Chapter Fifteen
Brett
“Well, that was unproductive.” Marie slumped back in the carriage seat. They’d hired a hackney for the day to try to obtain answers to the questions raised the night before.
Brett spun the rim of his hat around his finger. “We learned that Mr. and Mrs. Hicks sleep in separate bedrooms. She can’t give him an alibi for the night of the murder.”
“And neither can any of his servants. They didn’t hear him leave the house, but they can’t be sure he didn’t.
” Marie pulled a fan from her reticule and snapped it open.
She began fanning her face. “That’s the problem with a four in the morning murder.
There’s no one awake to see a murderer come and go. ”
Brett had to agree. He didn’t know if they would be able to rule anyone out based on lack of opportunity. He tugged at the knot of his neckcloth. “At least Lady Mary rented us this carriage. I would hate to be walking up and down the streets in this heat,” he muttered.
“I would think a former soldier would be made of sterner stuff than to complain about an unseasonably warm day.” She was looking out the window. Twin red curls framed her face, swaying with the motion of the coach. She swallowed. “You shouldn’t complain. You’re alive to feel the heat.”
Brett’s chest went tight. His hand itched to pull her close, rub her knee, offer her some small gesture of comfort. “I was fortunate. I am. But it isn’t my fault that I came back and your brother didn’t,” he said gently. “The one had nothing to do with the other.”
He didn’t think about that battle much anymore. Dwelling on the acrid scent of gunpowder, the stench of blood, served no purpose. But he wondered now where her brother had been. Had he fought on the same plain as Brett? Had Brett ever nodded to him in passing?
Her fan paused. She hung her head. “I apologize. Perhaps I ’ave been a little resentful. Only, we never really recovered. My parents were never the same since we learned of ’is death.”
He squeezed her knee, then quickly withdrew his hand. “He was a good brother?”
“Yes. And a good man.” She brushed her thumb under her eye. “But that’s neither here nor there.” She emphasized that last h. “And I think we’re at our next stop.”
He sighed heavily. There was more he wanted to say. More he wanted to know about Marie and more he wanted her to know about him. He had a visceral knowledge that their union would be a happy one, but he figured she would need a bit more convincing.
But she was looking at him expectantly and they had suspects to investigate, so he climbed from the hackney and helped her down behind him.
They looked up at the stucco townhouse that Mrs. Trent had disappeared inside two nights past. Mr. Gray’s home was on a quiet street, a neighborhood of comfortable men of business and perhaps a politician or two.
“Should we start with the neighbors?” he asked.
Marie nodded.
They’d learned that the direct approach seemed to work best. When asked why they were asking questions, they simply answered that they were assisting in the investigation of a murder.
They just didn’t say whom it was they were assisting.
People were eager to gossip, seeming to relish the idea that a man of their acquaintance might be involved in something unsavory.
They were quick to tell of the biweekly visits of a mystery woman to Gray’s house.
Unfortunately, no one could say whether Gray had left his house the night of the murder.
Gray’s own servants were much less forthcoming. At their first question, the door was shut in their face.
Brett blew out a breath. “Shall we try the local stables?”
“May as well.” Marie adjusted her bonnet, trying to shield more of her face from the sun.
Gray’s home didn’t come with its own carriage house. A common stables was a block and a half down the street, a large building that held several private carriages and their attendant horses.
They stepped inside the stables, the shade lowering the temperature a much-appreciated couple of degrees. Brett blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Hallo?”
A shadow darted across the door they had just entered.
Brett started toward it when a voice called from behind him. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Brett turned. A man strode toward them, a farrier’s hammer dangling from one hand. “Do you work here?” Brett asked.
The man huffed. “Well, I’m shoeing a horse right now. Wouldn’t be doing that if I weren’t getting paid.”
Marie stepped forward and gave him a bright smile. That was another technique they’d discovered worked well, much to Brett’s chagrin. “We were wondering if Mr. Gray boards his horses here.”
“Yes, miss.” The stablemaster’s shoulders lowered an inch. “Has ever since he moved to this street, a couple years ago.”
“And do you know if Mr. Gray’s horse was in the stables last Saturday morning, early?” Marie flicked open her fan and gazed at him over the lace rim. “That would have been the twelfth.”
The man swallowed. “Well, his horse was here when I left at ten that evening and was here when I arrived at six the next morning. Whether it was here between those hours, I couldn’t tell you. The people who rent stalls here have a key.”
Brett shifted closer to Marie, grinding his back teeth. Perfect. Another alibi that could neither be contradicted nor confirmed. He hoped Ernest was having better luck speaking with the local hackney drivers.
“Have you noticed anything unusual about Mr. Gray lately?” Brett asked. “Any changes from his normal schedule? Has he seemed upset lately?”
“If you want to know my mental condition, you should ask me directly.”
Brett swung his head around. There, standing in the doorway, was Mr. Gray holding the reins to a large chestnut horse.
Marie sidled close to Brett. “We’ve been caught,” she whispered.
Gray narrowed his gaze on Marie. “I know you.”
“Miss Murphy.” She dropped a quick curtsy.
“Lady Mary’s companion.” Gray slapped his top hat against his thigh. “What are you doing here asking about me?”
Since stealth was no longer an option, Brett decided to go on the offensive. “Why do you think?”
Gray twisted his lips. “Trent’s murder, of course.” He led his horse inside and handed him off to the stablemaster. “I already told Lady Mary I had nothing to do with that.”
“Yes, but you weren’t completely forthcoming with her, either.” Brett arched an eyebrow.
“Meaning?” Gray asked.
“Mrs. Trent.” Marie shooed at a fly with her fan. “We know about your liaison.”
