Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Office of the Order
Hart Street, Covent Garden
“So, all evidence points to your cousin being responsible for drugging your patients.” Mr Daventry rested his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped as he contemplated the information. “Doubtless he fed the ladies laudanum to make them amenable to his charms.”
“We’ll never get a confession,” Reid said from the seat opposite. “Not when it means admitting to murder. The magistrate won’t prosecute a viscount’s grandson unless there’s irrefutable proof of guilt.”
“And your grandfather will find some other poor fellow to blame.”
Doubt churned in Sofia’s stomach. She had never met Algernon, but men who made wagers for a lark did not enter the stables of a coaching inn and murder a groom in cold blood.
“I’m convinced the assailant dragged Mrs Beckman downstairs,” she said, recalling the bruising the coroner had dismissed. “They found the other ladies in their beds as if sleeping.”
She learnt that much when Reid showed her his secret room this morning. A map of London covered one wall. There were piles of notes on the deceased: their daily habits, family members’ names and addresses. They had studied the information before burning it in the grate.
“What makes Mrs Beckman’s case different?” Mr Daventry mused.
“If Algernon is Mr Fellows, he was having intimate relations with at least one of the women, potentially while they were subdued.” The scene in her mind bore an uncanny resemblance to her nightmares of Mr Harrop. “Mrs Beckman may have kept her wits and tried to fight him off.”
“Then we cannot let these crimes go unpunished,” Mr Daventry said fiercely, slapping his hand on the desk. “We need proof of guilt. I don’t care if the culprit is a prince of Persia. He will pay for his sins.”
Reid shifted in the seat beside her. “I suspect my grandfather would sooner lay the blame at my door than risk losing a future heir.”
Sofia’s heart crumpled.
Had her husband ever felt loved?
Did he think love came with strict conditions?
She wanted to jump into his lap and confess to caring, but he’d insisted they would never have to worry about fickle feelings. Life with him was beautiful. A dream come true. She could not risk losing him. Yet she feared if she made the declaration, he would think their relationship was doomed, too.
“What about Hickman?” Mr Daventry said.
Reid sighed. “He’s merely guilty of being a fool.”
Was Mr Hickman a fool or a master manipulator? Did he have two faces? The lonely man plagued by nerves, and the confident man caught dining with a woman and taking part in a wicked wager?
Something Mr Turner said entered her mind.
Sometimes I wonder whether Hickman wants us to think he has an illness to hide his incompetence.
“Or Mr Hickman is extremely clever and knows how to deceive those closest to him.” She had found him alone in the dispensary on numerous occasions. “It’s possible he staged the robbery at the practice to throw us off the scent.”
“I’ll have a man watch Hickman for a few days.” Mr Daventry made a note in his leather-bound book. “What’s the situation with the Merricks?”
Sofia explained everything. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Victor killed Judith just to claim the house. It might have been his plan all along.”
Mr Daventry was not shocked to hear of her stepmother’s death. “Did Judith have a will?”
“Victor says she did.” She mentioned Judith had removed all the documents from the study while her father was bedbound. “My father never spoke about his money worries. Judith blamed his gambling, but Mr Chance could find no record of the debts.”
Mr Daventry frowned. “But Judith did own the house?”
“I believe so, but she refused to name the solicitor dealing with the probate application or show me a copy of the will.” They’d argued, and Judith had slapped her, accusing her of being rude and ungrateful. “All the solicitors I visited said they couldn’t disclose confidential information.”
Reid sat forward. “Why didn’t you mention this sooner?”
“Because you had more serious matters to contend with.”
“Have you checked the probate registry?”
“No.” She felt foolish for ignoring the issue for so long. “The Merricks had me living in fear. Escaping was my priority.”
“I’ll have my probate lawyer conduct an investigation. He has friends in the Prerogative Court, which will save time.” Mr Daventry beckoned her to the desk and offered her his steel-nib pen. “Record your father’s details: full name, known address, occupation, place of birth and death.” He turned his attention to Reid. “Are you happy if I send a man to St Albans to meet with the coroner?”
Reid hesitated. “I should be the one dealing with my wife’s affairs. You’ve done enough, and I’m not even paying you.”
Mr Daventry chuckled. “I expect free medical care for life. Besides, you’re both needed elsewhere. The workers at the Hare and Hounds claim they know nothing and saw nothing. They distrust the local justice of the peace, yet you might persuade them to trust you.”
“Did your man speak to Doyle?”
“No one has seen Doyle since the murder. He didn’t return to his lodging house. I sent an agent to his mother’s home in Reigate. Finding him would be a blessing.”
“His disappearance is more than suspicious,” Reid said.
“Yes. Either Doyle killed O’Connor, or he knows who did.”
