Chapter 12

Lord Whitchurch left his wife's side to assist his mother into the dining room. The dowager's pace was slow, her steps unsteady as she relied on her walking stick, yet she waved her son away.

"Stop fussing, Arthur. It's tiresome."

Lord Whitchurch self-consciously fidgeted with his cufflinks as he watched her settle on a chair. "I think it's best to say nothing to Miss Fox, Mother."

"Don't tell me what to say in my own house!"

Lady Whitchurch appealed to her husband, but when he remained silent, she dared to speak, albeit softly. "It's Arthur's house."

The dowager turned her icy glare on her daughter-in-law. "You do have a voice, I see. If only you'd found it twenty-two years ago, this would all have turned out differently."

Lady Whitchurch gasped, then lowered her head.

Lord Whitchurch stepped forward. "None of this is her fault."

"Isn't it?" his mother bit off. "If she'd been more interesting, Rupert's head would never have been turned by that foolish girl."

"Charlotte?" I said, more to cut off Lord and Lady's Whitchurch's gasps and protests than any uncertainty on my part.

The dowager's hand rubbed the top of her walking stick. She wore no gloves. They wouldn't have fit over her swollen knuckles and gnarled fingers. "Rupert had an abundance of energy. As a boy, he wanted to be outside riding, rowing, running…every athletic activity he tried, he excelled at. He was intelligent, too. He graduated from Oxford with first-class honors. He was handsome, and could be charming when he wanted to be. Naturally, girls adored him. He could have his pick." She sighed. "When a gentleman has so many virtues, he has a wider choice and it can be difficult for a young man to be discerning. So we chose a bride for him." Her gaze turned cool again as it shifted to her daughter-in-law.

Lady Whitchurch's head lowered further. She sniffed.

"Their marriage was set to take place in the autumn of '78, but it all began to unravel in the summer. Rupert wasn't interested in his fiancée. You can see how plain she is, Miss Fox."

"Mother," Lord Whitchurch chided as he gently patted his wife's shoulder.

The dowager ignored him. She continued to address Harry and me. "She was always better suited to Arthur. A plain, dull girl for a plain, dull man."

"Mother!" He did not go on. He didn't defend his wife or himself, or their love for one another. He didn't chastise his mother for her cruel words or throw accusations back at her. His half-hearted protest was that of a man who'd been made to feel inferior to his older brother for decades, even after his disappearance. In a way, it may have been better for Arthur if Rupert had stayed and inherited the title. In time, his excesses and arrogance would probably have led to his own ruination. Perhaps then their mother would have appreciated her steady younger son more.

She stamped her walking stick on the floor again, making Lady Whitchurch jump. "You see me as the dragon in this story, but everything I did, I did for the good of this family."

Lord and Lady Whitchurch both looked away, unable to meet the dowager's piercing, accusatory gaze. I suspected they knew what she was about to say next.

I also suspected I knew where they'd learned of her involvement. "Mr. Hardy told you the dowager was responsible for Charlotte's murder, didn't he, my lord?"

"I was not responsible," the dowager snapped. "You silly girl. You have it quite wrong."

I continued to press her son. "That's what you and Hardy talked about in the Coach and Horses, and again in the courtyard of the Campbells' house. He accused your mother, and you became cross and angry with him."

"First of all," Lord Whitchurch began, "I did not have an argument with Hardy in the courtyard. But you are correct about most of the rest, except that Mother didn't murder Charlotte."

The dowager gave me a challenging look, daring me to prove her guilty. I didn't rise to the challenge. I didn't have to. Lord Whitchurch seemed keen to talk. All I had to do was prompt him.

"You'd better start at the beginning. When you recognized Hardy at dinner."

"There's not a lot to tell. My wife and I recognized Harding, our former groom, and he recognized us. It was a shock. I knew he'd disappeared the night of Charlotte's murder, of course, and I suspected he had something to do with Rupert's disappearance, but then I forgot all about him until I saw him at dinner. At the end of the evening, I asked Sir Ian about him. He said they'd gotten him from an agency. He was inexpensive on account of his limp, and the Campbells are struggling financially. Hardy's references were all aboveboard. He used to work as a butler at some country manor or other and as a footman before that. Sir Ian didn't know he'd once worked for us. He didn't even know he'd been a groom. His references hadn't gone back that far."

