prevented,” I suggested. I recalled that Ord had been in London in March. “She kept the note and used it here for the first
time.”
“Intending to elope with the same man both times?” Heron asked sceptically.
“It’s too much to believe surely that she had plans to elope with two different men?”
Bedwalters nodded. “If it’s the case that her inamorato murdered her, then at least we have narrowed down the possibilities. The man must have been in London in March and here
now.”
This of course eliminated me, I thought with some relief, but I could not avoid saying again, with some reluctance, that it was unlikely her lover would have needed to attack her in the street.
Heron said nothing; Bedwalters merely stood silent for a moment then turned back to the door. “I believe I need to talk further to Mr Mazzanti.”
We followed, of course.
The house was small; upstairs were only three rooms and the stairs to the attic. Philip Ord and John Mazzanti were trading insults at the foot of the attic stairs; on either
side the doors to the rooms were firmly shut. Ord was accusing Mazzanti of exploiting Julia without regard for her welfare, Mazzanti was accusing Ord of trying to seduce his daughter. I thought
both accusations were probably true.
Bedwalters said, in a quiet voice, “Gentlemen.”
Both men looked round; Ord glowered at me, sneered at Bedwalters, then flushed when he saw Heron’s cool gaze.
“I believe you have no more business here, Mr Ord,” Bedwalters said implacably. “Mr Heron will let you out of the house – he is going down to comfort Mrs
Mazzanti.”
It was a masterly stroke, getting rid of both gentlemen at once. For a moment, I thought neither would co-operate; Ord was red with fury, Heron tight-jawed. But the laws of civilised behaviour,
inculcated in us all, and in particular the gentry, since birth, won; Heron drew back to usher Ord ahead of him, which was strictly impolite, as Heron was the older, wealthier and better-connected,
but it established at once who was the master. Ord clattered off in a great rush and could be heard furiously tugging at the bolts of the door.
Bedwalters apparently had no intention of requiring me to go, which I took as a compliment, and as a tacit admission that his question to me earlier had been a matter of form. He regarded
Mazzanti steadfastly, the note in his hand. “Where did you find this?”
Mazzanti looked half-drunk, half-dazed. “On her bed,” he said thickly. “I told you.”
“When?” I said.
“When we laid her body there.” He might be half-dazed but he was still capable of guile. “The labourers were there,” he said. “They saw it.”
“When did you put it there?” I asked.
He swung a fist at me. I was half-expecting it and ducked, but stumbled against the wall. The muscles in my back groaned in pain.
Bedwalters took hold of Mazzanti’s flailing arm. “If you would leave this to me, Mr Patterson. You have seen the note before, I believe, Mr Mazzanti.”
Now Mazzanti looked more confused than ever. “Before?”
Bedwalters showed him the crossed-out date. “She eloped once before in March – in London, I presume.”
“No.” Mazzanti put a hand to his head. “No.” He swayed. “Never. She was a dutiful daughter.” He drew himself upright with some difficulty. “She would
never run away. I was going to make her the best actress in London. The richest.”
He started to weep, a thin keening sound; he stood at the foot of the stairs, his face contorted, a thin mewling sound drifting from his half-open mouth. A single tear trickled down his cheek.
Bedwalters reddened with embarrassment; I hovered, without the slightest idea of what to do.
“Come downstairs, sir,” Bedwalters said at last, and, hand on Mazzanti’s arm, helped him down the stairs to the hall. I limped behind, stumbling on one of the stairs, which
creaked alarmingly. Mazzanti was still weeping. Our descent was noisy and brought
time.”
“Intending to elope with the same man both times?” Heron asked sceptically.
“It’s too much to believe surely that she had plans to elope with two different men?”
Bedwalters nodded. “If it’s the case that her inamorato murdered her, then at least we have narrowed down the possibilities. The man must have been in London in March and here
now.”
This of course eliminated me, I thought with some relief, but I could not avoid saying again, with some reluctance, that it was unlikely her lover would have needed to attack her in the street.
Heron said nothing; Bedwalters merely stood silent for a moment then turned back to the door. “I believe I need to talk further to Mr Mazzanti.”
We followed, of course.
The house was small; upstairs were only three rooms and the stairs to the attic. Philip Ord and John Mazzanti were trading insults at the foot of the attic stairs; on either
side the doors to the rooms were firmly shut. Ord was accusing Mazzanti of exploiting Julia without regard for her welfare, Mazzanti was accusing Ord of trying to seduce his daughter. I thought
both accusations were probably true.
Bedwalters said, in a quiet voice, “Gentlemen.”
Both men looked round; Ord glowered at me, sneered at Bedwalters, then flushed when he saw Heron’s cool gaze.
“I believe you have no more business here, Mr Ord,” Bedwalters said implacably. “Mr Heron will let you out of the house – he is going down to comfort Mrs
Mazzanti.”
It was a masterly stroke, getting rid of both gentlemen at once. For a moment, I thought neither would co-operate; Ord was red with fury, Heron tight-jawed. But the laws of civilised behaviour,
inculcated in us all, and in particular the gentry, since birth, won; Heron drew back to usher Ord ahead of him, which was strictly impolite, as Heron was the older, wealthier and better-connected,
but it established at once who was the master. Ord clattered off in a great rush and could be heard furiously tugging at the bolts of the door.
Bedwalters apparently had no intention of requiring me to go, which I took as a compliment, and as a tacit admission that his question to me earlier had been a matter of form. He regarded
Mazzanti steadfastly, the note in his hand. “Where did you find this?”
Mazzanti looked half-drunk, half-dazed. “On her bed,” he said thickly. “I told you.”
“When?” I said.
“When we laid her body there.” He might be half-dazed but he was still capable of guile. “The labourers were there,” he said. “They saw it.”
“When did you put it there?” I asked.
He swung a fist at me. I was half-expecting it and ducked, but stumbled against the wall. The muscles in my back groaned in pain.
Bedwalters took hold of Mazzanti’s flailing arm. “If you would leave this to me, Mr Patterson. You have seen the note before, I believe, Mr Mazzanti.”
Now Mazzanti looked more confused than ever. “Before?”
Bedwalters showed him the crossed-out date. “She eloped once before in March – in London, I presume.”
“No.” Mazzanti put a hand to his head. “No.” He swayed. “Never. She was a dutiful daughter.” He drew himself upright with some difficulty. “She would
never run away. I was going to make her the best actress in London. The richest.”
He started to weep, a thin keening sound; he stood at the foot of the stairs, his face contorted, a thin mewling sound drifting from his half-open mouth. A single tear trickled down his cheek.
Bedwalters reddened with embarrassment; I hovered, without the slightest idea of what to do.
“Come downstairs, sir,” Bedwalters said at last, and, hand on Mazzanti’s arm, helped him down the stairs to the hall. I limped behind, stumbling on one of the stairs, which
creaked alarmingly. Mazzanti was still weeping. Our descent was noisy and brought
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