The Hare and Hounds
Barking Road, London
They waited until eight o’clock that evening before visiting the coaching inn. They spent the short journey devising a plan and kissing until they could barely breathe.
Now they’d arrived, Reid was preoccupied with her safety. “Remain in the carriage while I question the ostlers. Nokes will ensure you come to no harm.”
“What about you?” Panic rose like bile in her throat. Whoever murdered O’Connor would kill again to avoid detection. “These men believe you’re one of them. What if they’ve discovered your real identity and feel betrayed?”
“I can protect myself. The men know I have an alibi. They understand injustice, and I suspect they will be a damn sight more helpful than my grandfather.”
She shuffled to the edge of the seat and gripped the door handle. “I’m coming with you. It’s safer for both of us if we remain together.”
He sighed, accepting defeat, and alighted.
“Stay close,” he said, handing her down.
She stumbled, and he caught her, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her tight to his hard body.
Their gazes locked.
Their breath mingled in the cool night air.
Unspoken words passed between them.
I love you danced in her heart and mind.
Nearly tumbled from her lips.
They kissed, a slow carnal mating, their tongues sliding together like sweat-soaked limbs. Lust tugged low and deep. The yearning in her heart and soul was just as profound.
He pressed himself into her. She couldn’t feel the solid ridge of his arousal through her skirts, but his grinding hips were a silent confession.
Let it always be like this , she thought.
She wished she knew the secret formula for a life filled with love. This man made her drunk, and she hoped she never spent a day sober.
“Minx,” he uttered, breaking contact.
“You kissed me first.”
“Because you did that thing with your mouth, and I couldn’t help myself.” He released her and adjusted himself in his trousers.
“Thing?”
“That coy quirk that says you want to do more than kiss.”
She hit him with the coy quirk now. “Should I stop?”
He captured her chin. “Never stop.”
Heavens! The potent force swirled around them again.
The undeniable energy that defied words.
Did he feel it, too?
She laid her hand on his chest. “Reid, if we don’t move from here, we’ll spend the night frolicking in the carriage. We need to find Mr Doyle.”
“I’ll be glad when this wicked business is over.”
“So will I,” she said, though feared what would happen when he no longer needed to play her protector—when she wasn’t helping him find clues and chase villains.
They gathered their wits and strode to the stables. The woods behind had an eerie presence, like the dark verdure hid a wealth of evil secrets.
Reid entered a stall where an ostler, an older man with lank white hair, was brushing down a chestnut mare. “I’m looking for Jack. He usually works in this row of stalls.”
The fellow barely glanced Reid’s way, though his manner suggested a wariness of strangers. “He’s working at The Wild Pigeon in Upminster. Do you have a horse what needs tending?”
“No. What about George Trainer?”
“At the Pigeon, too.” The ostler straightened, rubbing his aching back. “No one wants to work here, what with the recent murder. Davey stayed. He’s nipped into the inn for a bite of supper.”
Reid thanked the man.
“Everyone’s afraid the mad doctor might return.” The ostler brushed the horse again, smoothing its sleek fur. “They’re scared he’s lingering in the woods, waiting to take a knife to their throats. One mistake and they might lynch the wrong man.”
The comments were a warning to tread carefully. Indeed, Sofia felt a tightening of trepidation as they approached the inn.
All eyes were upon them when they entered the taproom. Conversation died. People froze, tankards half-raised, and stared. The silence stretched until it was painful.
Reid nodded to people he knew.
No one returned the friendly gesture.
The innkeeper rounded the oak counter and approached them, keeping his voice low as he said, “Best make yourself scarce. We heard you’re the doctor whose wife was friends with O’Connor.” He glanced at Sofia like she was the scarlet woman. “They think you’ve done away with Doyle, too, and those fancy friends of yours have helped you get away with murder.”
“None of that is true,” Sofia whispered.
Reid looked the innkeeper in the eye. “I’m innocent of all charges, but if you spare me five minutes, I’ll explain everything.”
The innkeeper scoffed. “If you don’t go now, this lot will beat you senseless and leave your body to rot in the woods.”
Amid the tense atmosphere, Sofia noticed half the tables were empty. “Surely you want to help us find the real culprit. You’ll be driven out of business when people discover the villain stayed here.”
“A witness claims she shared a room with him last week,” Reid added. “He tried to kill her with an overdose of laudanum.”
“If he drugged the witness upstairs,” she began, slightly manipulating the facts, “what’s to say he won’t poison your punters and blame you?”
Long seconds passed.
The innkeeper scratched his head. He looked at his customers’ nervous faces and mumbled, “You’d better not be lying. Don’t make me regret trusting you.” Then he put his arm around Reid’s shoulder and called to the serving wench, Annie, to bring tankards of ale to the table.
