn't like coincidences, but he was right. We had no proof that Hardy was poisoned. "There is a new suspect now. One we hadn't considered, because we thought Hardy and Rupert were one and the same."

"Rupert?"

I nodded. "Perhaps he returned to London after sending that last letter to his mother from America, learned that Hardy was also here and living under an assumed name, and decided to get rid of him because he knew what happened the night Charlotte died. Rupert may have been worried that Hardy would come forward and testify that he'd helped Rupert leave."

Harry wasn't convinced. "It doesn't seem a strong enough motive for murder. Hardy has had years to go to the police but hasn't. There's no reason to suggest he was going to speak up now."

"So you still think Arthur is the most likely suspect in Hardy's murder?"

"Or the dowager."

"The dowager? She's an old lady!"

"She's capable of poisoning someone. In fact, poison is probably the only weapon at her disposal. It doesn't require strength or agility, it simply requires cunning and ruthlessness. You've met her. Do you think she possesses those traits?"

"In spades," I conceded. Indeed, there was something I hadn't told him about the dowager yet, which might prove his theory. "The Whitchurches' footman mentioned an argument he overheard between Arthur and his mother on the same afternoon Arthur was seen arguing with Hardy in the Coach and Horses. The only words the footman caught were Arthur telling her to ‘Say something.'"

Harry rubbed his jaw. "Interesting. We should confront them both and see what shakes out."

I strode to the door and removed his jacket from the stand. "Come on then."

"Now?" Harry looked at the clock again as he rose. "Don't you have a dinner party or ball to prepare for?"

"A dinner. There's plenty of time. I don't need hours to get ready."

"When does it start?"

I waved off the question. "Don't worry about my affairs, Harry." I went to open the door, but he pushed his hand against it at my head height, keeping it closed and blocking my exit.

"I will worry about your affairs when they affect me."

"How does it affect you? No one will blame you if I'm late. No one even knows I'm with you."

"It affects me because your uncle might blame your tardiness on the investigation." He lowered his hand to the door handle. The move brought him closer, so that we were mere inches apart. "He'll see the investigation as an interference, and he could forbid you from continuing. Then I won't be able to see you anymore." His voice purred deep in his chest.

I found my gaze dropping there. I wanted to place my hand on his shirt to feel his voice rumble, to slip my fingers between his buttons and touch his warm skin…

Harry drew in a sharp breath and jerked the door open. The spell broke, but it seemed to have rattled him as much as it rattled me. "My apologies. That was…" He shook his head, unable to find the right words.

"Overtly masculine?"

He gave me a cool gaze as he put on his jacket. "You know the risks as well as I do. If you want to investigate and potentially be late for the dinner and anger Sir Ronald, that's up to you."

"Thank you."

"Besides, he can try, but he can't stop me from seeing you."

I stared at him until he flashed me a smile, then I ducked my head and rushed past him to the landing. I suspected he wanted me to ask him how he would defy my uncle and still manage to see me, but I wouldn't fall for that trap. Some things are best left unsaid, particularly between Harry and me.

* * *

The footmanwho'd told me about the argument between Lord Whitchurch and his mother opened the door for us. His face fell when he saw me. "They won't want to talk to you, miss."

"Please inform his lordship that I have new evidence that the police will be interested in hearing."

He allowed us to wait in the entrance hall while he spoke to his employer. A few minutes later, he returned. "Lord and Lady Whitchurch will receive you in the drawing room. Follow me."

Lady Whitchurch sat on the sofa, her schooled features giving nothing away. The hands clasped tightly in her lap told a different story. She was anxious.

Her husband didn't bother to pretend disinterest, but his focus was on Harry, not me. At first, I thought it was because he still assumed Harry was the detective and I his assistant, but then I noticed the stance. Feet apart, shoulders back, jaw jutted forward. Challenging. He was still smarting from the scolding Harry gave him outside White's.

Then, like now, he was far from the calm man everyone claimed him to be. It seemed we'd brought out the worst in him.

"Thank you for seeing us," I said.

"I hope this won't take long," Lady Whitchurch said in her soft, ethereal voice. "I have to dress for dinner."

Lord Whitchurch rocked back on his heels. "If your evidence is the same as what you presented to me outside White's then you're wasting your time. I told you then, the witness is lying. I didn't meet that butler in a pub. I don't frequent pubs at all, Miss Fox."

Although I expected another denial, I began with that incident anyway. "You were overheard arguing with the dowager on the same day you were seen at the Coach and Horses."

He made some spluttering, blustery noises before finally denying it again. "This is outrageous." He was about to pull on the cord to summon the butler, but Harry told him there was more.

