“The story is too long for the front door.”
“Another time, then.”Blast,Julia thought.I sound so… Shetried to infuse more warmth in her voice and said, “Good night, Richard, and happy Christmas.”
Julia closed the door and leaned against it, eying her look of dejection in the hall mirror.What’s wrong with me?
When her hansom cab had pulled up on Horseferry Road, and she’d seen him for the first time in months, her heart had leaped.Not something described in my anatomy books, she thought wryly. And what had she done? She’d coolly brushed his cheeks when she’d wanted to wrap her arms around him.And I call him buttoned up.One thing she knew.We’ve become too polite with each other. Perhaps…
Julia nodded, smiling at the mirror’s reflection.Yes.A healthy jolt of annoyance might shake things up. In the past, she’d been skilled at provoking it. She had an idea about a line of inquiry that needed pursuing.Why not?She pulled her skirts away from her ankles and bounded upstairs to her sitting room. She found the half-completed thank-you note to Lady Styles on her desk. Alexandra’s lady-in-waiting had sent Christmas wishes and a twenty-pound contribution to the clinic from the princess. Lady Styles had added a postscript, writing that she hoped the doctor had room on her private patient’s list for her, as well.
Room? I can add an auditorium of ladies-in-waiting to my practice.
Julia thought for a minute, added a question for Lady Styles, and sealed the letter.There. It’s done.
In Tennant’s office on Monday morning, O’Malley reported his lack of progress in the Dermott inquiry.
“Throwing money around a pub always earns praise from a barkeep,” Tennant said. “We’ll have to look elsewhere for information.”
“’Tis early to hear back from Brigid Dowling’s employers in Ireland. Something might turn up in her belongings.”
Tennant asked, “Any joy over the canvass of the theatrical supply shops?”
“Nothing so far, but there’s more of them than you’d think. Our coppers are still on it.”
“Our only witness is that young sweep who saw Brigid entering the carriage. He said the ginger-bearded suspect was a tall fellow. So is Dermott, and an absurd disguise would appeal to his odd sense of humor.”
A young policeman knocked. “Arrived by messenger, sir.” He handed the inspector an envelope.
Tennant turned it over and read the flap. “Well, well. Speak of the devil.” He opened it and read through the opening lines. “Sir Lionel sends us Frederick Locock’s address, as promised.” The inspector read the rest of the note and chuckled.
“You said the fella’s something of a card. What’s he saying for himself?”
“Dermott is trying his best to incriminate Major FitzGerald for Brigid Dowling’s murder. Listen to this. ‘I ran into Skittles on my ride in Hyde Park this morning and—’”
“Skittles, sir?”
“Catherine Walters, known as Skittles, is a high-priced courtesan, rumored to be the mistress of a long list of wealthy and important gentlemen, including the Prince of Wales.”
O’Malley shook his head. “And him, a young father of three and married to the lovely princess.”
“Dermott writes, ‘I remembered seeing FitzGerald riding with Skittles recently. Checked my diary, and happily—’ He’s underlined the word for us. ‘I noted an outing in the park on the morning in question, as you coppers say. So, FitzGerald was in London on the fateful day of Brigid Dowling’s murder!’”
“Why happily? What’s the major done to him?”
“He doesn’t like the man, so it amuses Dermott to implicate him.”
“Sure, it’s daft since he puts himself in the frame as well.”
“Sir Lionel knows that, Paddy. It speaks to his innocence or a breathtaking arrogance if he’s guilty.” Tennant passed the note to O’Malley. “At least we have one accurate piece of information—Captain Locock’s address.”
“St. James Mews. Off Cleveland Row and near Green Park, he’s saying.”
“It’s early and a short walk. Let’s see if we can catch Locock at home. We’ll ask him what took him to the Isle of Wight in October.”
Their trek took them past the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall and along Cleveland Row. The first right turn was St. James Mews. Six Georgian town houses lined the courtyard. O’Malley’s knock at number three went unanswered. Tennant stopped a passing postman who said the Lococks would be away through Christmas. From the pavement, Tennant looked up at the house, jingling the coins in his overcoat pocket.
“What’s your guess, Paddy? How much would the monthly rent set one back?”
“More than I earn in a year, I’m thinking.”
