“Is there something else, Lord Burnley?”
The detective was smart. If he could help in some way, then Owen didn’t want to hamper his efforts. He drew the handkerchief from his pocket.
“My sister had this in her hand.”
Garrard’s eyebrows shot up. “You should have given it to me immediately.”
“Actually, I’m not giving it to you now. I’m merely showing it to you. It is more likely I will find its match when I am out and about in society, than you will happen upon it in your investigation.”
The detective considered Owen’s words and nodded. “Very well. Let me look at it.”
Reluctantly, he handed it over. Garrard studied it thoroughly, before sitting down and grabbing a tablet and pencil. He sketched a crude drawing of the handkerchief’s pattern.
“It is unusual,” Owen said.
“Agreed. Not a simple monogram that might narrow down its owner.”
Still, it was better than nothing, and Owen silently thanked his little sister for somehow hanging onto it. He held out his hand, and the detective gave it back.
“Is there anything else?” Garrard asked.
“I suppose the shopgirl at the arcade could give a description of the urchin who brought the note luring my sister to her death.”
The detective shook his head. “I’ve tried that avenue already, my lord. Sounds as though he looks like every other guttersnipe of indeterminate age. Sandy hair, malnourished, grubby clothing.” He shrugged. “I could more easily find a needle in a haystack.”
Owen left feeling hopeless, except for something Whitely had said when he’d looked at the handkerchief.
“Get back into the Season,” George told him. “Keep your eyes open for a similar handkerchief. I shall do the same.”
His other good friend could be of no help. Lord Christopher Westing had very limited vision, shadowy shapes, at best. And he and his wife, Lady Jane, barely ventured out due to their new baby. The best thing Owen could do was go back into society.
Beyond that, he had one lead to follow. Leaving Scotland Yard behind, Owen directed his driver to the less fashionable area above Hyde Park. The D’Anvilles, neither well-known nor well-off, kept a London home there. When he’d been staring at the handkerchief the previous night, the hulking son of the family came to mind.
Owen pounded on the door before realizing what he was doing. Withdrawing his hand, he pressed the bell. Half a minute later, the door swung inward.
“Yes?” inquired a butler.
Owen thrust his calling card into the man’s hand.
“I wish to see Lord D’Anville.”
“Of course, my lord. Which one?”
“Any will do.”
The butler didn’t raise an eyebrow. He simply stepped back and let Owen enter.
“Please, my lord, will you wait in the front room?”
The butler led him into a small drawing room and departed to find his master. While waiting for some member of the D’Anville family, Owen surveyed the room, trying to determine anything about them. The paintings were unremarkable landscapes, and the few books on display were dusty, boring tomes of the plays of Euripides and Gibbon’sHistory of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empirein six volumes, looking as if they were only there for display.
Just when he heard footsteps, however, he spied a volume with a French title,Julie ou La Nouvelle Héloïseon the small table beside the sofa.
Sliding it toward him, he considered Rousseau’s epistolary novel of passionate lovers and picked it up. Someone had been reading in French. A shiver ran up his spine. In fact, he thought he’d seen the very same book in his sister’s hand not that long ago.
Flipping through the fictional letters between the two main characters, Owen wondered if this could be a connection.
“Good day, Lord Burnley.”