"You might not want the servants to hear everything Miss Fox has to say."

Lord Whitchurch paused before lowering his hand, clasping both behind him. "I argued with my mother. What of it?"

"You never argue with her," I said. "You always capitulate to her."

"Not always."

Lady Whitchurch looked down at her hands.

"You told your mother to ‘say something,'" I went on. "Were you referring to her speaking up about the murder?"

"The butler's death has nothing to do with any of us!"

"I was talking about Charlotte's murder."

He swallowed heavily. "Is that all the new so-called evidence you have, Miss Fox?"

"You both lied when you said you didn't recognize the Campbells' butler at dinner."

The accusation resulted in more noises of protest. "How dare you call us liars!"

I showed him the photograph that I carried under my arm. I pointed to Harding, the groom. "These servants worked here in 1877, a year before Charlotte's murder. This photograph sits on the wall in the staff parlor along with several others taken over the years, right outside in the courtyard here. I showed it to the Campbells' staff, and they recognized Mr. Hardy."

Lady Whitchurch nibbled on her bottom lip as she looked to her husband.

Lord Whitchurch drew in a deep breath. "That doesn't mean we recognized him. This fellow is clean-shaven, but the Campbells' butler had a beard."

"Your denials do you no favors," Harry said.

Lord Whitchurch's nostrils flared.

"He's right, Arthur," Lady Whitchurch murmured. "Tell them the truth."

Her husband studied the carpet at his feet for a moment, before meeting my gaze. "Yes, we recognized the butler. We hadn't seen him in years. I was curious as to why he changed his profession from groom to butler so I learned where he liked to drink and found him there. There's nothing more to it than that."

His wife's eyes fluttered closed and her fingers wrung together in her lap.

"It seems you don't want to tell us the entire truth," I said, "so I'll tell you what we suspect happened. The groom you knew as Harding helped your brother escape on the night Charlotte was murdered." I waited for his lordship to interject, but he didn't say a word. I suspected he was conceding that he couldn't win. "Harding also disappeared that night, something which you not only knew, but suspected why. When you saw him again after all this time, you worried that he'd tell the police what he knew, so you killed him."

"That's a lie! I never touched the fellow. Why would I? The police already assume Rupert murdered the girl, so it wouldn't matter if Harding went to them now with his story. What does killing him achieve?"

"It stops him from revealing where Rupert is hiding. Or perhaps his story differs from the official version."

Lady Whitchurch blinked at me. "What do you mean?"

"She means that someone else killed the maid, not Rupert," Lord Whitchurch said. "Which is absurd." Lady Whitchurch went very still. "I think she's trying to blame me for the murder. Am I right, Miss Fox?"

"Are you to blame?"

Lord Whitchurch snorted. "I knew you had nothing."

"You told us you were with your brother's fiancée—"

"Don't call her that," he spat.

Lady Whitchurch pressed her fingers to her trembling lips.

"You claimed you were with her until midnight," I went on. "But one of the maids saw you just before dawn and you were still fully clothed."

"She's lying," he growled.

"I put it to you that it wasn't Rupert who murdered Charlotte. He was too drunk. In fact, he was so drunk that he couldn't remember what happened and believed you when you accused him. That's why he fled and hasn't returned—he thinks he murdered her. But Harding, the groom, knew the truth. Perhaps he noticed the lack of blood on Rupert's clothes when he helped him flee. I don't know, and nor do I know whether it was you or your father who really killed Charlotte, but I am almost certain you killed Hardy to keep him quiet."

"Almost certain?" He barked a humorless laugh. "Harding could have gone to the police a long time ago or extorted money from us if he so wished. I had no reason to murder him after all this time, did I?"

"Perhaps he has been blackmailing you, but you couldn't find him before you saw him that night at the Campbells'. Perhaps you left him the money in secret and he has been hiding from you because he feared what would happen if you confronted him."

"There are too many guesses in your theory, Miss Fox. The police will laugh you out of Scotland Yard if you take your so-called evidence to them."

Lady Whitchurch suddenly came to life. "Arthur was with me all night on the night of Charlotte's murder." Husband and wife looked at one another and something passed between them. Lord Whitchurch gave a slight nod, barely perceptible, and she continued. "He didn't want to tell you because of the scandal, but he didn't leave at midnight like he says. He was with me until a little before dawn. That's why the maid saw him in his clothes."

Both looked at me, triumphant.

I shook my head. "It's noble of you, Lady Whitchurch, but I'm afraid I don't believe you. If he'd been with you all night, why say he left earlier when your version gives him an alibi?"

In fact, it gave them both an alibi. Now that was an intriguing notion…

"What did you think of Rupert?" I asked her.

