Peter bent so he too could see what his men had found. It looked like a soft and pliable mass. He reached under the chair with the intention of picking it up, but it was surprisingly heavy. With a frown, he grabbed it and pulled it toward him, sliding it over the floor.
“It looks like a reticule,” Flemming said.
“Most likely because it is,” Peter muttered. One side was covered in blood.
He tugged on the drawstrings until it opened enough for him to reach inside. A hard, smooth surface met his fingers. He pulled it free and saw what it was. An onyx ashtray, unwieldy on its own, but easy to swing at someone’s head when placed in a bag.
In other words, Miss Finch had been armed when she’d faced Gabriella. Unlike Mr. Kipling, however, Gabriella had known what Miss Finch was capable of. The woman had not had the same upper hand. Based on where the reticule ended up, she’d probably thrown it at Gabriella, only to miss and allow Gabriella the chance to grab the scissors and go on attack.
It was the best explanation Peter could think of for now. He’d have to discuss it with Gabriella in order to learn if he was correct.
“The knife looks clean,” said Flemming.
Peter swallowed. It would, wouldn’t it? “I’m guessing Miss Hastings was able to overpower Miss Finch before she could use it.”
“It was Miss Hastings who killed her?” Surprise filled Flemming’s voice. When Peter said nothing, the man huffed a breath. “Is she all right then?”
“Not exactly, but I believe she will be.”
“A bit odd, wouldn’t you say, to wield two weapons at the same time?” Flemming’s voice was pensive.
A chill swept Peter’s spine. He stared at the Runner. “What do you mean?”
“Just that she really must have wanted Miss Hastings dead, is all.”
“Plus the fact that she was a very troubled woman,” Peter murmured. He pushed himself into an upright position. “Just wait until you see what’s upstairs.”
Leaving Flemming and Brown to their work, Peter stepped out onto the pavement and lit a cheroot. He’d done the unthinkable this evening, but did he regret it?
Not when it didn’t prevent a guilty person from being punished or put an innocent person in prison. If anything, his actions would help ensure a blameless woman’s freedom. All he’d done was add weight to her reasoning.
Exactly as Croft would do.
No. He was nothing like Croft. That man had taken the law into his own hands.
As you just did.
He shook his head, tossed the remainder of his cheroot and watched it fizzle on the wet pavement. Croft had killed Clive Newton. Peter was certain of it even if he’d never be able to prove it. He’d killed Benjamin Lawrence and Doctor Ashburry too. There were likely others — a long list of people Croft had taken care of during his father’s reign.
To suppose that he, an officer of the law, was even remotely similar was preposterous.
And yet, as he travelled home later that night, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he and the man he’d once hunted had more in common than he was prepared to admit.
32
May 2, 1819
Adrian stared at the letters that had been carved into the smooth granite headstone.
Evelyne Rosemary Croft. 1800 – 1818. Beloved sister.
A thick layer of grass covered what had been a freshly dug grave twelve months earlier. The daffodils Samantha had planted here last October were now in full bloom, adding a touch of brightness — a perfect reflection of who Evie had been.
Throat tight, Adrian clasped his wife’s hand. “I can’t believe it’s been a full year since I sat across the table from her and chatted about inviting you over for tea.”
“A lot has happened since then,” she whispered. “However challenging some of it may have been, it kept you busy and probably helped you through it.”
“It also stopped me from keeping my promise to her.” He could scarcely stand thinking about the lack of progress he’d made with regard to finding the person responsible for Evie’s murder.