They were ushered to the shadowy part of the taproom, where she and Reid had shared their first kiss. So much had happened since then.
They had married.
She had fallen in love.
“You’d better begin by explaining why a man with your connections keeps company with thieves and poachers.”
Reid told him everything. “I spent weeks watching the people in the taproom, hoping to catch him. He’s elusive but made the mistake of targeting my patients. It’s how I knew he’d brought Mrs Ludgrove here.”
“Then why kill O’Connor?”
“He must have seen something incriminating.”
With a quick check over his shoulder, the innkeeper said, “I never mentioned this to the constable, but O’Connor seemed mighty pleased with himself. He bragged about winning some money at a bare-knuckle brawl in Romford. Yet he couldn’t remember the fighters’ names or the winning odds.”
Reid straightened. “Perhaps he was blackmailing the killer?”
“Something was amiss. The braggart acted like he’d stumbled on a casket of pirate gold and could do as he pleased.”
The wench came with their ale.
Her hand shook as she placed their drinks on the table.
“We need you to make a statement, sir.” Sofia noticed Annie watching them while pretending to clean the counter. “We heard Mr Doyle and Mr O’Connor argued over Annie.”
The innkeeper laughed. “They argued about a lot of women, but Doyle has a special place in his heart for Annie. He didn’t want O’Connor hurting her.”
“We need to find Doyle,” Reid said urgently.
“Most people reckon you killed him.”
“But you know that’s a lie.”
He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Wherever Doyle is, I’d say he’s afraid the magistrate will string him up for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Or a crime he may have committed,” Sofia dared to say. “We won’t know for sure until we find him. Let’s pray it’s before the authorities do.”
The innkeeper’s shoulders drooped as he exhaled. “Listen, I want this mess cleared up, too. I can’t say for sure, but Annie feels responsible for what happened. It ain’t her fault. Still, I’ve heard her sneaking from her attic room at night.”
Sofia shifted closer. “You think she’s visiting Mr Doyle?”
“A loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese disappeared yesterday. Maybe if you hang around here long enough, she might lead you to him.” The innkeeper suddenly grabbed Reid’s forearm and narrowed his beady eyes. “They’d better not find Doyle dead. If they do, I’ll tell them about this conversation.”
“We want the truth, nothing more.”
While they had the innkeeper’s attention, Sofia asked another pertinent question. “You must have seen the gentleman who stayed in Mrs Ludgrove’s room last week. They visited the fair in Upminster and dined here.”
“I ain’t got eyes in the back of my head. The taproom was teaming with revellers. People come from as far afield as Colchester to visit the fair. They were crammed in here like sheep in a pen.”
“Think,” Reid pressed. “Mrs Ludgrove’s companion was young enough to be her son. It must have drawn attention if they were sharing a room.”
The innkeeper tilted his head and stared at a point on the beamed ceiling. “I glimpsed him on the stairs. Brown hair. A fit-looking fellow. He was confident and wore fancy Hessians. I ain’t never seen a pair with two gold tassels per boot.”
While Sofia was grateful for the snippet of information, Reid sat bolt upright. “Two tassels? You’re certain?”
“As certain as I can be.”
She didn’t have a chance to ask why it was relevant until they’d finished their ale and returned to the carriage.
“I know only one man vain enough to add an extra tassel to his boots,” Reid said, muttering a curse. “Algernon insists his bootmaker adds two to every pair made.”
Her breath caught. “So Algernon is Mr Fellows.”
Reid nodded. “We need a witness to identify him but yes. In choosing his victims wisely, he’s been able to frame me for murder and be in the running to win the damn wager. Not to mention, fulfil his desire to own Bretton Hall.”
“Why does he dislike you?”
“I’m not sure he does. He’s always craved approval. To do that, he has to discredit me in our grandfather’s eyes.”
Mr Daventry said they needed solid proof. Accusing a man based on his fancy boots and the desire to win a wager wasn’t enough to secure an arrest.
“I prayed Algernon wasn’t the killer.” She knew there was no hope of him facing a trial. “Your grandfather will ensure he escapes justice.”
“Another crook will pay for my cousin’s crimes,” Reid agreed, his voice laced with resentment.
“I hoped you could put your troubles behind you, not live in fear of the culprit striking again.”
He sagged back in the leather seat, dragging his hands through his hair. “I’m so tired of this cat-and-mouse game. A man can only take so much. Perhaps we should both board a boat to Madras and leave this sorry business behind us.”
“Madras?” How would this marriage of convenience work if they were far from home, far from their friends and the people who cared? “What would we do there?”
“The same as we do here?”
