Eleanor tapped her knuckles against her lips. “Frederick, I know you think the killer is a woman, but I still think Lord Anglia is a strong prospect.” She stared out the window at the burgeoning dusk, not seeming to realize she’d called the Runner with his Christian name. “He stands to make money if his bills pass while Lord Richford is out of the way, and his attack in the paper was quite vicious. I could see him choking the life out of someone.”
“His secretary says they were together, working,” Rollins said. “I didn’t believe him, but I also don’t know why Anglia would publish such a piece about the viscountess, putting his name on it, if he intended to kill her later. He didn’t need to draw suspicion to himself.”
I jabbed the walking stick into the floor and pressed to standing. I stalked to the window and peered out. No protesting crowd. No one with a flaming jug. “We’re going in circles. What I wouldn’t give to have all of our suspects in one place, available for all our questions, where they could be called on their lies by the others.”
“Why can’t we have that?”
I turned at the excitement in Eleanor’s voice. “Have what?”
“A party.” She stood as well. “Send out invitations to all our suspects. Gather them together. And with Frederick there, they’ll have to answer us.”
Ever the gentleman, Mr. Rollins also rose to his feet. “Why would they come?”
I toyed with the idea. “If the invitation is worded correctly. If it comes from myself and my nephew in conjunction, perhaps? Not many people refuse a party hosted by the Duke of Montague.”
“Will your nephew come?” Eleanor’s brows drew together.
“It doesn’t matter. It will be too late as far as our guests are concerned.” I rolled up on my toes, liking this idea better and better. “We can have it at my house. This Saturday. The short notice is incredibly rude. They will each think they are second choice guests only invited after another invitee has declined, but much is forgiven when done in a duke’s name.”
“We don’t have a moment to lose.” Eleanor rushed to the door. “I’ll get the invitations drawn up now before the calligrapher closes. I can send them out tomorrow.” She looked to Mr. Rollins. “Are you coming?”
He shook his head. “I have more work to do. Can I join you and your mother for supper again?”
She gave him a wide grin. “Of course. I’ll see you then.” And she was gone.
I arched my eyebrows. “Supper together? Again?”
“Yes.” He adjusted his neckcloth, smoothing the ends under his jacket. “This party of yours will likely come to naught.”
“Or we could learn something important.” It was becoming too dark to see the road clearly, and I didn’t like the idea of the lights in my window making me so visible. I pulled the heavy velvet drapes closed. “Each of our suspects is aware we are investigating. Once they are all gathered, they might be annoyed, but hardly surprised. I see no drawback.”
“As you say.” Rollins shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
I waited. He’d said he had work to do but seemed content to stare daggers at my office wall. “Was there something on your mind?” I finally asked.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Slowly released a deep breath. “Yes. I was wondering if I could see some applications to join your club. Those of Lady Richford, Mrs. Massey, and Mrs. Lynton. I might as well include Miss Abbott, as well. Assuming you’ve kept those papers.”
The world was made up of records and red tape. Of course, I’d kept them. “Why do you want to see them?”
“I have a colleague who has studied graphic expression in handwriting.” He cleared his throat. “He is always most eager to analyze the handwriting of suspects in our cases.”
I narrowed my eyes. “To what end?”
“He swears handwriting can reveal a person’s character. Simmons blathers on and on about some French blokes who’ve made a study of it. Or were they Italian?” Mr. Rollins pressed his notebook to his chest, his thumb tracing the edge.
“What a barrel of nonsense.” To think evil could be seen in script. “You can’t believe that bosh.”
His cheeks darkened. “I understand it has been used as evidence in some trials on the Continent.”
“But not England.”
“No.” He sighed, and opened his notebook, pulling a torn bit of paper from it. “I also want Simmons to compare the handwriting samples to this. See if he can match it to any of your patrons.”
“Identifying a person based on their handwriting?” I pursed my lips. “That I can credit more.”
“Unfortunately, our court system doesn’t yet agree. It can’t be used as evidence, but it might point me to the culprit.”
“Where did you find that paper?” I narrowed my eyes.
