The scrap of fabric in the evidence box was small, no larger than the length of her thumb, and no wider either. The soft, plush material was most likely velvet, and the color continued to trouble her. Sheknewshe had seen it before. But where?
As she approached the back lane to the morgue, she went through what each member of the Cowper family, as well as the solicitor Mr. Corman, had been wearing at the reading of the will, then later at dinner. The vivid memories shuttled into the front of her mind, distracting her from the poor weather, and Leo saw again each person seated around the dining room table the evening of the destructive storm that had kept her and Jasper from departing Cowper Hall as planned.
Her feet came to a stumbling halt. She took a short, gasping breath as her mind’s eye lingered on the picture-perfect memory that had arisen, providing an answer—though little comfort.
Oh, good Lord.
She hurried for the back door to the morgue, her pulse at a full gallop as she realized the enormity of the mistake she’d just made.
Leo was opening the door to the back office when she felt a presence behind her. Before she could turn, a hand shoved hardbetween her shoulder blades, thrusting her into the darkened morgue.
Chapter Nineteen
The sun had slipped beneath the London skyline, and a cold rain had started to trickle down by the time Jasper left the Perry residence. He’d come into Paddington Station on the afternoon train from Harrow and immediately set out for Portman Square, where Helen Dalton would stay whenever she visited town. He’d wondered if he might meet Sergeant Warnock there, or perhaps Roy Lewis, or whoever had been available when he’d wired the Yard from Harrow Constabulary earlier. But when Jasper arrived on the Perrys’ doorstep, he was informed that a sergeant and pair of constables had already come and gone with their quarry.
After a brief conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Perry, Jasper had set out for Scotland Yard. A coating of sleet had started to accumulate on the cobblestones by the time he arrived at Met headquarters wet, cold, and hungry, but he merely doffed his damp hat and overcoat and tossed them onto a chair as he entered the CID. He stalked past Constable Wiley, who’d stood and started to say something, but didn’t finish before Jasper went straight into his old office. Lewis wasn’t there, but all he needed was an item in the evidence box stored on one of thechairs. He found it and, giving it a cursory look, grinned. It was what he’d hoped for.
He went to meet Detective Sergeant Warnock, who’d stood from his desk when Jasper arrived. The young officer was now waiting by the office door.
“I put the suspect in the interview room. She tried to run, sir, but she didn’t get far.”
Hearing that she’d tried to escape only bolstered Jasper’s good mood. He was now certain of the woman’s guilt.
Thanking Warnock, Jasper went to the interview room, which was being guarded by a uniformed constable. Inside, Dora Sweeny sat in a chair, her cuffed wrists resting on the small table. Helen Dalton’s maid hitched her chin when she saw him enter and drew her hands into her lap.
He closed the door and looked the woman over. The last time she’d been in that chair, she’d been weeping, her eyes red and swollen in stark anguish. Now, she wore an expression Jasper often saw upon the faces of guilty suspects—defiant righteousness.
“I’ve been to see the Perrys,” he began. “They cannot account for your whereabouts yesterday afternoon and evening. It seems you were out running errands and helping with the arrangements for Mrs. Dalton’s return to Harrow until nearly nine o’clock in the evening.”
He stayed on his feet, too restless to sit. Miss Sweeny made no reply.
“However, I don’t need to question Mr. Dalton or Mr. Cowper about the help you provided during those hours, because I know that was a lie. You see, Miss Sweeny, as large as the station in Harrow is, and as busy as the stationmaster is there, he is remarkably adept at keeping an eye on who comes and goes from his terminus. You arrived on yesterday’s 3:25 train.”
The maid stayed stonelike, except for the rapid fluttering of her lashes.
“I presume that after leaving Scotland Yard, you started to think about Stephen Decamp’s note to Helen that I showed you earlier, the one asking her to meet at their spot after midnight. You knew they must have gone to London together, and with my interest in Stephen, you must have put together what he’d done. He had every reason to kill your mistress. Every motive, especially with Helen now carrying his baby. Their affair was about to become known to Mr. Dalton, and to the viscount himself. Stephen was sure to lose his position.”
Miss Sweeny pressed her lips together tightly, her defiant expression beginning to falter.
“When you arrived at his farm yesterday, you found him soused,” Jasper said.
He now knew Stephen had been at Sam Everton’s farm the day after Helen’s murder, drinking himself into oblivion. The stop in Sudbury along the rail route had set Jasper back more than an hour, but he had a clearer picture of where Stephen had been, and what state he’d been in.
Devastatedwas the word his former farmhand had used to describe him. And the more Stephen imbibed, the looser his tongue became.
“He welcomed you in. Even tied up his collie for you, because he knew you were afraid of dogs.”
Without Nadia Stroud’s comment at the uneasy dinner the night of the storm, about Helen’s maid being afraid of dogs, Jasper would not have known to connect Miss Sweeny to the tied-up collie.
“What then, Miss Sweeny? Did you encourage Stephen to have a seat at the dining room table, while you poured him another drink?” Jasper had turned over numerous possibilities as he’d traveled from Harrow. “I’m curious, though. Did healready have his revolver with him? In his devastation, maybe he was already leaning toward ending it all.”
The maid finally met Jasper’s stare. “He shot himself.”
“No, he didn’t. Perhaps he would have, but you couldn’t risk that he’d back down, could you?” He pulled from his coat pocket the note that had been left on Stephen’s table, in front of his body. Then, he laid out the note Stephen had sent to Helen the night of the storm.
“I’ll have a graphologist compare these writing samples, of course, but have a look,” he urged, taking the seat across from her. He touched the tips of the two Ws in the suicide note.
“There is a slight, fanciful tilt of the middle arch of the Ws in this note.I cannot live with what I’ve done.” He then tapped the W in the note delivered to Helen the night of the storm, asking her towait until midnight. “There is no such tilt of the middle arch here.”