"You told Sir Ian that you suspected Hardy had helped your brother escape," I said.

He nodded. "I wanted to speak to the butler, but privately, not at the house. Servants have ears. Sir Ian suggested I follow Hardy on his afternoon off, so I did. I followed him to the Coach and Horses, where I asked him what happened that night twenty-two years ago. He didn't want to say at first, but after I bribed him, he opened up."

He looked at his mother, a frail yet stoic figure, staring straight ahead as if she were sitting for her portrait. She gave nothing away, but she didn't interrupt his confession either.

Lord Whitchurch seemed to take heart from his mother's silence. He puffed out his chest and spoke in a louder voice. "Harding told me that Rupert did kill Charlotte. It was an accident, but he did it. He had blood all over his clothes and hands. Rupert told Harding later that she'd tried to blackmail him, and he'd grown angry with her. She was carrying his child, you see."

The childless Lady Whitchurch wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks with her handkerchief.

Lord Whitchurch patted her shoulder. "Rupert offered to support the child, but Charlotte wanted more. She wanted marriage."

"Stupid girl," the dowager spat. "She could have lived well on what we'd pay her. If she hadn't overreached…"

I bit my tongue. I wanted Arthur to keep talking, so urged him with a nod.

"Rupert became angry with her demands," he went on. "Knowing him, he wouldn't have liked being pushed into a corner. They argued. According to Harding, Rupert claimed Charlotte pushed him first. Rupert retaliated by grabbing the first thing at hand, the knife, and stabbed her with it." His gaze slid to his mother. "He always did have an uncontrollable temper. It only came out occasionally, and only when he was drunk. Few saw it, but when he unleashed it, he was like a wild animal."

"He was frightening," Lady Whitchurch whispered.

The dowager huffed. "His temper was only ever unleashed on those who pushed him too far."

I'd had enough of her blaming Charlotte, but Harry spoke before I could. "No matter how much she angered him, Charlotte didn't deserve to be murdered."

"He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing."

"That's not an excuse, particularly if he knew how violent drink made him. Something you both knew, as well as your husband."

The dowager rubbed her hand over the walking stick and continued to stare ahead.

Lord Whitchurch glanced at the portrait of his parents above the fireplace. "My father was nearby and overheard."

"Why was he in the vicinity of the kitchen?" I asked.

"What does it matter why?" the dowager snapped.

"Perhaps he got hungry during the night," Lord Whitchurch said.

"He was fully clothed," I said. It was speculation, but probably true given Mr. Gannon had seen blood on his jacket. "As if he was meeting someone there. He kept a room at White's, so must have made a special visit back to the house to meet someone. Was it Charlotte?"

Lady Whitchurch blinked at her husband. Her husband stared at his mother. Clearly, neither knew his father was also having an affair with the maid. The dowager knew, however. It was obvious from her lack of a denial.

A curious smile appeared on Lady Whitchurch's face. Her mother-in-law had cruelly told her she wasn't interesting or pretty enough for Rupert and blamed her for his affair. But now she knew the dowager had the same problem with her husband, and with the same mistress, too. I suspected Lady Whitchurch was storing the information away to use another time.

"My lord?" Harry prompted. "Harding told you that your father heard the argument."

"Uh, yes." His lordship cleared his throat. "He tried to save Charlotte, but it was too late. She bled out."

That explained the blood on the inside of his jacket. It had likely happened as Harry and I guessed; his lordship had thrown the jacket over her in an attempt to keep her warm as she bled to death.

"My father decided what was to be done next," Lord Whitchurch said. "He ordered Rupert to leave and never return. He knew how it would look, how the police would discover Charlotte was with child. There'd be a trial. It would be a scandal. But if Rupert couldn't be found, there'd be no trial and it would be easier to sweep Charlotte's death under the carpet, so to speak. My father had contacts in the House of Lords who had contacts in the highest ranks of the Metropolitan Police. Scotland Yard ended their investigation swiftly and made no real attempt to find Rupert."

