“They have probably never heard of you.”
Grenville looked affronted, then he smiled. “Touché. You pay the call, and I’ll follow along as an anonymous gentleman.”
I studied the fire, not answering. Grenville waited, and I sensed his impatience. I looked up to find his dark eyes upon me and something in them that had lost friendliness.
“Very well,” I said. “Let us journey to Hampstead.”
*** *** ***
After Grenville left me, I let the fire die down. He’d stoked it with at least a week’s supply of coal, with the zeal of a man who never had to think about the cost of fuel.
I sat in the wing chair he’d vacated and let my hands fall limply over the sides. I sensed melancholia, black, menacing, and watching, start to creep over me. I closed my eyes and willed it away. When it struck me, it often laid me abed for days, rendering me unable to move or eat. But I needed all my faculties at the moment. Jane Thornton was still missing, perhaps in danger, and I wanted to find her. I could give in to despair after that.
The murderer had cheated me out of throttling the whereabouts of Jane from Horne’s throat. But the butler, Bremer, must know, or Grace, the maid. They were the only ones allowed to wait on the two girls, and a man could hardly spirit away one young woman and hide another without the help of his butler, valet, or coachman.
Pomeroy would bully most of the information out of Bremer, but I still wanted a go at the spindly butler. Pomeroy would not know the right questions to ask. I’d lost my temper today, but I’d get Bremer in my hands again and interrogate him coldly. He had to know something.
The valet was another matter. I would wait until Pomeroy tracked down the valet—which he would—then ask the man pointed questions. Grenville was right when he’d commented that the valet could very well have let himself into the house, slain his master, then let himself out again, without the other servants seeing him. He’d know who was likely to be where in the house, and perhaps he had been disgusted by Horne’s proclivities. Or perhaps he’d been jealous and wanted Jane or Aimee for himself. Or perhaps the murder had nothing to do with Jane and Aimee whatsoever.
Someone knocked on my door, making my head throb with each rap. Only one person would think to pound on my door so late.
I called out, “Go away, Marianne. I don’t have any candles to spare.”
This was met with silence. Usually Marianne would make foul remarks about my stinginess and enter anyway.
The knock did not sound again. I supposed I should rise and see whether anyone stood on the stairs beyond the door, but I did not have the strength.
The handle moved, and the door swung open. Janet Clarke stood on my threshold.
The strength returned to my limbs in a rush. I was out of the chair and halfway across the room before she could step inside.
She smiled at me. “Hello, my dear old lad.”
Chapter Ten
I caught Janet’s hands and more or less dragged her inside. She drew a breath to speak, but I gathered her against me and held her in a crushing embrace. I had no idea whether she’d come to speak to me, or to say good-bye, or to talk over old times, but for that instant I needed her as she was, needed her to take me to the past where I’d been, for a brief moment, happy.
Janet raised her face from my shoulder. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed, but she still smiled. “That happy to see me, are you?”
I said hoarsely, “Yes.”
She straightened the lapels of my coat. “Then I am glad I asked Mrs. Brandon for your direction. She was very gracious.”
I smoothed Janet’s hair. I had no right at all to hold her like this, to touch her, but I somehow could not let go. “Mrs. Brandon is always gracious.”
“She told me about your injury. It hurts you, does it not?”
“The break never healed properly, but if I take care, it doesn’t pain me too much.”
Janet slid from my grasp and took
Grenville looked affronted, then he smiled. “Touché. You pay the call, and I’ll follow along as an anonymous gentleman.”
I studied the fire, not answering. Grenville waited, and I sensed his impatience. I looked up to find his dark eyes upon me and something in them that had lost friendliness.
“Very well,” I said. “Let us journey to Hampstead.”
*** *** ***
After Grenville left me, I let the fire die down. He’d stoked it with at least a week’s supply of coal, with the zeal of a man who never had to think about the cost of fuel.
I sat in the wing chair he’d vacated and let my hands fall limply over the sides. I sensed melancholia, black, menacing, and watching, start to creep over me. I closed my eyes and willed it away. When it struck me, it often laid me abed for days, rendering me unable to move or eat. But I needed all my faculties at the moment. Jane Thornton was still missing, perhaps in danger, and I wanted to find her. I could give in to despair after that.
The murderer had cheated me out of throttling the whereabouts of Jane from Horne’s throat. But the butler, Bremer, must know, or Grace, the maid. They were the only ones allowed to wait on the two girls, and a man could hardly spirit away one young woman and hide another without the help of his butler, valet, or coachman.
Pomeroy would bully most of the information out of Bremer, but I still wanted a go at the spindly butler. Pomeroy would not know the right questions to ask. I’d lost my temper today, but I’d get Bremer in my hands again and interrogate him coldly. He had to know something.
The valet was another matter. I would wait until Pomeroy tracked down the valet—which he would—then ask the man pointed questions. Grenville was right when he’d commented that the valet could very well have let himself into the house, slain his master, then let himself out again, without the other servants seeing him. He’d know who was likely to be where in the house, and perhaps he had been disgusted by Horne’s proclivities. Or perhaps he’d been jealous and wanted Jane or Aimee for himself. Or perhaps the murder had nothing to do with Jane and Aimee whatsoever.
Someone knocked on my door, making my head throb with each rap. Only one person would think to pound on my door so late.
I called out, “Go away, Marianne. I don’t have any candles to spare.”
This was met with silence. Usually Marianne would make foul remarks about my stinginess and enter anyway.
The knock did not sound again. I supposed I should rise and see whether anyone stood on the stairs beyond the door, but I did not have the strength.
The handle moved, and the door swung open. Janet Clarke stood on my threshold.
The strength returned to my limbs in a rush. I was out of the chair and halfway across the room before she could step inside.
She smiled at me. “Hello, my dear old lad.”
Chapter Ten
I caught Janet’s hands and more or less dragged her inside. She drew a breath to speak, but I gathered her against me and held her in a crushing embrace. I had no idea whether she’d come to speak to me, or to say good-bye, or to talk over old times, but for that instant I needed her as she was, needed her to take me to the past where I’d been, for a brief moment, happy.
Janet raised her face from my shoulder. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed, but she still smiled. “That happy to see me, are you?”
I said hoarsely, “Yes.”
She straightened the lapels of my coat. “Then I am glad I asked Mrs. Brandon for your direction. She was very gracious.”
I smoothed Janet’s hair. I had no right at all to hold her like this, to touch her, but I somehow could not let go. “Mrs. Brandon is always gracious.”
“She told me about your injury. It hurts you, does it not?”
“The break never healed properly, but if I take care, it doesn’t pain me too much.”
Janet slid from my grasp and took
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