Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

G ray has told Lady Inglis that we’re taking her case. By morning, we have an invitation from “Lord Charles Simpson” to join him at his home. We accept, and at ten, Simon drops us outside Lord Simpson’s town house.

The town house is similar to Gray’s. Maybe a bit smaller. We’re entering an era where it’s not uncommon for the middle class to have more money than the nobility. It’s the rise of the industrial era, where investing in a trade can earn you more than having a title and a bit of land.

Simpson certainly still lives very well. Cross into the Old Town, and his place would house multiple families on each of its four levels. My impression is that he is averagely well-to-do for a viscount, which is what I expected.

Lord Simpson himself, however, is not what I expected. I’ve met Lady Inglis—beautiful, cultured, and wealthy. Her lover will be her male equivalent. I know he’s a few years older than her, so I picture a dashing and distinguished silver fox. A bon vivant who can capture and hold a woman like Lady Inglis.

When the butler leads us into the parlor, I see a man and remember that Lord Simpson lives with his younger brother. I presume that’s who I’m seeing. The man is rotund, with jet-black hair and equally dark whiskers. When he turns, I see he’s older than I thought, and the very dark hair likely comes from a bottle.

“Lord Charles Simpson,” the butler says. “May I present Dr. Duncan Gray and Miss Mallory Mitchell.”

Okay, this was not what I expected, but that’s on me, isn’t it? Lady Inglis is an intelligent and discerning woman who will expect more than a handsome face in her lovers, and the sparkle in Simpson’s eye suggests the bon vivant I imagined.

“Dr. Gray,” he says, taking Gray’s hand. “It has been too long. So good to see you. And Miss Mitchell. Welcome. I am so pleased to hear that Dr. Gray has found a proper assistant. The last time we spoke, he was having a terrible time with that.”

Simpson engages in a few moments of small talk, striking the perfect balance between being a convivial host and recognizing that we’re here on business. When he asks after our health, it’s in that way some people have of making you feel they actually care about the answer. Then it’s a quick exchange on the weather and how the cold is a nuisance but the snow is lovely, and there seems to be actual sunshine today, yes?

By the time that’s done, a maid arrives with a tea tray. He tells her to shut the door behind her and warns that this is business and he’d rather not be disturbed unless it is urgent. Once she’s gone, he pours the tea before speaking.

“You are investigating the missing letters,” he says.

“We are,” Gray says. “Lady Inglis requested my help, and while it is not my area of expertise...”

“I have heard you are doing some detective work,” Simpson says. “With the police. Consulting on murders and such. You really must let me take you out to dinner, Gray, so I may ask all about that. I am fascinated . The idea of using science to solve murders? Brilliant. Can you imagine where such a thing could lead? In a hundred years, if a person is murdered, science could lead us straight to the killer and prove they did it. No need for police to investigate nor for lawyers and judges to try the case. Science will prove guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

Gray sneaks a look at me, but I see no point in poking a hole in Simpson’s enthusiasm. It’s like telling modern people that the idea of flying cars doesn’t actually, well, fly. Let them dream.

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” I say. “As for this case, we’re focusing on it as a theft. Finding who stole the letters will lead us to the blackmailer.”

“Miss Mallory will ask most of the questions,” Gray says. “This is far more her area than mine.”

“An excellent partnership, then,” Simpson says. “Before we begin, while it has no bearing on the case, you must forgive me for needing to get it off my chest.”

He sets his cup into the saucer. “I am horrified by what has happened. It is entirely my fault. I thought I had properly secured Patricia’s letters, and clearly, I had not. I desperately wish that this scoundrel had sent the demand to me instead. I would have paid it with Patricia being none the wiser.”

“It went to her because her reputation is the one at risk,” I say.

“I know,” he says mournfully. “She is in danger because of my mistake. I only wish she would allow me to pay this scoundrel.”

“She prefers not to pay at all,” I say. “If you wish to make it up to her, then the best way to do that is to help us find the blackmailer.”

“Certainly. You have my full cooperation.” He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “I have recorded all the details here. I kept the letters in my room, in a locked box on my dressing table. I know that it was locked December twentieth, as I also keep some jewelry in there and opened it to retrieve that for a seasonal gala. I returned the items that night and relocked it. I did not realize it was unlocked until Patricia notified me of the theft.” He checks his notes. “On the morning of December twenty-third.”

“You didn’t notice the box had been opened?” I ask.

“The lock is not an obvious one. I will show it to you. It is impossible to tell at a glance whether it is locked or not.”