That explained the incompetence of the lead detective. The outdoor staff weren't questioned, and any mention of the pregnancy, which would have been revealed in the autopsy, was suppressed.

"My father woke up Harding in the stables. He knew Rupert and Harding got along, and that Harding had no family. If he went missing, too, nobody would look for him. My father told Harding what happened and instructed him to take Rupert to Dover and put him on a boat at the earliest opportunity. Harding did, then he disappeared, too. He changed his name to Hardy and found work as a groom, but after getting kicked by a horse, he decided he no longer wanted to work in stables. He was a good mimic and had seen how the footmen spoke and behaved, how they worked. So he became a footman, then eventually a butler, but his limp held him back from working in the best houses. He moved to London a month ago and that's when the Campbells took him on. I didn't know any of this until I spoke to him at the Coach and Horses."

"Where were you on the night of Charlotte's murder?" I asked. "You weren't with your future wife, were you?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'd rather not say."

Lady Whitchurch covered his hand with her own. "It's all right, dearest. You have no reason to be ashamed." To us, she said, "He realized when he came to me that night that he…required a more thorough understanding of…relationships. He'd heard of a woman with a certain reputation. A widow who took young gentlemen under her wing and…educated them."

"You visited a whore?" the dowager cried. "Honestly, your brother would never have needed to stoop so low."

"She wasn't a whore," Lord Whitchurch growled. "She was a lady."

"Did you pay her?"

His cheeks flamed and he turned away.

His mother gave them both a look of satisfaction, having proved her point.

It lit a fire under her daughter-in-law, albeit a small one. "That's not all Harding told Arthur," she said defiantly. "When Arthur asked him if he knew where Rupert was now, Harding said to ask her." She nodded at the dowager.

"That's the argument your staff overheard," I said. "When you urged your mother to ‘say something,' you wanted her to go to the police and confess that you knew the whereabouts of Rupert."

The dowager adjusted her grip on the head of the walking stick. "Just because that man said I knew where Rupert was doesn't mean I did."

"You knew."

She looked at me sharply, then narrowed her gaze. "You say that with conviction, Miss Fox. Why?"

Harry must have been worried I'd admit to finding the letters during the supposed gas leak because he spoke before I could. "You had a good relationship with Rupert. He knew you'd worry, so Miss Fox is merely guessing that he wrote to you."

She stared at Harry then me for several moments before conceding. "He did write. He never returned to English soil, however. He died two months ago in America."

Rupert's last letter had a New York postmark, but it hadn't mentioned he was ill. He'd asked for money. Begged, in fact.

"How do you know he died?" I asked. "Did an acquaintance of his write to you?"

"Nothing like that. His last letter worried me. He needed money. He sounded desperate. I was afraid he was going to return to England and claim what was rightfully his."

"My title," Lord Whitchurch clarified.

"He'd face a murder charge," Harry pointed out.

Lord Whitchurch grunted. "Knowing Rupert, he'd think he could get away with it after all this time. He'd had years to make up a convincing story."

"A story that would lay the blame at my late husband's feet," the dowager said. "It's easy to blame a dead man."

Indeed.

"After I received his letter, I employed the Pinkerton Agency to find him so that I could write and attempt to convince him to remain in hiding. They did find Rupert, but he'd died a few days earlier. A drunken accident, apparently. He fell off a railway platform and was struck by a train."

"Do you have the agency's report?" I asked.

"I threw it away. It was…unpleasant. Final. I've kept Rupert's letters, however, if you'd like to read them." The dowager's gaze drilled into me. "Or is that unnecessary?"

I returned her gaze with a level one of my own. "So Rupert didn't return to London and kill Hardy?"

"No!" Lord Whitchurch snapped. "None of us killed him. What was the point? He'd stayed silent all this time and he promised me he would continue to stay silent."

"Why? Because you paid him with your father's tiepin and watch?"

He huffed out a breath. "First of all, the watch is neither mine nor my father's, nor Rupert's. Ours are engraved with our initials. Secondly, I hadn't seen that tiepin in years before you showed it to me. I can only assume my father was wearing it on the night of Charlotte's murder and he removed it on a whim to pay Harding to help Rupert get away." He looked to his mother.