“You’d work as a doctor and surgeon, and I’d assist you?”
He shrugged. “Why not? At night, we’d lie naked in bed, a tangle of limbs beneath a single white sheet, the smell of blossom carried on the breeze, the silk curtains dancing languidly at the open window.”
“You paint an idyllic picture.” More so because he envisioned them together, not sleeping in separate rooms. “But what about those you care about? I fear the Marquess of Rothley would never recover if you abandoned him, too.”
Sofia imagined the marquess ambling alone through his regal gardens at night, lost in his sad memories. Would he stop to touch the rosebuds, confused how such beauty thrived in an ugly world? Beneath the moon perched high in the heavens, would he stare at the sky and beg the Lord to end his misery?
“Lord Rothley’s strength is a shield,” she said. “It can only take so many hits before it splits in two. You have a life here. One you need to reclaim.”
He released a long breath. “You’re right. Though the idea of spiriting you away on an exotic adventure has some appeal.”
Why? she wanted to say but suddenly noticed a cloaked figure skulking through the yard, creeping closer to the carriage.
“Reid. Someone’s coming.”
His eyes darted to hers, following her gaze into the darkness, before narrowing on the shadowy figure. He crossed the carriage to shield her, whipping a blade from his boot.
Concealed within the hooded depths of her cloak, Annie cupped her hands around her face, pressing close to the windowpane. She peered inside and mouthed for Reid to open the door.
“I ain’t got long.” Annie glanced behind as if the trees had ears. “But Doyle made me promise to give you a message if you returned to the inn.”
Reid slipped the blade back into his boot and sat forward. “Doyle? Do you know where he’s hiding? Take us there. We mean him no harm. We seek nothing but the truth.”
“He left for the coast this morning,” Annie said, a tremble in her voice. “His cousin owns a fishing trawler near Margate. It’s safer on the high seas than it is hiding out here. I’m to send word to a local inn once the cove who killed O’Connor is behind bars.”
“Only guilty men run,” Reid growled in frustration.
“That ain’t true. He don’t trust no one.” She glanced around the dark yard again. “Doyle was the last person to see O’Connor alive. The local justice is looking for an excuse to stretch his neck.” She reached into the pocket of her apron. “I was told to give you this.”
With a shaky hand, she gave Reid a card the size of a bible.
He scanned the card, his brows rising. “This scorecard is for the bet at White’s. How did you get it?”
He studied it and then handed it to Sofia.
The scorecard was a simple grid: rows marked by dates and columns with initials. Each box contained a tally, a neat recording of the person’s progress.
“ANT must be short for Antoine’s,” she said, noting the number twenty printed in the top left corner. “B.M. the British Museum.”
“I suspect H.H. is the Hare and Hounds.”
“For a shilling, I mark the gentlemen’s cards and copy the score into the book I was given to make sure there’s no cheating,” Annie confirmed. “They’ve been bringing ladies here for months, wooing them to get points. A kiss on the hand is worth five points. A room together for the night is worth twenty.”
“Who does the card belong to?” Sofia said.
Whoever it was had too many points to count.
Annie shook her head. “I’m glad I don’t know his name. He’s down in the guest register as Mr Jones, but that’s a lie. He was pretending to be her husband.”
Yes, Mrs Ludgrove had used the alias Mrs Jones.
“O’Connor was snooping through the dining room window—he’s always looking for female company—and saw the devil adding something to his wife’s wine.”
“Laudanum,” Reid stated.
“Must be. He had her up in the room half an hour later. O’Connor held the fellow to ransom. He wanted ten pounds, or he’d tell the woman she’d been drugged. He told Doyle the next day.”
Reid gave an exasperated huff. “Why the devil didn’t Doyle tell me? When I asked if he’d seen anything, he said no.”
“O’Connor made him swear to keep the secret. They argued because the man paid with a ruby brooch and pearl earrings. O’Connor asked Doyle to sell them, but he refused, worried someone would trace them back here.”
So the men weren’t arguing over bedding Annie.
Annie started fidgeting, her breath growing short and shallow. “I must get back before I’m missed. I’m happy to speak to a constable once that beast is in gaol.”
It was clear Mr Doyle ran because he feared he would be the next victim, but they needed a way to identify the felon.
“Where did you get the scorecard?” Sofia asked.
“Doyle found it near the body.” Annie shuffled back. “He saw the cove thrust the doctor’s card in O’Connor’s hand and race off into the woods.”
Sensing Annie’s retreat, Reid said, “Is that all Doyle remembered? Did he confirm it was this Mr Jones who killed O’Connor?”
Annie nodded. “He said to tell you the killer is a wealthy London gent, about thirty. He wore all black except for the extra gold tassels on his shiny boots.”