"Me?" She glanced at her husband.

"What does it matter?" he barked. "This is nothing to do with my wife."

"I beg to differ. She just lied, attempting to give herself an alibi for the time of the murder."

Lord Whitchurch tugged on the bellpull to summon the butler. "You've said enough. Leave or I'll telephone the police."

Lady Whitchurch shook her head. "It's all right, Arthur. I want to answer her." She leveled her gaze with mine. "I hated Rupert. He was cruel to me. Oh, he was charming and a great deal of fun to others, particularly when he was drunk, but to me, he was awful. He called me all sorts of names. I was dull, you see, and he wanted to marry a spirited woman, someone to match his liveliness. His parents insisted he wed me, however, and my parents liked the idea, too. But the more time we spent together, the more miserable I became. Arthur noticed." She put out her hand and her husband took it. "He tried to cheer me up while also telling his brother to be kinder. It didn't work. All it did was bring Arthur and me closer. There you have it, Miss Fox. I loathed Rupert. I certainly wasn't jealous of Charlotte. I didn't even know they were having a liaison until after her murder. I had no reason to kill her."

"But you had every reason to blame Rupert."

"Because he killed her!"

I looked at Lord Whitchurch.

He glared back, thunderous. "My wife is innocent. We all are. Rupert murdered that poor girl, I know it."

"How?" I asked.

"I just do."

"What did Hardy say to you when you confronted him at the pub?"

"We never—" He cut himself off and pressed his lips together. Then he nodded quickly. "He told me Rupert did it."

I didn't believe him. There was more. There must be. "Who are you covering for, my lord? Why did you pay Hardy to keep quiet?"

The butler opened the door then and Lord Whitchurch instructed him to see us off the premises. There was no point continuing with the questions. He'd only deny it until his last breath. But that didn't mean I was giving up.

His lordship followed us onto the landing. "You have no proof of anything, Miss Fox, and certainly no proof that I paid Harding, or Hardy, money in exchange for his silence."

"Not money, no. But I do have proof you paid him. I'll fetch it and show it to you." I handed the butler the framed photograph. "Please return this to its position downstairs."

Outside, I strode away from the house, the blood coursing through my veins like a torrent. The confrontation had stoked the fire within me, and I was determined to prove I was right. I might have overreached, however.

"We don't have enough evidence," I told Harry, keeping pace alongside me with his long, easy strides. "The tiepin and watch are not definitive proof. We need more. It is a start, though, I suppose."

When Harry didn't respond immediately, I glanced up at him, questioning. I wanted his opinion.

He had an opinion, just not about the investigation. "You can't go to the Campbells now, then return to the Whitchurches. It'll take too long."

"They don't live far apart."

"You have to go home and dress for dinner."

"Not now that we've built this momentum."

"It can wait until tomorrow."

"No."

Harry caught my elbow. "I'm not joking anymore, Cleo. Go home and prepare for the dinner. It's important."

"This case is important."

"It can wait."

I jerked free. "Don't worry about Uncle Ronald. I know how to manage him."

"Do you?"

I stopped and rounded on him. "He went from forbidding me from investigating and seeing you, to allowing me to see you while I investigate, so yes, I think I do." Some of the worry in his eyes faded, but vestiges still smoldered. Seeing it dampened my ire. I couldn't stay angry when his demands were the result of genuine concern. I clasped his arm. "There's no need to worry, Harry. I can manage him. Now come on. We're getting very close to a confession."

He gave in with a sigh.

* * *

The basement servicerooms of the Campbells' household were busy, but Mrs. Turner was willing to spare a few minutes since she wasn't required to assist with dinner or setting the dining room table.

"It smells delicious," Harry said as we passed the kitchen.

The young assistant giggled, and the cook thanked him before gently scolding the girl and ordering her to continue stirring the pot on the stove.

We waited in the empty parlor while Mrs. Turner went to fetch the tiepin and watch. From there, we could hear the cook giving her assistant instructions. During a lull, the assistant poked her head through the doorway. She smiled shyly at Harry.

"Hello," he said, smiling back. "What's your name?"

"Birdy."

"That's a pretty name."

She emerged from behind the doorframe, her hands buried in her apron pocket. "I know a secret."

"Birdy!" Mrs. Cook marched over, waving a wooden spoon. "Stop bothering these nice folk and get back to work before the sauce goes lumpy." She clicked her tongue as she watched the girl return to the stove. "Don't mind her. She's simple."

Davey rushed in and stopped short upon seeing us. "You again, Miss Fox? Can't stay away, eh?"

"I'm just collecting something," I said. "You look flushed."

"I'm looking for Betty. She hasn't set the table. Have you seen her?"

