“Serious enough I shall need brandy?” he quipped.
“Serious enough that we cannot joke about it. Actually, yes, pour us both a glass,” she requested, “and I’ll tell you.”
Adelia had to be honest with herself—with all her brother’s mysterious comings and goings, particularly the late-night disappearances, she felt…disturbed. Also, there was Mr. Beaumont’s intimation something was wrong concerning Thomas. Obviously, he was not a murderer, but what was he up to, and why wouldn’t he tell her about the dark-haired woman?
He was behaving so strangely, and due to what she’d learned from Owen, it seemed a bad time for odd behavior of any type.
Perhaps she could start with a question.
“Where were you last evening?”
He handed her a glass with a finger of brandy. His own had a good deal more.
He shook his head. “I am not going to tell you, Dilly.”
“Why?” she asked, wishing her voice didn’t have a pleading edge.
“I am allowed a private life, as any man.”
“Only tell me if you are in any trouble,” she asked, “over your mysterious late nights, this new woman, or any other reason?”
“Absolutely not. And what on earth can you mean bytrouble? I tell you, I am not going to speak more of her. But it shouldn’t concern you.”
“Youconcern me. I love you, Thomas. But if you won’t speak with me about matters of the heart,” she paused as he rolled his eyes, “we must speak on another matter. Did you have some sort of relationship with Lady Sophia Burnley?”
He frowned. “Didn’t we discuss this already the other day?”
“Not satisfactorily,” she confessed. “You said you thought you might have had an interest in her.”
“That lady is deceased. What is the point in thinking about what-ifs?”
“Is there some reason she might have had something of yours?” She watched him carefully, unable to believe she was having this conversation with her own brother.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She sighed. It was too awful to speak of, but she must. “Why would something of yours be found with her?”
He sipped the brandy. “You’re speaking nonsense. What of mine was found where?”
“Your handkerchief,” Adelia said, taking a large sip and coughing.
The lines in his forehead cleared. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that very topic. Do you know what has happened to all my handkerchiefs? My valet keeps providing me with these plain kerchiefs that are scratchier than my usual ones.”
He didn’t seem the least concerned about what she’d said. She would have to speak more plainly.
“Bluntly, Thomas, as it turns out, one ofyourhandkerchiefs was found in Lady Sophia Burnley’s handsaftershe was murdered.”
*
Owen was backat the location of her death, stalking the area as he did many nights. He had no idea what he was hoping to find beyond spotting someone or something that didn’t belong. His sister had been appallingly out of place in the seediest section of the East End. It stood to reason, therefore, that whoever killed her also didn’t belong.
He wandered into a pub, taking note of the riffraff and the rest. Probably, most of them were simply honest workers, enjoying a drink before going home, but he couldn’t help looking at all of them with suspicion. Notwithstanding, he couldn’t draw out the handkerchief and start asking questions. That was a fool’s errand and would surely get him laughed clear out of the tavern, or worse.
On the other hand, with his manner of dress, he stood out like a horse at a dog race. Maybe he could work his way through the local taverns in a mile radius with a simpler question than one about a handkerchief.
Approaching the bar, he asked the man behind it, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a friend of mine lately, dresses like me, was in the area a few weeks back?”
The bartender regarded him casually.
