Chapter Seven
Frederick
Frederick was temptedto remain in his position beneath the chestnut tree. Lady Mary’s attempts to gain entry to White’s were diverting, his amusement increasing in proportion to her rising aggravation. But as he also had a job to do, and as he also understood the frustration of being excluded from a place based on no more than a happenstance of birth, he stepped from the shade and climbed the steps of the gentlemen’s club.
“Rollins, officer of the Bow Street magistrate.” He handed the doorman his card. “Is Mr. Bannister within?”
“Of course he is.” Lady Mary stabbed her walking stick into the ground, perilously close to the doorman’s foot. “And as I’ve informed Mr. Blodgett here, he will want to see me. His family has asked for my assistance in discovering his mother’s killer.”
Frederick lifted his eyebrows. That seemed like an excessive bit of truth-stretching.
“And as I’ve informed the lady, only men can enter White’s.” Blodgett clasped his hands behind his back, his face a deep ruddy shade.
Lady Mary practically vibrated from indignation.
Frederick sighed. “There are exceptions to every rule.” It would be easier this way. Let Lady Mary observe his interview rather than have her harangue him for all the details later. “I’m certain your members would understand the small breach in custom under these circumstances. After all, they are smartenough to understand that they wouldn’t want White’s or its members to come under the scrutiny of Bow Street.”
Blodgett still hesitated.
“I do know the tax authorities have been interested in examining the finances of London’s clubs after that fraudulent scheme Warwick’s was caught out in last year.” Frederick kept his expression even, the threat friendly. “I would hate to give them any cause to refocus their suspicions on clubs such as this one.”
Blodgett blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. “Well, perhaps just this one time….”
Lady Mary wisely remained silent, but her smile was triumphant as the doorman showed them inside and quickly led them to a small room off the main hallway. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and oil lamps were stationed on small tables beside each chair. A cigar lay in an ashtray on one of the tables, smoke slowly coiling up from its end. The room had been recently occupied, but was currently empty.
“I’ll ask Mr. Bannister to see you here,” Blodgett said, quietly closing the door behind them.
Lady Mary found a high-backed leather wingchair and settled herself, smoothing her skirts. “That was well done.” She pushed her spectacles up her nose and gave him an appraising look. “You’ve surprised me.”
She made it sound as though that didn’t happen often. “I’m glad to have met your approval,” he said dryly. He strolled around the room, reading some of the titles. The selection was better than his circulating library’s. It confirmed what he’d always thought. Money equaled access: to information, to people of power, to leisure.
The door opened, and Lord and Lady Richford’s son shambled in.
But money couldn’t protect you from tragedy. Death came for all.
Edgar Bannister was holding up well. His light-brown hair was neatly combed, the barrel knot in his cravat formed by a steady hand, though Bannister probably had a man to do all that. He dropped into a chair across from Lady Mary and gave them both an insolent look. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“The root causes of the French Revolution.” Lady Mary huffed. “What do you think we wish to speak with you about? Your mother’s death, of course.”
Bannister slouched in his seat. “What do I know of it?”
Frederick moved a chair so it sat to the right of Bannister and to the left of Lady Mary. He settled into it and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “You might know more than you’re aware of. Even the most seemingly innocuous detail could be of help.”
Bannister shrugged. “Fine.”
“As well as being a member of my club, your mother was involved in many charitable committees,” Lady Mary began. “Can you tell us all the extra activities she was involved in?”
“Charitable committees.” Bannister snorted. “Yes, she was all for feeding the poor, trying to raise money for London’s orphanages. She loved to be seen doing good.”
Frederick slid his notepad from his pocket. “It is fashionable to be on those public works committees,” he said diplomatically.
Lady Mary seemed to have no talent for diplomacy. “You show little respect for your mother. Typically when someone dies, those close to her at least try to pretend they’re upset.”
“And why should I?” Bannister cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “Did she respect me? Wasn’t she always speaking ill of me to my father? My mother was no saint.”
Frederick tried to regain control of the interview. “Which is why we’re speaking with you. Have you thought more of who might want to harm your mother?”
“The list is long.” Bannister slid a case from his inside pocket and removed a cheroot. He picked up the smoking cigar and lit his cheroot from the hot end.
