“They insist. In fact, I’m sure they discuss itbehind my back. I think they’re a little bored with their day-to-day tasks and investigating adds a little excitement.”
“Mind it doesn’t get as exciting as the last murder investigation.”
“You mean don’t let the murderer drag me into a storeroom and try to kill me?”
We stopped to cross the road and his gaze slid to me. “I’d appreciate not having to rescue you again.”
“You must admit it made the evening more interesting.”
He stared at me, hard.
I spotted a gap between the traffic and stepped onto the road. “Come along, Mr. Armitage, or you’ll get left behind.”
We followeda carriage into the narrow mews behind the grand homes on Wilton Place. Lined with coach houses and stable blocks, with residences for servants above, it was the invisible artery used by the outdoor staff and tradesmen. Invisible to the masters and mistresses, that was. We passed The Nag’s Head, where we’d be meeting Thomas Adams later, and continued along the curved section of the mews as it followed the course of Wilton Place and Wilton Crescent.
A pair of coach house doors opened for the carriage and the coachman maneuvered the vehicle through, but not before the horse had left a steaming deposit behind on the cobbles. Mr. Armitage asked the stable hand where we could find Lord Wrexham’s coach house and he pointed to the red brick building with the white doors.
I knocked on the side door and a spotty faced lad opened it. “Is the coachman for the Wrexham house in?” I asked.
The lad’s gaze lifted as Mr. Armitage moved up behind me. I didn’t need to see him to know he was there. I could feel his presence. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s ma’am, actually,” I pointed out. “Iasked the question.”
He looked a little confused, but opened the door and invited us inside. “Mr. Bull, sir!” he shouted in my ear. “There’s a bloke here to see you. And a woman.”
“I’m in here!”
We followed the bellow into the coach house proper. A man looked up from where he’d been polishing the green door of the brougham. It gleamed to a high shine, even in the dull light of the coach house.
“May we speak to you in private?” I asked.
“What about?” Mr. Bull was a balding fellow with a thick beard and bushy eyebrows. He was rather stout and hunched even after straightening.
“We’ll tell you in private.” I glanced at the stable boy who stood by, listening.
“Off with you, lad,” Mr. Bull said in an Irish accent. “Go check on Rosie.”
“But I already have.”
Mr. Bull’s glare was enough to send the youth off to the adjoining stables. The coachman picked up a cloth from the workbench and wiped his hands. “So what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the death of Miss Pearl Westwood,” I said.
He stopped wiping his hands. “Do you work for the police?”
“We’re private detectives. A friend of Miss Westwood’s commissioned us to look into her death as he didn’t think she killed herself.”
He resumed wiping his hands, slowly. I could almost see his mind ticking over, putting the pieces together. He certainly knew who Pearl Westwood was, but that didn’t mean anything in itself. She was famous. “And what’s this got to do with me?”
“Lord Wrexham knew her,” I said.
He returned the cloth to the workbench and picked up the lid to the pot of polish. “Did he?”
“You drove him to her funeral yesterday.”
His hands stilled before he continued screwing on the pot lid. “Do you have any questions, miss, or are you here just to point out facts?”
“Did you drive Lord Wrexham somewhere on the afternoon of Monday the fifteenth?”