The stablemaster loosed a low whistle.
Gray glared at him, and the man slouched off, leading the horse behind him.
“Mrs. Trent and I are friends.” Gray tugged at the knot of his cravat. “Her husband introduced us when he contracted my company to provide his factory with tins.”
“Mr. Gray, I understand you want to protect the lady’s reputation, but lying now won’t help.” Marie gave the tin maker an understanding nod. “We saw her visit you Friday night. You must see how this looks for you.”
“How what looks?” Gray puffed out his chest, and Brett had to give him credit. The man knew how to bluff.
Brett widened his stance. “Mr. Trent was taking you to court, a lawsuit that could put you out of business. You’re having relations with his wife. You must see why you’re a suspect.”
“I have an alibi.” Gray’s nostrils flared. He tugged off his gloves, the small scar on his hand catching the light. “I was with Annalee.”
Marie made a face. “Not the strongest of proofs. Of course you would cover for each other.”
“But it’s the truth.” He paced back and forth. “And besides, that lawsuit wasn’t going to be a problem any longer. I made sure of it.”
Brett stilled. “What do you mean?”
Gray hesitated.
“You’re the main suspect in a murder,” Brett said sternly. “If you can exonerate yourself, it would be in your best interest to do so.”
Gray gripped the top rail of a stall. “It was Hicks.”
“Fenton Hicks?” Marie asked. “Trent’s manager?”
Gray nodded. “He agreed to testify on my behalf. Say that Trent’s canning process had issues that could have led to the contamination. There would have been no way for Trent to prove that it was my cans that led to those men’s deaths.”
Brett’s jaw set. “And would this testimony have been truthful?”
“Of course.” Gray shifted his weight. “I must go. Don’t bother me or Mrs. Trent again.”
Brett watched him march out. Gray had sounded confident that he would prevail in the court proceedings, which might eliminate one of his motives. But did it give Hicks a new one? If Trent had found out his manager was going to betray him, it would make sense to give him the sack.
Brett gripped the back of his neck. Again, they’d come up with more questions and not enough answers. “Onward and upward?” he asked Marie.
She wrinkled her nose, looking much too adorable and nearly distracting him from his purpose. “What?”
“Shall we try our luck with the next suspect?”
She waved her fan. “Let’s.”
The hackney took them west. The air inside was becoming even more stifling as the afternoon wore on, even with the coach’s windows open. He stuck his head partially out of the window, hoping the breeze might cool him down.
A brown coat ducked into an alley.
Brett craned his head, drawing his brows together. It was probably someone trying to escape the dust of the main street. The movement had probably only looked furtive because Brett’s mind was on murder.
Their carriage turned down another street, and Brett recognized where they were.
They were getting close to Mr. Platt’s lodgings.
He lived only a few blocks off the Strand, the street they were now on.
They rolled past the neighborhood grocer.
Past a public bathhouse. A milliner and a bakehouse.
Two more blocks and the hackney pulled to the side of the road to let them out.
When Brett jumped down, he almost bumped into their quarry. “Mr. Platt! I was hoping to speak with you.”
“Who are you?” Platt asked.
Brett handed Marie down. “The name’s Burton. I work for Lady Mary.”
Another man slid forward. “Ah yes, along with the lovely Miss Murphy.” He plucked up Marie’s hand and kissed the back of her glove. “You look more charming each time I see you.”
Brett took Marie’s elbow and drew her back. “We’ve come on Lady Mary’s behalf.” It never hurt to drop a peer’s name. It tended to help people mind their manners. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother-in-law.”
“And now I’ve lost interest.”
Platt sighed, rubbing his receding chin. “This is my friend, Mr. Randall. He becomes listless easily.”
“Guilty as charged.” Randall tipped his hat. He was a tall man, slender without being slight, and his waistcoat was in a matching lilac fabric as his pocket square. “And we’re going to miss the first race.”
“It will only take a moment,” Brett said. “We’re trying to get a picture of where everyone was when Trent was killed. Do you remember where you were?”
Randall flicked the rim of his hat, tipping it up at a jaunty angle. “I do believe he’s asking if you have an alibi. I don’t think you’ve ever been a suspect in a murder before, Georgie. How diverting.”
“Or insulting.” Platt’s face went ruddy. “How dare you accuse me—”
“We’re not accusing you.” Marie tried her charming smile, but only the friend Randall seemed to appreciate it. “It helps to rule people out, however.”
“When was this again? Two Fridays past?” Randall tilted his head. “Weren’t we at Brooks’s? Or was it that tavern off the wharf?” He scratched his jaw. “Wait, was I even with you that night?”
Platt rolled his eyes heavenward, “You were, but you were drinking.”
“And I’m certain you were completely sober.” Randall winked at Marie.
Brett’s shoulder blades drew together.
“We started out at Vauxhall Gardens,” Platt said. “We closed the night at that hell on Exeter Street. I have no idea when I got home. Satisfied?”
Brett’s fingers twitched. Not in the least. Both of those places would be crowded venues with little chance of the men being remembered. “And—”
“We must go.” Platt hailed a cab and trotted over to it with nary a farewell.
His friend was more polite. He gave a smart leg to Marie. “If you want to question me more, my dear, I let a place on Worthington Street. Come and see me. Anytime.” And with a glance that was several inches too far below Marie’s face for Brett’s liking, Randall followed his friend into the coach.
A familiar brown coat ducked behind a cart.
Marie blew out a breath. “Well, that was a pointless—”
“Stay here.” Brett charged around their hackney, his gaze fixed on the retreating coat.
Someone had been following them.
And he was going to find out who.