Chapter 13
A cold gust of wind forced Sam Kelly to grasp the brim of his tricorn hat to prevent it from lifting off his head and sailing down the street as he stepped out of the butcher shop.
His feet were already aching from having spent the morning quizzing every street vendor and shopkeeper in the vicinity of Bowden Theater.
No one knew anything about the missing girl, Edwina.
The closest Sam came was a nearby baker, who told him that Edwina had purchased a loaf of bread on Sunday morning.
He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since, which, now that he had a chance to reflect on it, was apparently most peculiar, as it was her habit to buy bread or pasties from him every other day.
This did not bode well for Edwina.
Sam scanned the area, studying a young girl in a tattered dress and wool shawl setting up a crate of oranges on the corner. He waited until the cart hauling bags of grain lumbered past, then sprinted across the street, careful to avoid the fresh dung.
The girl was no more than ten, but her voice rang out strong and true: “Two a penny! Come an’ get ’em afore they’re gone!” She looked at Sam at his approach. “Ye wan’ an orange, sir? Priced right, they are!”
“I’d prefer information.” He dug out a penny.
She focused on the coin, but it didn’t stop suspicion from tightening her thin face. “About what?”
“Edwina. She works at Bowden Theater.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are ye a Beak? Edwina don’t like Beaks.”
“Why don’t she like . . . er, officers of the law? Has she committed a crime?”
“Folks don’t need ter commit crimes ter not like Beaks,” the child scoffed, pulling her shawl tighter around her scrawny shoulders.
Sam acknowledged the sentiment with a slight nod. “What was Edwina’s reason?”
“Same as most folks.” The little girl’s chin jutted up in a gesture that was both defiant and oddly vulnerable.
“They ain’t ter be trusted. She was hurt somethin’ terrible when she worked at Finnigan’s Theater.
When she complained ter the watchmen and constable, they laughed.
Said they’d look into it if she was a bit more friendly ter them.
“And it ain’t just Edwina,” she added, her lip curling. “Beaks don’t care about workin’ folk. Me ma was sent off ter Botany Bay ’cause a nob accused her of filching his handkerchief. Ma said she didn’t take it, but they didn’t believe her, neither.”
Sam’s lips tightened. The story was common enough. “I’m sorry about your ma.”
“Oi suppose being deported ter Australia is better’n hanging,” the child said with a contemptuous sniff.
“What’s your name?”
“Why should Oi tell ye?”
“I reckon this is a normal spot for you, if you know Edwina. It wouldn’t be difficult ter find out,” he pointed out mildly.
She scowled at him. “Bridget.”
“Edwina seems ter have confided a considerable amount in you, Bridget.”
“Folks don’t like lookin’ at her, ’cause her face is burned. But Oi’d talk ter her when she’d buy me oranges. She told me Oi reminded her of her little sister.”
“Did you hear what happened at Bowden Theater?” he asked, and watched fear darken the little girl’s eyes before she averted her gaze to the oranges in the crate at her feet.
“Aye,” she whispered. “A gentry mort cocked up her toes. Edwina didn’t have nothin’ ter do with it.”
He contemplated her tense face. “You seem awfully sure of that.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Oi am.”
The child could simply be speaking out of loyalty to her friend, but Sam’s gut told him that there was something more. “Were you here on Sunday, selling your oranges?”
She shifted her gaze, focusing on two horseback riders trotting by.
“Bridget. This is important. Edwina might be in danger.”
“Oi know,” she said softly. “Oi saw her. She was running and a man was chasin’ her.
He weren’t no watchman, neither.” She shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.
She pinned Sam with her accusing eyes. “The last time Oi saw anyone that scared was when me ma told me that she was gonna be transported ter Botany Bay.”
“Did you hail a watchman for help?”
Bridget said nothing, simply stared at him with her bruised, reproachful eyes.
“God’s teeth, how can the law help if no one reports crimes?”
“The law don’t help when we do report crimes,” she shot back. “And since the man was dressed like a swell, the law would be thinkin’ that he was chasing Edwina ’cause she stole somethin’ from him.”
The girl was probably right. Sam blew out a breath. “What time was this?”
“The bells rang—little after ten o’clock.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Nay.”
“Young or old? Short or tall?”
The girl shrugged. “He had on a hat, and his collar was turned up.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Young enough, Oi reckon. He wasn’t bacon-fed neither. Fit enough ter run fast.” She gave Sam a once-over. “He was taller than ye.”
