Dangerous Dalliance by Joan Smith Page B

meant. Something easy to handle and conceal. You should go home and get it. And really, you know, you should visit your mother and tell her you’re staying here. There’s time to do it before dinner.”
    “I’d best do it, or I’ll never hear the end of it. I need some clean linen besides.”
    He left, and I went upstairs for my meeting with Snoad, thinking about what story I would tell him. I was to be ignorant of any spy dealings, which meant Papa’s murder must be either senseless, or involve Mrs. Mobley and a jealous lover. I could not like to lumber my father with a tasteless posthumous scandal involving that woman, so I opted for an accidental slaying.
    I would keep my eyes and ears open while I was with Snoad. Now that I knew him for a villain, I might pick up something I had overlooked before.
    The loft was unchanged, so far as I could tell at a glance. Snoad still wore his jacket and cravat, which looked out of place as he was sweeping the floor. He looked up when he heard the door close.
    “I was just preparing for your visit,” he said, lifting the broom. I thought he was embarrassed to be caught at such a low job. But then, it was one of his regular duties, so there was no reason he should be.
    “It looks very tidy.”
    He set the broom aside and came to meet me. “You were going to tell me how things went in Brighton,” he said.
    The seating arrangements in the loft were primitive. Two abandoned kitchen chairs and a deal table had been brought up. They were discolored from exposure to the damp, so I avoided them. We walked back and forth along the parapet as we talked.
    “It was very curious,” I said. “The police were not at all helpful. No one saw the murder.”
    “Where was the body found? In the hotel, or in some back alley?”
    I hesitated a moment, and decided against the hotel. To add a touch of veracity, I chose a specific location. “At the fish market. Perhaps he was going to bring us home some fresh fish.”
    Snoad listened, tension in every line of his body. “So he was killed in Brighton then.”
    Now, too late, I wondered if I should have opted for London. “Yes,” I said.
    “He wasn’t buying fish. More likely it was an assignation. He was not planning to return till the next afternoon. He wouldn’t buy fish so early in his visit. What time of day was he killed? Evening, I assume.”
    “Yes, the body was found around dinnertime.”
    “Did the constable tell you why it was taken to London?”
    “No.”
    “He must have given some excuse,” Snoad persisted. He was a close questioner!
    “They—there was no identification on him. They thought he was a Londoner, just down for a visit, and took his body there.”
    “But his wallet was returned with his body. He carried his calling cards in it.”
    “It must have been at the hotel.”
    “He wouldn’t go out without it. If the police knew he was staying at the Royal Crescent, then they would have no trouble discovering who he was. There’s something havey cavey about this.”
    I was becoming annoyed at Snoad’s curiosity and spoke sharply. “The constable was not very helpful. The man who actually handled the case was not working yesterday. The other one, the one who attended us, had only the report to go by.”
    “And you’re going to leave it like this?” he demanded angrily. “Your father is murdered, and you stay only half a day, without even speaking to the constable who found him?”
    “We put notices in the journals. If anyone saw anything, they will be in touch with us. What do you expect of me? He’s dead. Prying into it is not going to bring him back.”
    “By God, if it were my father who had been shot, I would make more effort than this to find his assassin, and kill him.”
    “Well, he was not your father. He was mine, and if there were any evidence, you may be sure I would follow it up. I would stop at nothing to get revenge on whoever harmed him. That poor, innocent man. Someone ought to pay. I am