Mrs. Turner bustled up, having heard him. "She's not upstairs?"

Davey shook his head.

The housekeeper muttered something under her breath. "I'll go look for her." She handed me the tiepin and watch. "Keep them safe, Miss Fox. I still hope the next of kin will come out of the woodwork. Now." She sighed. "I'll check Betty's room. That girl will be the death of me."

As we headed into the corridor and made our way to the front door while Davey and Mrs. Turner went in the opposite direction, Betty came down the service stairs. She looked exhausted, her youthful vigor erased by dark smudges under red-rimmed eyes.

Mrs. Turner planted her hands on her hips. "And where have you been? The table needs setting. Go and do it, then come and see me in my office. It's time for a chat about your attitude."

Betty burst into tears.

Harry and I left before we heard Mrs. Turner's reaction.

"I'm glad I never had to enter service," I said as we walked back to the Whitchurches' house. It was high summer, so the sun hadn't yet set, but the shadows were long. It was growing late, and I worried Harry would once again urge me to abandon the mission and return to the hotel.

Fortunately, he seemed to have stopped beating that drum. "You would have been a terrible maid."

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't like being told what to do." It would seem he hadn't stopped beating it, after all.

"I don't mind if there's a valid reason and the person ordering me about isn't worrying over nothing."

"Nothing!" He huffed a humorless laugh and shook his head. Thankfully, he didn't say another word until we reached the Whitchurches' house.

While we didn't quite have to muscle our way inside, the footman was very reluctant to let us in. He called the butler and the butler threatened to telephone the police.

I told him to go right ahead. "They'll be very interested in what we have to say."

The butler's lips thinned before he agreed to show us through to the drawing room.

"We'd rather wait in the dining room," I said.

He baulked. "Why?"

I strode past him and headed up the stairs. "Please inform Lord and Lady Whitchurch that we're waiting for them."

Harry and I were both studying the portrait of the late Lord Whitchurch and the dowager hanging above the fireplace when the current Lord and Lady Whitchurch entered. It was clear that his anger hadn't dissipated in our absence. He opened his mouth and looked like he would blast us for wasting his time, so I cut him off before he could begin.

"Please don't bother asking us what the meaning of this is or telling us we're barking up the wrong tree then ordering us out." I removed the tiepin and watch from my bag. I opened my palm to display them.

Lady Whitchurch looked at the pieces. "I don't understand."

It was Lord Whitchurch's reaction that interested me more. His gaze lifted to the portrait. His wife's followed it. She gasped and clutched her throat.

"Where did you get that?" Lord Whitchurch demanded.

"These were in Mr. Hardy's possession." I turned to look at the portrait of the previous Lord Whitchurch wearing the same tiepin. "It's a distinctive piece. There can be no doubt it belonged to your father."

"This is your proof that Hardy was blackmailing me, Miss Fox?"

I arched my brows. "How else did these get into his possession?"

"He stole them." He went to take the tiepin off me, but I closed my hand into a fist and tucked both items back into my bag.

"Unlikely."

He scoffed. "It's time you left. This is over. You have nothing, Miss Fox."

"I have enough to interest Scotland Yard, my lord."

He looked uncertain whether to believe me or not. Or perhaps he was weighing up if he had enough influence to stop the Yard paying renewed attention to the case.

I pressed home my advantage. "Who are you protecting, my lord? Yourself? Your wife?"

"My wife is innocent! She was as much a victim of Rupert as Charlotte was."

Lady Whitchurch pressed a handkerchief to her chin, but it continued to tremble. "Stop it," she whispered.

Her husband didn't hear her and barreled on. "You need to leave, Miss Fox. NOW!"

His wife jumped with fright.

Lord Whitchurch finally took notice of her. "Sit down, my dear." He drew out a dining chair and gently steered her to it. "You've upset my wife, Miss Fox. You need to leave before you make it worse."

"No, Arthur," Lady Whitchurch said. "It's time for this to end. Stop protecting her. She doesn't deserve your loyalty."

"My dear, you don't know what you're saying."

"I do. I know this is her fault. Isn't that what the Campbells' butler told you? I know she's not innocent. She's a mean, horrid woman, and I hate her for how she treats us. How she treats you."

"That's just her way."

"She still prefers Rupert over you, even after all this time and what he did. You'll never be good enough in her eyes."

He opened his mouth to protest, but a thin voice from the doorway stopped him.

"It is true." The dowager looked feeble standing there, leaning heavily on her walking stick, her stooped back making her look even smaller. But there was nothing feeble in the way she addressed me. It was blunt and bold. "You want to know what happened, Miss Fox? Then I will tell you."