“You said it’s kept in your bedroom. Is that door locked?”

He looks confused by the question. I don’t blame him. In a world of household staff, a bedroom door is rarely locked. Maids and valets need access to it.

“No,” he says. “There is a lock, but I rarely use it.”

“So everyone on your staff has access.”

He shifts in obvious discomfort. “Yes. I...” He coughs. “I am about to say something that distresses me. I am very aware of how quick people are to blame the servants for anything that goes missing, and normally, that infuriates me.”

“But...” I prod.

“I dismissed my valet on the twenty-first. I am planning another trip abroad in the new year, and he... is not properly suited to continental travel. I told him I was happy to keep him on until I left, but he said he would rather spend the holidays with family. I gave him a quarter’s wages, and it all seemed very amicable, but then Patricia received this demand two days later...”

“Do you know where we might find this valet?”

Another shift of discomfort. “I do, but might I ask that you do not say I sent you?”

“We will say that we required a list of all staff employed at the time of the theft, and that you assured us none of your staff would have done this, but we insisted.”

He exhales. “Thank you. I have spoken to all of my staff. I said that private correspondence had disappeared and asked if any of them might have seen it. I was hoping that if one did take the letters, they would quietly return them, and we could be done with the matter. That did not happen.”

“You also have a brother, I understand, who lives with you.”

Simpson blinks. “Arthur? Of course, but he would not have done this.”

“We’ll need to speak to him. I’ll also need a list of every guest who was in the house between the twentieth and the twenty-third.”

“No one,” he says. “I went out a fair deal, but Arthur and I did not entertain.”

“So no one came to the house? No friends? No business associates?”

“It is not the time of year for business. Lady Inglis visited on the twenty-first, but that was it.”

“No one else?” I meet his gaze, my look silently reminding him of his promise to cooperate.

“No one,” he says firmly. “You may ask the staff. I had a guest on the nineteenth, but that was before the theft. I hosted a small luncheon on the twenty-fifth, but that was after the letters were taken.”

“Your guest on the nineteenth...”

“Could not have stolen the letters,” he says. “They were there when I opened the box the evening of the twentieth, and she had been gone since that morning.”

She . A woman who spent the night. A lover who is not Lady Inglis. That would be a promising lead, except that the timing doesn’t work.

“Might I see the box and where it is kept?” I ask.

“Certainly.”

As Simpson said, the box is on his dresser, in plain sight. I inwardly sigh at that. It’s a pretty box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and it screams “I contain valuables!” It’s about six inches by four inches, meaning it could easily be stolen whole and broken open for the contents.

The lock makes me sigh again. It’s the sort Victorians are terribly fond of. A puzzle lock. Yet the puzzle is so simple that I get it after a few minutes, to Simpson’s astonishment. It seems clever enough, but if you’ve played with puzzle locks, you’d recognize this one.

I like Simpson. He seems like a lovely man. But he really needs to work on his plan for safeguarding private letters. In his defense, he strikes me as the trusting sort, a fellow who’d make the mistake of presuming that if a box clearly contains something private, his staff and guests would respect that.

Anyone who had access to this room could have stolen the letters. And anyone with access to the house had access to the room.

“May I take the box?” I ask. “For closer inspection?”

Gray frowns my way. Then he understands. I want to dust it for fingerprints. I’m not sure that will do any good, but it’s worth a shot. Simpson agrees, and I ask a few more questions. Then we take our leave.

Gray and I head down the street, a light snow falling around us.

“The valet and the brother,” I say. “Those are my primary suspects. We have the valet’s information, but the brother is trickier. I get the sense that, as cooperative as Lord Simpson wants to be, he’d rather we didn’t question his brother.”

“Because the man is an insufferable prig,” Gray says. He makes a face. “That was rude of me.”

“But true?”

“Arthur Simpson is the sort of younger son one expects to join the clergy. He is insufferably sanctimonious and makes it clear that he finds his brother’s lifestyle decadently sinful. However, there’s a reason Arthur never joined the clergy—he has a dear love of decadence himself. His simply doesn’t extend to what he considers sinful.”

“Taking lovers.”

“Yes, though at the risk of seeming a terrible person, I might suggest that jealousy rather than piety fuels his outrage.”

“Ah, he’s not half as charming as his brother.”

“Not a tenth as charming. I can understand why Lord Simpson wouldn’t want Arthur knowing about the missing letters, but I agree he’s an excellent suspect. Even better than a fired valet. I also think I know a way we might encounter Arthur, quite by accident, of course.”

I smile. “Perfect.”