She nodded. "I didn't notice the tiepin was missing for some time, but when I did, he confessed that he'd given it to Harding. He had to pay the groom something. He assumed Harding would exchange it for a ticket to the continent, but it seems he held on to it. He must have used his own savings instead, or perhaps Rupert had money in his pockets."

Lord Whitchurch squared up to Harry and me. "There you have it. The truth. None of us killed Charlotte or Harding. The police could charge my mother with being complicit in Rupert's disappearance and covering up the truth, but it's doubtful they'd arrest an elderly lady years after the event."

The butler appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Lord Whitchurch snapped.

"Your guests are arriving soon, my lord."

Lord Whitchurch checked the time on his watch. "Darling, we have to dress." He turned to Harry and me. "Can I rely on you not to let anything we just told you leave this room? Or do I need to give you a family heirloom, too?"

Harry scowled at him. "We'll see ourselves out."

"The butler will see you out." He signaled to the butler then turned his attention to his mother, rising from her chair. "I'll take you back to your room."

His wife sighed heavily as she watched her husband assist the dowager to stand, while the dowager scolded him for fussing like a ladies' maid.

Outside, dusk bathed the elegant townhouses in an ethereal glow. A flock of birds flew overheard in the direction of Hyde Park, and a carriage rumbled past. The street was otherwise quiet, serene almost. It was that peaceful time after the men arrived home from working in their city offices and before the evening's social events began. Ladies and gentlemen were inside, dressing for dinner or a party, while the servants worked tirelessly downstairs. From the outside, the world of the upper classes seemed genteel and unencumbered, where polite manners and pleasant compliments were uttered by polite, pleasant people.

Over the course of my six months in London, I'd learned the elegant townhouses hid the same problems suffered by people everywhere, in all walks of life. Behind the facades, people could be as miserable and cruel as the lowest dock worker from Whitechapel. Perhaps more so, because they couldn't show it. They must always pretend.

It was that pretense that played on my mind as I thought through what we'd learned from the Whitchurches. "‘It's easy to blame a dead man.'"

"Pardon?" Harry asked.

"That's what the dowager said. ‘It's easy to blame a dead man.' Of course, she was referring to Rupert returning to London and blaming his father for Charlotte's murder. But it could very well describe what the dowager and Lord Whitchurch just did. Blame Rupert. If he is dead, then perhaps they just did the same thing to him that he may have done to his father."

"I don't know. Everything they said in there makes sense." Harry set off at a swift pace. "But Rupert was her son. Do you think she'd really lay the blame at his feet if he wasn't guilty?"

I picked up my skirts and rushed to catch up to him. "I think she'd do anything to protect the family's reputation." I started to trot. "Harry, slow down."

"It's late, Cleo."

I checked the time on my watch. "Oh lord!" I started to run. "See you tomorrow," I called over my shoulder.

I turned into a much busier thoroughfare and slammed into a slim youth lounging against the wall around the corner. I would have fallen if he hadn't caught me.

He grasped my arms, steadying me. "Miss? You all right?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

He picked up my bag and handed it to me. I set off again, this time with a little more decorum and less frenzy.

It was so late in the day that Frank and Goliath had finished their shifts, as had Mr. Hobart. Peter was still there, looking very comfortable as he strolled around the foyer, greeting guests with nods and smiles. Harry's shoes were big ones to fill, but Peter was doing a fine job. Soon, the regular guests would stop lamenting how they missed Harry and start treating Peter with the same fondness they'd given his predecessor.

He approached when he saw me, a grim set to his jaw. "They've been looking everywhere for you."

"Who?"

"Sir Ronald, both your cousins, Harmony… She's very cross."

"Is my family cross, too?"

"They will be when they see you're alive and well. Earlier they were simply worried. Miss Bainbridge told her father that you'd decided to walk back to the hotel, but when you failed to arrive…I'm sure you can imagine her panic. Harmony wanted to tell them you were most likely investigating, but Goliath and I thought it best not to until we were sure you wanted them to know."

"I'm sorry to put you through that, Peter. It's been a long, exhausting and frustrating day." The lift door opened, and two guests emerged. I signaled to John to wait for me then offered Peter an apologetic smile. "I'll fill you in tomorrow."

