I saluted her back. I didn’t know if it were her words or the brandy, but my spirit revived. Self-pity was for the weak. It did no one any good to look back. Eyes forward, as Father used to say, though he had been talking about my and my brother’s tendency to stare out the window instead of paying attention to our lessons, not metaphorically.
Still, it was a good reminder. Once we learned who’d killed Lady Richford and her son, I could refocus my attention on saving my club.
Which reminded me. “Jane, will you tell the rest of the household to prepare to host a dinner party? Not large. Twelve at most.”
“Twelve is still a lot to clean and cook for,” she said grumpily. “When is this party to be?”
“In four days’ time.” I lifted my glass to my lips, ignoring her muttered oaths. It might be short notice, but it was moving forward.
In four days’ time, I just might know the identity of the killer.
Chapter Thirty-One
Frederick
Frederick felt moreresignation than guilt when he handed the letter over to Simmons, the agent who studied handwriting at his office on Bow Street. The letter written by Mrs. Lynton to a cousin that was supposed to go out in tomorrow’s post.
The one he had stolen.
The agent had said the brief applications weren’t enough for him to test against. There hadn’t been enough letters in common to compare to the scrap found at Bannister’s.
So, when he’d had tea with Eleanor again, seen the letters by the front door waiting for the morning post, he’d taken one addressed by Mrs. Lynton’s hand.
It had been too easy. He didn’t expect high security in a private residence especially as he’d been invited inside, but there didn’t seem to be enough servants to watch over the house. No one looked askance at his presence nor when he and Eleanor were together unattended. Her mother rarely came down, even for meals it seemed. He couldn’t deny he enjoyed the freedom that gave him and Eleanor, but his gut tensed knowing that she was so unprotected.
He wondered if their butler, Mr. Grosse, would notice that one of the outgoing post was missing from the silver tray in the entry. Would he tell Eleanor? Would she know it had been Frederick who’d taken it?
“Oy, Rollins, Lewis is looking for you.” The agent at the desk next to his looked up from his paperwork.
Frederick tossed his greatcoat over the back of his chair. “And?” He hadn’t spoken to Lewis in some months. He had been Frederick’s partner on the Bow Street Patrol but had remained on the streets while Frederick had been promoted to investigator.
His neighbor blinked. “And what?”
“Where’s Lewis?” Frederick tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “What did he want?”
The man shrugged and turned back to his documents.
Lips pressed tight, Frederick looked around the office. Lewis wasn’t in sight.
“Rollins!” Stauncey stood at the door to his private office. He waved Frederick over, then disappeared back inside.
Frederick went to his office. “Yes, Sir John?”
“Close the door and sit down.”
Frederick did as he said. “I have Simmons analyzing a comparison sample from one of the suspects to the scrap of the letter we found with Bannister’s body. I know that last judge called such evidence quackery, but one never knows if a different judge will be more receptive to the study. And Briley reported back. He thinks the bullet was a 13.2 caliber, most likely shot from a turn-off pocket pistol, or perhaps a pepper-box.”
Stauncey acted as though he hadn’t heard him. “Are you attending a party at Lady Mary Cavindish’s with all of your suspects?” The magistrate steepled his fingers and stared over them at Frederick steadily.
Frederick didn’t react. He hadn’t wanted his employer to know that particular detail, not until the party was over and, hopefully, he’d learned more for the investigation. He had, however, told a few of his fellow agents when he’d asked for their assistance. He wanted to have men outside Lady Mary’s house in case a suspect turned violent or ran. One of them must have snitched.
“I am,” he answered. “This Saturday evening.”
“To what end?” Stauncey frowned. “You think gathering everyone together in a social event will induce the guilty party to confess in front of their peers?” His scornful tone told him what he thought of the idea.
“A confession would be appreciated but not expected.” Frederick tapped his fingers against his thigh. “I do hope that useful information might be let slip in a social situation where I’m certain the wine will be flowing. Lips are tight when questioned by an officer of Bow Street. It can’t hurt.”
Stauncey inhaled sharply. “I don’t approve of using Lady Mary in your investigation. The first murder was at her club. She has a motive, and it doesn’t necessarily align with ours.”