The defiance suddenly drained out of her, leaving her small face ashen and pinched. “Oi haven’t seen Edwina since,” she said. “Oi reckon the man caught her and Oi won’t be seein’ her again.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Sam clumped up the stairs at 25 Bedford Square behind the Marquis of Sutcliffe’s stiff-necked butler. In the library, his gaze immediately went to Kendra, writing on the slate board.
“Did you learn anything?” she asked when he joined her.
“Aye, a bit. I see you’ve acquired a slate board.” It was, he’d always thought, a clever way to organize the various bits and pieces of an investigation. He’d even suggested setting one up in Bow Street, but they’d been less than receptive.
“The Duke had it brought over,” Kendra told him.
Sam studied the timeline she’d written on the slate board, beginning with Wednesday, when the body was found in the Thames and delivered to Munroe’s morgue, then Friday, with Lady Westford viewing the body, to Sunday, when she was murdered.
“A girl selling oranges on the street saw Edwina on Sunday morning fleeing from a man,” he said. “A little after ten o’clock.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Why are we just hearing about this now?”
“The girl—Bridget—didn’t report it. Said Edwina doesn’t trust the law, and she doesn’t either. Her ma was deported.” Sam lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “A lot of folks are like that. Or they just want ter mind their own business rather than get involved.”
Kendra blew out an annoyed breath. “How can cops help when no one speaks up?”
Sam scratched the side of his nose to hide his confusion. What, he wondered, was a cop? American slang for Bow Street Runner? Still, he got the spirit of what she was saying. Apparently, folks in America had the same mistrust of the law as they did in London Town.
“Was she able to describe the man?” she asked.
“She said he wasn’t fat, not elderly because he was fast, taller than me, and dressed like a gentleman.” He watched her write it on the slate board. “A description I reckon fits most of London.”
“Not everyone. Lord Westford is too big and old to have been chasing Edwina,” Kendra pointed out. “Of course, that doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone to do it.”
Sam shook his head. “Most assailants hired ter commit murder come from the stews. They wouldn’t be dressed like a gentleman.”
Kendra looked thoughtful. “That’s not enough to eliminate the possibility. I found out that Lord Westford has another family.”
Sam kept his expression neutral as Kendra explained. He wasn’t surprised. Such arrangements were common enough, especially in the Polite World, where marriage was more often about business than love.
“Mr. O’Leary—Westford’s illegitimate son—is young and most likely dresses like a gentleman,” Kendra pointed out when she was done.
Sam couldn’t mistake the implication, but had to argue, “Why would Mr. O’Leary wish ter harm her ladyship? They’ve no connection other than she was married ter his father.”
“Mr. O’Leary is older than Lord Westford’s biological son, but because of the circumstance of his birth, he won’t inherit the title or money. That could make a person bitter.”
Sam shook his head. “Mr. O’Leary’s half-brother will naturally inherit the title and entailed estates, but that doesn’t mean Mr. O’Leary or any of Lord Westford’s illegitimate offspring will be left penniless.
In fact, Lord Westford appears ter have taken an interest in their welfare, if the oldest was trained as a barrister and now works in Parliament.
Not every nobleman cares what happens ter his by-blows. ”
He paused, then added, “Mr. O’Leary may resent the circumstance of his birth, but he had no reason ter murder his father’s wife. Her death changes nothing about his circumstances.”
“I know how difficult divorce is in this ti—” She broke off abruptly, a strange expression crossing her face, and said firmly, “In England.”
“I reckon in America it’s easier ter get a divorce,” he said carefully, even as he wondered at her reaction.
It wasn’t the first time that the lass had stopped herself, as if she was about to speak out of turn.
Sam had known Kendra Donovan—Lady Sutcliffe now, he corrected himself—for more than a year.
For all her spunk and cleverness, she was .
. . peculiar. She had a broad understanding of the criminal element that Sam had never seen in his fellow men, much less in a woman.
The Duke had once hired him to investigate her background, how she’d come to England.
And he’d found . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing.
That was an oddity he couldn’t explain. Everyone left some kind of trail: a name on a ship manifest, or a captain or crew member who recognized her.
She was too pretty and, yes, too peculiar, with her American accent and strange ways, to not be remembered.
She was a puzzle, to be sure, but he realized that it didn’t matter. He’d follow the lass to the ends of the earth if she asked it of him.
“Will Lord Westford be able to marry Mrs. O’Leary now?” Kendra asked, bringing his attention back to the topic at hand.
“It’s possible, but it would certainly cause a scandal,” said a new voice. The Marquis of Sutcliff sauntered into the library. “Even if he did marry her, it would change nothing. Mrs. O’Leary’s children would still have been born out of wedlock.”
