Chapter Three #2
“Or you can try to speak with everyone after they’ve left this club.” She leaned her walking stick against the desk. “Traveling to over fifty homes, hoping that they’ll be available, why it could take days.”
He considered his options. Throttling an older woman wasn’t one of them. Nor could he lock her up, not with the influence she wielded, not with the nephew she had. But to have an ordinary citizen, and one who was a potential suspect in the murder, sitting in on his interviews just wasn’t done.
“Lord Richford hired you,” she added, “and he will not object. The more eyes, and all that,” she reminded him.
He was coming to loathe that phrase.
His shoulders sagged in defeat, but his mother had taught him it was always better to make the most of a situation rather than complain.
Frederick looked hopefully at her desk chair. “All right, I’ll allow you to remain, but I should sit—”
“My office. My chair.” She laced her fingers together and leaned back, looking as comfortable as a queen. The cushion was so thick her feet most likely barely reached the floor.
Biting back an oath, Frederick took one of the small chairs and dragged it from across the desk to the side end. He pulled out his notepad and piece of lead, smacking them to the desk with a bit more force than necessary before wedging himself into his seat.
“Would you like some goose fat?” Miss Lynton stood in the doorway, one eyebrow arched. “You might be able to slide your way into that chair more easily.”
Frederick scowled. “Please, have a seat.” He indicated the remaining chair, trying not to feel resentful that she dropped into it as though it had been formed for her body. This was a women’s club. The furniture was probably more proportioned to their smaller statures.
“Should I call for tea?” Lady Mary asked, her light blue eyes bright. “I’ve never sat in on a Runner’s interview. I’m quite unsure of the etiquette.”
He flipped open his notebook to a fresh page. “No tea.”
“Just as well.” Lady Mary crossed one ankle over the other. “With over fifty people at the club now, it could be a challenge keeping enough water boiling.”
He turned to Miss Lynton. “How long have you been a member of this club?”
“Almost since its inception.” She glanced at Lady Mary. “About eighteen months now?”
“That sounds about right,” Lady Mary said.
“And how long have you known the victim?” Frederick held his lead just above the paper.
Miss Lynton folded her hands neatly in her lap. “The Richfords have been a part of my family’s social set ever since I can remember, although I likely didn’t have any true conversation with the woman until we were both members of this club, and even then, we spoke of nothing of significance.”
Frederick scratched some notes down. Miss Lynton seemed most eager to downplay any association with the viscountess, whether from a natural inclination to avoid a connection with a murder victim or for more sinister reasons he didn’t yet know.
And she was circumspect enough throughout the rest of the interview to keep him in ignorance.
She hadn’t seen Lady Richford enter the club, nor move through it.
She’d only remained after closing to speak to Lady Mary about her family’s financial difficulties.
She didn’t know anyone who would want to harm the viscountess.
No matter from which direction he pressed, Miss Lynton remained stalwart in her claim that she had no useful knowledge of the murder.
The rest of his interviews were similarly unfruitful.
He was able to establish an approximate time for the murder, sometime after the doorman Bernard Lox had made his parting rounds around midnight and had seen nothing in the Great Room, and twelve twenty-three, when Lady Mary and Miss Lynton had found the body.
“It was twelve twenty-three exactly,” Lady Mary said. “There’s a longcase clock in the Great Room, and immediately after I sent Miss Lynton to find help, I went and checked the time.”
Bobby Carhart confirmed that time frame.
The footman was probably in his mid-twenties, with sandy-colored hair and a permanent smirk that made Frederick’s hand twitch.
“I’d made it to Haymarket, about five minutes away, when St. Martin’s bell tolled the half hour.
The watch-box was only a few minutes farther. ”
Frederick made notes in his book. Twenty-three minutes was a small window for someone to come into the club, strangle the victim, and escape. “And no men, excepting the workers, are allowed on the premises?”
“There are a few exceptions made, such as yourself, lecturers, that sort of thing.” Lady Mary shook her head. “But none on that night.”
“And you didn’t know Lady Richford was still at the club?”
Lady Mary stared at the ceiling. “I’d seen her earlier in the night, probably around ten or so. But I’d thought she’d left when we closed our doors at eleven.”
Frederick pinned Bobby with a stare. “Did you see her leave?”
“No.” The footman lifted one shoulder. “But I didn’t see her not leave, if you take my meaning.”
None of the other footmen had seen Lady Richford during their nightly rounds, either. The woman had hidden herself in the club, or she’d come back after closing. “And the exterior doors remain locked?”
“Always, except for the front door, of course.” Lady Mary nodded at Bobby.
“The workers have keys. There’s a door from the Great Room that exits into the back alley, and a door next to this office that leads outside.
Unless we’re accepting a delivery or taking out the garbage, those doors remained closed and locked. ”
Frederick closed his notebook. “Thank you, Bobby. That will be all, for now.”
The footman rose. “Can I bring you a snifter of liquid excitement?” he asked Lady Mary. He bobbed his head at Frederick. “This must be monstrously dull for you.”
Frederick folded his hands over his abdomen. He could only hope that Lady Mary found this investigation dull. It would solve at least one problem for him.
“No, thank you,” Lady Mary said. “You were the last? No one else to send in?”
Bobby winked as he went to the door. “You finished with the best.” And then he was gone.
“Quite full of himself, isn’t he?” Frederick removed his handkerchief and wiped the lead dust from his fingers.
“At that age, aren’t most men?” She planted her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her interlaced hands. “That seemed like a singular waste of time. No one had anything bad to say about Lady Richford which could indicate why she was killed.”
Frederick frowned. He wasn’t much older than the footman, and he’d never acted so cocksure. “Or no one dared.” He pushed out of the chair and started to pace. “What do you know of the woman?”
She blew out a breath. “Not as much as I should. She didn’t seem like a bad sort, but she was one of those people whom I met that I realized instantly would not become a bosom-friend. She did seem to be close with Miss Abbott. At least she spoke with her more than the others.”
Frederick nodded. He’d already made a note to speak with the woman. “No arguments you heard about? No disputes?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I’m not the grand confessor here. There are many members like Miss Abbott who were not here today and who might know more.”
Frederick turned, and a fern leaf batted against his face. He frowned. “Your workers all seem to have a standard uniform. Are there any exceptions?”
“No.” She gave him a shrewd look. “That cravat wasn’t worn by one of my footmen.”
She wasn’t stupid, he’d give her that. He’d examined the murder weapon when he’d gone to the Bow Street offices.
It was made of a fine linen in a shade of cream.
There had been no manufacturer’s mark, no distinguishing feature of any kind.
“Perhaps Lady Richford brought it with her,” he murmured.
“I’ll have to ask her husband if he recognizes it. ”
Lady Mary leaned back. “You seemed to have a previous acquaintance with the viscount.”
As she hadn’t asked a question, he refrained from replying. His previous relationships were none of Lady Mary’s business. And after all, what good could come from revealing how he and the Richfords had first met?
“Thank you for the use of your office.” He slid his notebook and lead back in his pocket and nodded. “I’ll notify you if I need any further assistance.”
He took his leave, ignoring the twittering of the ladies as he passed. He thought of the Richfords again and reaffirmed his decision to remain silent on how he’d first met them.
The woman was dead. There was no need to tarnish her reputation.