Owen frowned. Whitely was being unkind.
“What about you, Westing? What is your impression of her?”
The marquess paused, which Owen appreciated, as he was a thoughtful man.
“On first impression, I would say Whitely is correct, but that’s only because I haven’t taken the time to speak with her. I have to confess to laboring under similar misconceptions about my wife. And I recall you both said she was not my type. Too stuffy or too retiring or some such drivel. But Lady Jane is, as you know, absolutely perfect for me. As soon as I took the time to know her, it became so obvious. I couldn’t believe my own prior stupidity in not noticing her.”
Owen considered his words. “It’s very difficult to have a conversation and get to know someone who won’t speak two words to me, and when Lady Adelia does, her words are so damnably quiet, I cannot tell what she’s saying.”
Whitely laughed loudly, then stopped abruptly. It was what everyone around Owen did since his sister’s demise. No one felt they could laugh, including him. It seemed disrespectful. Perhaps it would forever be thus, even after he caught the killer.
“I ran into Lady Adelia at a stationer’s shop today,” Owen told them.
He paused at his friends’ expressions. “Why are you looking like that? What is wrong?”
“Why wereyouat a stationer’s shop?” Chris asked.
Whitely sent him a questioning look. Owen hadn’t shared the killer’s note with anyone but him.
“I had a note,” he told Chris, “from the murderer.”
“How on earth?” Chris asked, and Owen explained the circumstances.
“What do you meanhad?” George asked.
“I gave it to the detective after he pointed out the watermark. I located the type of paper it was written on at the stationer’s. In fact, Lade Adelia was buying a tablet of the very same paper. John Dickinson is the manufacturer.”
Chris nodded. “My mother has always written on a J.D. watermarked paper. I don’t know what my wife uses, as I cannot see it.”
“I understand it is common, and probably impossible to find every person in London who has it. But it does indicate a person of quality,” he said, echoing the detective.
“Indeed,” Chris agreed. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” Owen paused as his throat closed with emotion. “Sophia had a handkerchief clutched in her hand. I didn’t give it to the detective, but he drew the pattern so he knows what to look for. Whitely didn’t recognize it. I hoped you might.”
“May I hold it?” Chris asked.
Owen handed it over and explained what his friend was feeling, “It looks like the shape of an anvil sewn into the lace.”
Westing frowned.
“And before you say anything,” George said, “Owen has already ascertained it does not belong to the D’Anville family by assaulting them.”
“What?” Chris turned his face toward him.
Owen grimaced. “I didn’t assault all of them, only the whey-faced son. Not my finest hour, I admit, and their handkerchief was not the one I sought. Nor that of Lord Farrier.”
“Whom he dragged outside at a ball,” George added.
“Owen,” Chris warned. “You’re going to find yourself locked up if you’re not careful, and then you won’t be any help to your parents.”
Owen dismissed his friend’s warning with a wave of his hand, belatedly remembering his friend could hardly see more than a blurry shadow.
“Regardless, in the past, did you ever see such a handkerchief?”
“Nothing comes to mind. We shall ask Lady Jane when she comes downstairs.”
“Thank you. If you will do so on my behalf, I would greatly appreciate it. I should get going.”