“Mr. Kelly said the same thing,” Kendra admitted. She tapped her chin with the piece of slate. “Maybe it has less to do with the children and more to do with Lord Westford marrying the woman he loves. He wouldn’t be the first husband to hire someone to kill his wife in order to marry his mistress.”
Alec moved to the sideboard and pulled a stopper out of crystal decanter. “Lord and Lady Westford were married comfortably for thirty years. Why murder her now?”
“How do you know their marriage was comfortable?” she challenged.
Alec gave a quick laugh. “Touché. However, Lady St. James is a reliable source for this type of information, I believe. Mr. Kelly, a glass of whisky?”
“Aye, thank you, sir.” Sam eyed the glass appreciatively as Alec brought it over to him.
Kendra said, “One never knows what goes on behind closed doors—not even Lady St. James. I think you should ask Lord Westford if he’s planning to marry Mrs. O’Leary.”
Sam stared at her with the same shock as her husband.
“You want me to interrogate his lordship about whether he’s going to marry his mistress?” Alec said. “And I suppose I ought to ask if his wife was in the way?”
“Interrogate is a strong word. Consider it collecting information.”
“Oh, I’ll be sure to tell him that when he gets insulted by the implication that he had his wife murdered,” Alec muttered, taking a swallow of his whisky.
“I don’t care about his feelings. He rushed to have his wife’s death declared an accident, to shut down any investigation. I don’t like it.”
“Very well.”
“Ask him if he was aware of his wife’s affair with Mr. Goldsten,” Kendra added.
Alec smirked. “To confirm, you want me to quiz him about murdering his wife, whether he’s going to marry his mistress, and if he knew about his wife’s amoretti.”
Kendra returned his smile. “You don’t have to do it in that order.”
Sam took a moment to enjoy his sip of whisky before asking, “You really don’t think Lord Westford killed his wife, do you, lass?”
Instead of answering, she regarded him. “You don’t?”
“Nay.” He paused to formulate his thoughts. “People kill for all sorts of reasons. But this. . . it was too public. Seems ter me, there are any number of ways ter rid yourself of an unwanted wife without drawing this kind of attention.”
Kendra surprised him by nodding. “I agree, Mr. Kelly. I can think of a dozen ways to kill someone that is more efficient and private, and where you wouldn’t have to worry about possible witnesses like Edwina.”
God’s teeth, Sam didn’t even know that many ways to kill.
“But he’s still a suspect until he can be eliminated,” Kendra continued, and began to pace. “I’m more interested in Lady Westford’s connection to the first murder victim, Clarice.”
“We don’t know the body found in the Thames was Clarice,” Alec said.
“You’re right, but the timing works. And Lady Westford was asking about Clarice. That’s not a coincidence.”
“Aye, but Lady Westford saw the body in the morgue,” Sam said. “If it was Clarice, why would she be asking about her the next day?”
“There might not be a lot of marine life in the Thames, but being in the water for a couple of days has a way of changing a person’s appearance,” Kendra pointed out. “Maybe Lady Westford wasn’t entirely sure the body she saw was Clarice, and wanted confirmation.”
“It’s queer thing, with the woman’s blood drained and then the body stolen.” Sam wasn’t a superstitious or devotedly religious man, but he tightened his hand on his glass to stop himself from making the sign of the cross.
Kendra said, “We need to find the connection between the woman from the Thames—Clarice or not—and Lady Westford. I’ve sent Muldoon a message to see if he can locate the article that caught Lady Westford’s eye.”
“I’m gonna speak ter Lady Westford’s household and stable staff,” Sam said. Servants of the nobility could be uppity, but he had more authority with them as a Bow Street Runner than with his betters. “Maybe they knew what her ladyship was involved in.”
“Dr. Munroe mentioned that Lady Westford arrived by hackney on Friday.” Kendra turned to study the timeline. “It’s likely that she did the same on Sunday. That tells us something.”
“Aye. She wanted secrecy.” Sam tipped back his glass to finish his whisky as the door opened and the butler entered, carrying a silver salver with a single folded piece of foolscap.
“A message has come for you, my lady.”
Kendra opened the paper, explaining, “I sent a message earlier to Dr. Munroe to ask if he knows Mr. Goldsten.”
“Mr. Goldsten?” Sam asked.
“Lord Westford wasn’t the only one unfaithful in the marriage.”
“Ah.”
Kendra smiled. “Dr. Munroe knows Mr. Goldsten, and has agreed to introduce me.”