Upstairs, my suite was busier than the foyer. Uncle Ronald, Flossy and Floyd occupied the sitting room, while Harmony was in the bedroom. She emerged upon hearing me arrive, one of my evening gowns in her arms. She glared at me but stayed silent.

My family did not.

"Where have you been?" Floyd demanded.

"Investigating," I said, keeping an eye on my uncle to see his reaction.

His gaze narrowed. "Alone?"

"With Harry."

His gaze narrowed further.

"I was so worried!" Flossy whined.

"Why? I go out alone all the time."

"You were out alone after dark—"

"It's not dark."

She looked pointedly at the window. The curtains were still open and the sky had slipped from twilight to night since I'd come inside. Harmony closed the curtains.

Flossy picked up the gown that Harmony had put down on the sofa and gave it to me. "Next time, just tell me if you're going to be late, so I don't worry."

"I don't always—" I bit my tongue and forced a smile. "Of course, Flossy. I'm sorry you were worried." I kissed her cheek and thanked her for helping Harmony choose a dress for me.

The last vestiges of her frostiness thawed. "Thank goodness you've got a little bit of time before we leave. Fortunately, I'm ready and you don't take long. I've just got to put on some jewelry."

She left. Floyd glanced at his father, then followed her, leaving me alone with Uncle Ronald.

He was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, so I was quite sure he wasn't angry. His face would have been red by now and he would have scolded me, no matter who was present.

Instead, he touched one of the lacy frills trimming the capped sleeve of my ball gown. "Your aunt worries about you when you go out without a chaperone at all hours." I suspected he wasn't referring to just my aunt. "Cleopatra, in future, if you don't plan on going directly home, don't tell your cousin that you are going directly home."

I wasn't aware that I had told Flossy that, but I couldn't recall my exact words to her. My mind had been elsewhere at the time.

"As for you being out until all hours with Armitage—"

"It's not all hours, Uncle. And Harry is a gentleman, you know that."

"Not in the strictest sense of the word, and that's the problem. If people see you always in his company, they will talk."

"Let them."

"And he'll get the wrong idea. Is that what you want?"

I sighed. I loathed it when his demands had logic behind them. "Harry knows how I feel about not marrying. As do all of you." It was time to end the discussion before it became tiresome, so I kissed his cheek. "I will be home before dusk from now on."

Harmony was the only person who would have seen my crossed fingers behind my back, and she was a loyal friend. She took the dress from me and headed into the bedroom, a subtle move that would signal it was time I dressed and my uncle should leave.

He grunted. I wasn't sure if that meant he believed me or not. "Did you learn anything?"

"Pardon?"

"You said you were investigating Hobart's absences, with Armitage's assistance. Did you learn where he goes during lunch and why he leaves early?"

The reason he was not angry about my tardiness became clear: he thought I was investigating on his behalf. I did not correct his false assumption. I didn't want to test whether he'd be angry if I admitted I was in the middle of a different investigation. "Mr. Hobart leaves work on time, Uncle. I did learn something about him though, as it happens. I learned that his business is private and has nothing to do with the hotel." What did one more lie matter after I'd told him so many?

"Hmmm," was all he said. "You should dress. There'll be a suitable gentleman there tonight and I have it on good authority from your aunt that you'll be seated next to him."

I smiled at him.

Once he was gone, I collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. "Is it too late to feign illness?"

Harmony emerged from the bedroom, grabbed my hand and hauled me to my feet. "Yes, and it's also too late to do your hair properly. I only have time to add a few pins to tuck in the loose strands. It's a shame the suitable gentleman won't see you at your best, but so be it."

I groaned. "That was my uncle's thinly veiled attempt at saying Harry isn't suitable, wasn't it?"

"Not so thinly veiled. A herd of elephants has more subtlety."

I laughed, despite everything. As she helped me dress, I told her what we'd learned that day about the two murders. By the end, my mood had flattened again. Harmony was no help when it came to deciding whether the Whitchurches spoke the truth. If true, their story sewed up all the holes, leaving a watertight case that pointed to their innocence.

So, if the Whitchurches didn't poison Mr. Hardy, who did?