Page 21

“Nothing to forgive, Miss Faraday.” Gideon knew a gentler approach was warranted with a lady so young.

“Did you see your uncle in the morning?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“You took breakfast together, I understand,” Gideon said, recalling the valet’s supposition.

“Oh, I… Yes, I spoke to him briefly, but then I left him in the breakfast room.”

“And what state was he in when you spoke to him, Miss Faraday?”

She blinked and furrowed her brow. “He seemed much as he always does. Focused on the day ahead. Pleasant enough.”

Despite the lady’s soft voice and obvious distress, it struck him that her description of her uncle was not terribly warm.

“He did not seem troubled in any regard?”

Miss Faraday shook her head slowly. “No, Inspector, not that I perceived. He seemed in good health and fine spirits.”

Gideon thought her voice had taken on a wooden quality, tempering what she said, but there was such earnestness in her glassy eyes.

“Can you tell us what happened, Inspector?” she asked quietly.

Her curiosity was not unexpected. Anyone would wish to make some sense of losing a loved one so suddenly.

“There will be an inquest within a matter of days,” he told them, “which you may choose to attend, but I can provide you a few details of the details I know now.”

He glanced at Pennington, and the man lowered his chin, granting Gideon permission to speak of his brother’s death.

“Mr. Percival Pennington was discovered on the pavement, a few doors down on Mount Street, at approximately six in the evening. I’ve spoken to the police surgeon this morning and he believes the attack⁠—”

Miss Faraday let out a sound of distress, and Mr. Pennington wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She pressed her lips together, seemingly to stem any further reaction.

“He was stabbed several times.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing?” the young lady whimpered.

“Determining that answer will be my task, and I vow to do my utmost to find the person responsible.”

“Have there been other such attacks in Mayfair of late?” Pennington had released his hold on his niece and focused his attention on Gideon.

“No, there have been no other similar attacks in the district. May I ask if your brother was in the habit of carrying bank notes on him?”

“Yes, I believe so, but I can’t be certain.”

“None were found, but he was carrying a good deal of coin.”

“And they didn’t take it? Then it was not some violent pickpocket,” Mr. Pennington concluded.

Gideon had lost someone dear to him—his mentor and the man who’d taken him in as a child, Erasmus Poole—to such a violent attack a few years ago. His pockets had been pilfered, and to Gideon’s great regret, the culprit had never been found. But the facts told him that the death of Percival Pennington had not been a matter of an indiscriminate attack. The presence of his rings and stick pin, the lack of any signs that Pennington had fought his attacker, and the kerchief placed over his face meant the murder was personal, not random.

“I am at the very outset of my investigation and still gathering facts,” he told the murdered man’s brother. “So there is not much more I can confide.”

“Tell us how we may aid you in your investigation, Inspector,” Lance Pennington said.

“I understand your brother was a barrister. Could his work have exposed him to someone who may have borne him ill will?” Gideon flicked his gaze between the two. “And if so, do you know of anyone in particular who might have wished to do Mr. Pennington harm?”

The young lady let out a barely audible gasp. “You think this was done by someone he knew?”