Chapter Twenty-Seven
Frederick
Frederick added another lump to his already sweet tea, hoping the sugar might erase the sleep from his eyes. He needed his bed. Preferably with Eleanor in it. The only way he would sleep soundly was if he knew Eleanor was safe, and the only way she was safe was when she was within his arms.
But his bed was hours away. Holding Eleanor even further. He could only move forward with his plans once he found the killer. So, he sipped his too-sweet tea and faced his hosts. “Mr. Massey, Mrs. Massey, I am glad you were both able to see me.”
Mr. Massey shifted on his chair in his front parlor.
He looked around fifty years of age, his hair still dark, with deep grooves cut into his face.
He shot a quick look at his wife. “When a man from Bow Street knocks, it makes me curious enough to answer his call. What brings you to my door, Mr. Rollins?”
Frederick set down his mug and reached into his inner pocket. “This.” He held up the necklace found in Bannister’s boot. The late sun shining through the west windows caught the rubies, making them glint darkly.
He had to hand it to the pair. Neither of them so much as blinked. If Mrs. Massey’s smile seemed frozen, only a particularly observant investigator would notice.
Frederick prided himself on his observation skills.
“Your initials are on the back of the clasp, Mrs. Massey. I was wondering how your necklace came to be in the possession of Edgar Bannister.”
“My wife’s initials aren’t unusual,” Mr. Massey said. “There must be thousands of individuals with the same initials in London alone.”
“Not quite so many with the means to afford such a lovely piece.” Frederick laid the necklace on the low table between them.
“Don’t make me waste the boot leather going around to London’s jewelers.
Your initials are etched in a very elaborate script.
It will not take much for a jeweler to recognize it. And the persons who commissioned it.”
Frederick rubbed his jaw. Was Eleanor wearing down her soles as he spoke with the sketches he’d given her?
It had seemed the safest way to channel her assistance into the investigation.
If he couldn’t demand she stop her interference, then at least he could guide her to the most harmless avenue of inquiry.
Mrs. Massey shifted forward. She was plump with lovely red hair that she tended to pat when she was nervous, Frederick noted. “The necklace is mine,” she admitted. “I thought I’d lost it.”
Frederick didn’t say anything, only stared at her, expressing his disbelief in silence.
Mr. Massey took his wife’s hand and held it on the armrest between them. “I believe now is the time for truth, my dear. After all, we were the victims.”
“Victims of what? Of whom?” Frederick asked. He wanted to pull out his notepad but felt him jotting down every word the Masseys spoke might tighten their jaws.
“Lady Richford,” Mrs. Massey spit out. The calm mask she’d worn since they’d first sat down to tea had broken. “She demanded it from me for her silence.”
Blackmail. It made a nasty business even nastier. “Silence for what?”
The husband and wife exchanged a look, their lips drawing tight.
Frederick mentally reviewed the notes he had on the Massey family. “Your daughter is in her first season, is she not?”
“She is.” Mrs. Massey nodded firmly. “She is set to make a very fine match.”
“And your son? He is two and twenty, correct? Where is he?”
Mrs. Massey patted her hair. “He’s on a walking tour of the Alps. We received a letter from him from Spiez not long ago.”
Frederick watched her hand. “How long has he been gone?”
Mr. Massey cleared his throat. “Thirteen months now.”
“That’s a long tour.” Frederick arched his eyebrows. “And when did you give Lady Richford the necklace?”
The pause was palpable. Mr. Massey’s hand whitened around his wife’s. “Thirteen months ago.”
Frederick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Mr. and Mrs. Massey, what did Lady Richford know about your son?”
“That doesn’t matter.” And by the look on Mrs. Massey’s face, Frederick knew she would never tell. “We paid what that woman demanded, but if you are here to insinuate we had anything to do with her death, that’s absurd.”
“Can you tell me where you were Wednesday last, the night of Lady Richford’s death?”
“At home,” Mr. Massey said stoutly. “We haven’t gone to any social event in many weeks.”
“When did we go to the opera?” A line creased Mrs. Massey’s forehead.
“Three weeks Thursday.” Mr. Massey gave Frederick a hard look. “As I said, we don’t go out much.”
Frederick would confirm with the servants and the neighbors, but there was always the chance the household would lie, the neighbors prove unobservant. “And last night? About midnight?”
“Home in bed,” Mr. Massey said firmly. “Both of us.”
Nodding, Frederick rose, covered his sleepy stagger with a small bout of coughing, and made his leave. Next on his list, he made his way to the offices at Parliament.
Lord Anglia was not around to receive him, or so the man’s secretary told Frederick. He also told him it was highly improper for Bow Street to harass a member of the House of Lords in such a manner. “People might get the wrong idea.”
“That Lord Anglia is a suspect in two murder investigations?” Frederick shrugged, his fatigue loosening his tongue. “Or they will get the right idea. Did the earl have anything on his schedule for last night? Any meetings to sit through, balls to attend?”
The secretary straightened to his full height, an impressive inch or so above Frederick’s, but the move was hardly threatening. The man was naught but skin and bones, and Frederick had no doubt he could lay the young man out with one finger.
“My lord was here, in his offices, late into the night.” The secretary lifted his chin. “We were working on the second draft of the hospital procurement bill.”
“You were here with him?” Frederick poised his bit of lead above his notebook. “From when to when?”
“My lord had an early supper and returned to the office around eight.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t believe we left until at least two this morning.”
“Can anyone else confirm that?” As the secretary couldn’t refrain from shifting his weight every three seconds, Frederick had his doubts.
He must be a very good secretary, because he was a very poor liar.
It was almost heartening to know that Anglia didn’t make hiring decisions based on an individual’s skill in deception.
Did that mean he was generally honest and didn’t feel such skills were necessary to protect him or that he was so arrogant that he never thought someone would dare question him?
“No, we were alone. It was late,” the clerk added defensively.
“And only your employer is dedicated enough to work such late hours.” Frederick put away his notebook. “Thank you for your time.”
Winding his way out of Parliament, Frederick pulled out his list of high-end jewelers, a copy of which he’d given to Eleanor. He could try to track her down, assist her with her questioning.
He paused on the street, swaying. He would fall asleep in the agency’s carriage as he searched. And besides, he didn’t want to assist with the questioning. He wanted to take her home with him, hold her as he fell asleep. That image lifted his lips.
“Sir?” His burly driver, who’d shown his use as a bruiser on more than one occasion, hopped down from the carriage seat and eyed him curiously. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He handed the man the list of jewelers. “Let’s make the rounds to these businesses. I’m looking for a woman.”
He climbed into the carriage.
And he hoped he would never be too tired to find her.