“Very well, but if you do anything more dangerous than visit a tea shop, I insist on accompanying you,” he said. “The last thing I want is for Inspector Reid to kick down my door if you get yourself into a spot of trouble.”
Leo grinned widely at his agreement, and at that fearful image of a wrathful Jasper. With any hope, Connor would not need to hire the private detective agency at all. She’d helped solve a few murders already. Perhaps she could do so again.
Chapter Ten
Jasper had missed the cramped corridors and offices at Scotland Yard. There was a bustling energy here, an urgent undercurrent that the station in Liverpool didn’t have. It had taken him a few weeks to settle in there and begin to know the men he’d be working with. They’d been wary of him at first, a few of them resistant to working under a Scotland Yard detective inspector. But with time, tensions had slackened, and any raised hackles had lowered again.
It felt good to be back among the men with whom he’d worked regularly, even if it was for just a few days. As Jasper made his way through the detective department, he prepared for the awkwardness of entering his office and finding Roy Lewis there, sitting behind Jasper’s desk and in his chair. But it had been only right for Chief Inspector Coughlan to shift Lewis into Jasper’s unoccupied office to make room for the few new constables that had joined the CID over the last four months.
Jasper knocked on the frame of the open door, the way Lewis always had. The detective sergeant glanced up from a stack of files open upon the desk, seemed to jolt, and hastily stood.
“Guv,” he said, as if he’d been caught out at something. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be in. Warnock said you and Miss Spencer found a body in your new place. Someone connected to Lord Cowper?”
“His granddaughter, Helen Dalton. She was murdered,” he explained. “I’ve instructed a constable to collect the victim’s maid and bring her in for questioning.”
It would have been just as easy for Jasper to go to the Perrys’ address and question Miss Dora Sweeny there, especially since he would need to speak to them as well. She would be in a familiar setting, amongst people she knew, and perhaps she would have been past the immediate shock of her mistress being found dead. But there had been something contrived in the maid’s hysterics on the long drive to London earlier that morning. No doubt she was upset and a bit dazed after receiving the news, but there had been a distinct effort on Miss Sweeny’s part to avoid meeting Jasper’s eyes in the police carriage.
She’d ridden with him, Frederick Cowper, and Price, while Anthony Dalton had insisted on following in his own carriage. Jasper hadn’t argued but had Sergeant Warnock accompany him and his driver to be sure the man arrived in London as expected. If Dalton was guilty of anything, there was every reason to suspect that he might set off toward the coast instead, to flee the country.
All had gone smoothly, however, and with a glance toward the wall clock, Jasper expected Miss Sweeny to arrive at police headquarters at any moment.
“Will you need your office?” Lewis asked, stepping away from the desk as if to vacate the room. Jasper held up his hand to stay him.
“No. It’s yours, Lewis,” he replied, but added with a wry arch of his brow, “at least until I’m back at the Yard permanently.Christ, I hope Coughlan can scare up another room for you, or else we may be forced to share.”
Lewis laughed, but he wrinkled his forehead, as if the idea unsettled him. After the Yard bombing back in May, he and Jasper had been forced to share a desk in the department while Jasper’s office was being rebuilt. Neither of them had enjoyed that cramped arrangement.
“I only wanted to stop in and ask if you’ve received the postmortem report for a recent strangulation. A woman named Lydia Hailson.”
He could understand Connor Quinn’s frustration; the man had cared for the victim and wanted justice for her. Although he’d suggested hiring a private agency to investigate her death, Jasper didn’t trust many of the dozens upon dozens of agencies that had been cropping up across the city. Stegman and Bishop acted with integrity, but their fees were steep, and their waiting list was often backlogged, just as the Yard’s was.
Lewis shuffled through a few files on the desk but shook his head. “Sorry, I haven’t got it here. It’s probably with Burrows or Royce,” he said, naming two of the other detectives in the CID. “Why the interest?”
“The victim was known to Mr. Quinn, the coroner,” Jasper explained.
Lewis grimaced in sympathy. “I’m sure it’ll be assigned if it hasn’t been already. We’re up to our necks in cases lately. It’ll be good to have you back, guv.”
He had dark smudges under his eyes, and he appeared more rumpled than usual, supporting what he said about being overworked and undermanned.
“Inspector Reid,” a voice called from behind Jasper. Constable Price, who’d gone to the Perrys’ Portman Square address, had arrived and was leading Dora Sweeny toward an interview room.
Jasper thanked Lewis for checking on the Lydia Hailson case and followed the constable toward the interview room.
“There is a box of evidence from the murder scene, Inspector. Should I place it inside Sergeant Lewis’s office?” Price asked.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied. “Is there anything notable?”
“The murder weapon, sir, and the victim’s belongings. Also, a glass pane in the back door was smashed,” the constable said. “We think that’s how the murderer entered the house. Some threads were found attached to the glass left in the door.”
Intrigued, Jasper nodded. “I’ll have a look.”
He then turned into a small room, not much larger than a closet, with a wooden table and unpadded chairs. It wouldn’t do to make any suspect in for questioning comfortable. He shut the door, inset with frosted glass, and took the chair across from Miss Sweeny.
The maid looked to be in her early fifties, with gray-streaked black hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a bonnet and a plain, serviceable gown, both black in color, though Jasper did not think it was because she was in mourning. Most women in service whom he’d met wore austere colors, usually with a white pinafore.
Miss Sweeny had held a handkerchief to her nose for much of the drive back to London, though now, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her tear-reddened eyes intense with curiosity—and a bit of fear. Good. It was why he’d decided to go out of his way and bring her here, to this spare, intimidating room.
“Miss Sweeny, I have some blunt questions for you,” he began, finding he was in no mood for pleasantries. “And I will ask that you answer them truthfully.”
