“Arson?” she asked.
“Mouse.” One edge of his mouth licked up.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a four-story townhouse. “Let’s hope Mr. Postwaite can help confirm our theory.” He jumped down then turned to assist her.
She rested her hand as lightly as possible in his, hurrying down the coach’s steps then shaking out her skirts. “He hosted a musical evening, correct? And that was where the first theft occurred?”
“Right on both points.” He led her to the front door and used the brass knocker to announce their presence. “Sometime after the third performance, a Mr. Chumley noticed his gold and porcelain pocket watch had been taken. The chain had been cut.”
“The chain was gold, as well?” Not the easiest material to cut unnoticed.
“No, it had been woven from his mother’s hair.” The door swung open, and a cheery-faced butler greeted them.
“Mr. Strait and Miss Moore?” He smiled when Mr. Strait nodded. “My master is expecting you.”
They followed him down a long hall and into a glass-enclosed room that faced the rear gardens.
Mr. Postwaite laid down a book and rose from his spot in the sun. “Ah, the inquiry agent again. How delightful to see you.” He indicated chairs across from him and retook his seat. “I recently saw one of your employers. Lord Sutton. It was at his…” His gaze drifted to Cassie, and he cleared his throat. “Well, it matters not where. How may I help you?”
Cassie wondered what their reception would have been if the Bond Agency wasn’t owned by five noblemen. She understood the opening of the inquiry agency had caused quite a sensation among the ton. Despite how disreputable some may think the business may be, no one wanted to cross the lords who’d founded it. She imagined the ownership opened doors for its investigators that otherwise might remain firmly shut.
Strait had Postwaite go over the events of the evening the theft occurred. “Can you remember anything else?” he asked. “Anything that struck you as out of the ordinary?”
The man ran his fingers through his thin blond hair. “No, except how Mr. Chumley kicked up quite the fuss. First, he interrupted the operetta singer when he discovered his loss, then to complain that some little pin in his pocket didn’t belong to him. He was so out of sorts we had to cancel the remainder of the evening.” Postwaite frowned. “Not that I can blame him. To have such a brazen pickpocket, and right in my home. I told him the robbery must have occurred on his way to my house, but he insisted that he had checked the time between the first and second performance. I believe he had been bored.”
Mr. Strait pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. “This is a list of your guests for that evening which you’d previously delivered to us. Are there any additions you’d forgotten about?”
Postwaite took the parchment and scanned it. “No, I believe that’s everyone.” He chuckled. “I’d forgotten how disproportionate the men were. My daughter is in her third season, you see. I was trying to introduce her to eligible matches.”
“Did you know all the guests personally?” Cassie asked. Her chest tightened. Mr. Postwaite seemed a devoted father. He hadn’t sent his daughter up to London alone to go through her season under the chaperone of family friends. It was unfair to blame her own father for Lydia’s death, but still, a kernel of resentment blossomed in her gut. They should have been with her five years ago. She should have been with her sister.
“Yes.” Postwaite angled the paper into the sunlight. “It wasn’t a very large gathering. About thirty people or so. Except for this man, Mr. Thomas. My friend, Mr. Porter, brought him along with him. As he was a wealthy American, an unmarried wealthy American, I readily welcomed the addition.”
They took down Mr. Porter’s direction and thanked Postwaite before taking their leave.
Cassie adjusted her bonnet after emerging from the house. “So, onward to Mr. Porter’s?”
Charles nodded and handed her up into the waiting carriage. “Yes. Another investigative tactic to note: when you find a thread, keep pulling at it.”
This thread seemed to unravel at once, however. Mr. Porter had met the American in the park. “He seemed a jolly enough fellow and I was loath to attend a musical evening on my own. So after he expressed an interest, I invited him along.” Mr. Porter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly, stifling a belch. “We were supposed to meet up at Whites the next day, but he never showed.”
“And you haven’t seen or heard from him since?” Mr. Strait asked.
“No. I assumed he left London.”
When they were back in the carriage, Strait grimaced. “Well, our theory is looking more and more likely.”
“But we are no closer to finding this Mr. Thomas.” Cassie tucked her slippers further under her seat, avoiding contact with his boots.
“No, but we will start fresh on the morrow. Speak with the host of the dinner party where the second theft occurred.” Strait steepled his fingers. “I feel like the investigation is just now beginning to gain momentum.”
Cassie looked out the carriage window. Yes, this investigation was progressing, but what had she done for her sister’s? She needed to plot her next step from the information she’d gathered from Bow Street.
She snuck a glance at her companion. If she told him why she was here, would he assist her in finding her sister’s killer? Or tell Wilberforce she was at the agency under false pretenses and have her employment terminated?
She swallowed. The risk of telling him was too great. She would go on, alone, as she had before.
Her stomach hardened into stone. And alone she would have to face the killer. Alone she would have to end his life. She clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking. She didn’t want to admit to anyone, not even herself, how the thought of what she would do terrified her. It was the ultimate line to cross, taking another’s life. It was necessary, she knew. She owed it to her sister. But would her parents ever forgive her? Would God? Would she spend eternity with her sister, or in the fires of hell?
