“That’s what they are figuring out now. The elder Mr. Treadway, Wilburn’s his name, why, he thought Miss Sherard was playing a practical joke. Apparently they knew each other back in the day.”
“Oh no.” Mira’s stomach twisted itself in knots. “Where are they?”
“They’re in the inspector’s office. You know the way.”
“Thank you.”
She, Walker, and Liza moved down the hall to the office. Walker did the honors of knocking. A man with a thin mustache answered the door. Rutledge sat behind his desk, Mrs. Sherard sat in one armchair, an unknown woman sat in the other, and Mary stood by a bookcase with Byron. He stepped forward upon her entrance.
“Miss Blayse, I didn’t realize you were coming,” Byron said.
He glanced back at Rutledge who gave a small shrug. “I didn’t inform her.”
“Greerson did, at the Royal Crescent,” Mira said.
“Are we inviting everyone into our private affairs, now?” the unknown woman said.
“I’m Detective Constantine’s secretary,” she said, turning toWalker and Liza. “Would you be so kind as to wait in the lobby with Constable McGuire?”
Walker nodded and the two of them left. Mira stepped fully into the room and the unknown man, presumably Mr. Treadway, closed the door behind her.
Mira moved to Byron’s side and he handed his journal and pen off to her, corroborating her secretarial half-truth. She skimmed over the last few notes he had made:
Man (Thomas Perch) from army contacted family six months ago. Silas dead.
No papers/letters from government indicating death. (Stolen papers?)
Corpse identity unknown.
Inspector Rutledge cleared his throat. “As I was saying, I understand that this has been a harrowing experience for you—”
“Harrowing?” Mr. Treadway said. “My wife and I were prepared to retrieve my son’s body—a son, mind you, that we have thought dead for months—only to find the body of an entirely unknown man. And a thief, no less.”
Mrs. Treadway dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I was not prepared to be pulled into such a scandal. To be attached to some unknown vagabond. When my dear boy is—” she devolved into earnest sobs. “Dead in some foreign climate, who knows where.”
Mr. Treadway moved to his wife, placing a hand on her back. Mary looked away.
“What we want to know,” Mr. Treadway said, “is how this imposter was able to get hold of my son’s papers.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Rutledge said.
“This man may have been a fellow soldier who took his papers when your son died,” Byron said. “But it’s impossible to prove it one way or the other.”
“We will make an announcement that the man found dead at Wynmar had been masquerading as your son, so as to make it clear that you had no relation to him,” Rutledge said. “Your family will no longer be connected with the thefts.”
“I should think not!” Mrs. Treadway said. “Do people think we are connected?”
“Erm...” Rutledge squirmed like a tortoise who wanted to retreat into its shell.
“There are so many Treadways in England,” Mira said, in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “The only people who know about the possible connection to you specifically are in this room. Save Castel, but he isn’t one to gossip.”
“Castel?” Mrs. Treadway said. “Who is that?”
“Castel Sherard. The next Baron Sherard,” Mr. Treadway said, glancing at Mary. “And if memory serves, we can trust he will be reticent.”
Mary blushed and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry that you came all this way for nothing.”
Mrs. Treadway shifted in her chair, folding up her handkerchief. “I suppose it is better to know about this little incident now, rather than in a few months when rumors may have spread.”
