“I’m sure she will. And I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that you and Bart planned to marry. You must miss him dreadfully. But are you absolutely sure you heard correctly when he accused Mrs. Chance of thinking him a fool?”
Alice sniffed and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I did, Lady Helen. Clear as day.”
Helen’s first thought as she left the room was to tell Peyton about the latest information she’d gleaned when next he called. How hopeless she’d become! She sighed, vexed with herself, and hurried to her bedroom to change her gown. She was to accompany Diana on a shopping jaunt to purchase bonnets and fripperies, and for once, Helen welcomed the distraction, desperate to banish the handsome man from her mind. She must not allow herself to consider the impossible, that she might find happiness, for that was rare, elusive, and, in her experience, fleeting.
Chapter Twelve
In the Bow Street magistrate’s house, Jason learned that the magistrate’s findings declared Bart’s death a probable suicide because he was already desperately ill and in great pain. Dalby, the Bow Street runner, had lost interest in the case.
“It’s like finding a needle in a stack of hay,” he said. “Can’t afford to waste me time on it when there’s ready money to be made elsewhere.”
“I thought Lady Kinsey employed you,” Jason said, surprised but also relieved to have free rein to find the killer. Runners always looked for a lucrative job. Surely this was one.
Dalby’s expression turned sour. “Fired me. Said she’d rather you dealt with it, milord. Feels it’s a delicate matter. Doesn’t want me upsetting the household.”
“Did you turn up anything?”
“A long shot, but it’s possible the tonic was tampered with before it reached Kinsey House. Bartholomew Smythe was known to enjoy a few ales at the Lamb and Flag in Westminster on his afternoons off. The innkeeper recalls him showing the bottle to the drinkers in the taproom.”
Jason took a hackney to the narrow brick two-story inn situated in Lazenby Court, a back lane off Rose Street, known for its bare-knuckle fighting.
In the lane outside the pub, two lady-birds in their shabby finery sidled up to Jason with hopeful smiles. He winked, shook his head, and entered the taproom. A blend of unpleasant odors greeted him in the damp air, hops, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Jason wondered what the attraction such a place had for Bart. Perhaps just the fellowship he’d enjoyed in the army. A lone sailor sat in a corner, staring forlornly into his ale.
“Bart was in high dudgeon that evening, milord. Eager to draw someone’s cork,” the innkeeper said, running a cloth over the tables. His broken nose, muscled chest, and tattooed, beefy forearms revealed a history of bare-knuckle boxing and time spent in the Navy. “Picked an argument with some cove.”
“What did the man look like?”
“Eh? Big dark-haired bruiser. Not one of me regulars. I had to separate the two of ’em in the end.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Pluck to the backbone was Bart. Wanted to prove he could win a fight with one arm. He accounted for himself well with an excellent right hook. Drew quite an audience. But while they was sorting it out, he’d left his tonic bottle on the table, and it got knocked over. Didn’t spill, but anyone could have got at it with everyone watching the fight.”
Jason shook his head. “Hardly likely to carry arsenic around on them.”
“But they wouldn’t have to, milord. I keep it here.” He gestured with his thumb at the cupboard door behind him. “Use it to get rid of the rats. It’s common knowledge.”
“Do you think any of them were likely to do Bart in with arsenic?”
He paused then shook his head. “They’d prefer using their fists or knives to poison. Poisoning’s a woman’s game.”
Jason nodded toward the door into the inn’s parlor, where the two women sat drinking. “Did Bart show any interest in the light-skirts?”
“Saw ’em approach him a few times, but Bart didn’t seem to be in the petticoat line.”
Jason took out some coins and placed them on the table. “Would you ask your regulars who witnessed Bart’s fight if they know what caused it? I’ll be back in a day or so.”
The innkeeper’s words stayed with Jason as he traveled home. He’d heard the view expressed that women favored poison. But he was sure Newgate had accommodated its fair share of male poisoners in the cells. Could Bart have come to grief at the hands of someone in the Lamb and Flag? As Dalby had suggested, it did seem to be a long shot.
Jason’s mood didn’t improve after he’d walked through the door. It seemed both his siblings were unhappy, although only one was unhappy with him, at least.
“You were to escort me to the art gallery today, Jas.” Lizzie glared at him as they drank a glass of wine before dinner. “But you had left when I came down to breakfast and have been gone all day.”
He’d become so caught up with finding Bart’s killer that he’d clean forgotten today was the day he’d promised to go to the exhibition. Unlike him to break a promise. He grimaced. It made him realize how involved he’d become with this investigation. “Lord, I’m sorry, Lizzie. Will tomorrow do?”
“I suppose it will, but the Baron did appear downcast by your indifference.”
“It wasn’t indifference. I’ve been caught up in something that demands my attention. A family in need, Lizzie.”
“The Kinseys, I know.”
Jason gave a bark of laughter. “How do you know?”
