Eleanor flushed, seeming to realize our conversation hadn’t been as private as she’d intended. She cleared her throat. “He is right. I left my own carriage at your club. I’ll find a hackney to take me back there, then have my driver take me around.”
Ernest stepped into the street and hollered to the jarvey of an antique looking barouche trundling toward us. “Oy, driver. You free for a fare?”
The gristled jarvey smacked his cap against his thigh, dust billowing. “Sure ’nough.”
“This young lady needs to go to 45 Jermyn.” Ernest drew back his shoulders, transforming from friendly to threatening in a moment and making me remember why I’d hired him. “Make sure she gets there safe.”
The cabbie rolled his eyes, but climbed from his seat and opened the carriage’s door readily enough.
Eleanor nodded to Ernest. “Thank you.” She brushed a kiss against my cheek. “We should meet again soon to see what each of us has learned about the investigation. I’ll ask Mr. Rollins when he is free.” And with a fluttering of skirts, she climbed into the barouche and rolled away.
Another meeting of minds was a good idea. I climbed into my own carriage and gave my driver the direction to my next destination.
Now I only had to discover something of value to relate to my fellow investigators.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Frederick
Frederick added anotherlump to his already sweet tea, hoping the sugar might erase the sleep from his eyes. He needed his bed. Preferably with Eleanor in it. The only way he would sleep soundly was if he knew Eleanor was safe, and the only way she was safe was when she was within his arms.
But his bed was hours away. Holding Eleanor even further. He could only move forward with his plans once he found the killer. So, he sipped his too-sweet tea and faced his hosts. “Mr. Massey, Mrs. Massey, I am glad you were both able to see me.”
Mr. Massey shifted on his chair in his front parlor. He looked around fifty years of age, his hair still dark, with deep grooves cut into his face. He shot a quick look at his wife. “When a man from Bow Street knocks, it makes me curious enough to answer his call. What brings you to my door, Mr. Rollins?”
Frederick set down his mug and reached into his inner pocket. “This.” He held up the necklace found in Bannister’s boot. The late sun shining through the west windows caught the rubies, making them glint darkly.
He had to hand it to the pair. Neither of them so much as blinked. If Mrs. Massey’s smile seemed frozen, only a particularly observant investigator would notice.
Frederick prided himself on his observation skills.
“Your initials are on the back of the clasp, Mrs. Massey. I was wondering how your necklace came to be in the possession of Edgar Bannister.”
“My wife’s initials aren’t unusual,” Mr. Massey said. “There must be thousands of individuals with the same initials in London alone.”
“Not quite so many with the means to afford such a lovely piece.” Frederick laid the necklace on the low table between them. “Don’t make me waste the boot leather going around to London’s jewelers. Your initials are etched in a very elaborate script. It will not take much for a jeweler to recognize it. And the persons who commissioned it.”
Frederick rubbed his jaw. Was Eleanor wearing down her soles as he spoke with the sketches he’d given her? It had seemed the safest way to channel her assistance into the investigation. If he couldn’t demand she stop her interference, then at least he could guide her to the most harmless avenue of inquiry.
Mrs. Massey shifted forward. She was plump with lovely red hair that she tended to pat when she was nervous, Frederick noted. “The necklace is mine,” she admitted. “I thought I’d lost it.”
Frederick didn’t say anything, only stared at her, expressing his disbelief in silence.
Mr. Massey took his wife’s hand and held it on the armrest between them. “I believe now is the time for truth, my dear. After all, we were the victims.”
“Victims of what? Of whom?” Frederick asked. He wanted to pull out his notepad but felt him jotting down every word the Masseys spoke might tighten their jaws.
“Lady Richford,” Mrs. Massey spit out. The calm mask she’d worn since they’d first sat down to tea had broken. “She demanded it from me for her silence.”
Blackmail. It made a nasty business even nastier. “Silence for what?”
The husband and wife exchanged a look, their lips drawing tight.
Frederick mentally reviewed the notes he had on the Massey family. “Your daughter is in her first season, is she not?”
“She is.” Mrs. Massey nodded firmly. “She is set to make a very fine match.”
“And your son? He is two and twenty, correct? Where is he?”
