Chapter 12
Given the last time we spoke to Rose Bolton had been a rather tense affair after we broke into her office, I expected to be met with opposition to our suggestion.
She agreed immediately, however, right after Harry offered to pay her.
At first he’d protested against my suggestion of hiring her to approach Mrs. Iverson since she was also a suspect, but I managed to convince him after reminding him that Rose had proved she was an excellent actress, fooling us both, and Mrs. Iverson had never met her.
The day Rose stole Sister Dearden’s key while pretending to be Mary Linton, Mrs. Iverson hadn’t been there.
Between the three of us, we settled on a ruse that would hopefully get Mrs. Iverson talking, giving Rose a thorough idea of her character and feelings—or lack thereof—for Dr. Iverson.
She was going to pretend to be a journalist writing a piece about how the murder had affected Dr. Iverson’s wife.
The viewpoint of the wife was one that a female journalist working for a women’s periodical would be more likely to take than a male reporter.
We suggested some questions she could ask, but it was Rose herself who said she’d try to get Mrs. Iverson to admit she’d do anything for her husband.
It wouldn’t be considered a confession, but it would be a small crack that we could widen if we applied pressure.
Rose was enthusiastic about the scheme. She seemed to like playacting. I said as much to Harry as we waited around the corner from the Iversons’ house. “Do you think we can trust her, when she’s so good at putting on an act?”
He hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure. I believed her when she said she knows of no connection between her sister and Isabel Kempsey, but it’s possible she was acting then, too.”
“But you don’t think she was,” I finished for him.
He leaned against the side wall of the last townhouse in the row and crossed his arms. “Did you believe her?”
“Yes, but I feel as though my instincts can’t be trusted on this case, despite what you say.
I would never have guessed that Mr. Lombardi had a predilection for men, for instance.
” I pulled a face at the mention of his name.
“Horrid man, but not for that particular reason. There are many other reasons, though.”
“You have that look in your eye, Cleo. I’d be worried if I were him.”
“He should be. I almost stabbed him in the thigh with a fork at dinner.”
Harry stilled. “What did he do?”
“Nothing a firm poke with a fork couldn’t resolve.”
He cupped the side of my face and his thumb gently stroked my cheek. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I placed my hand over his and nodded.
I was about to speak when Rose Bolton rounded the corner. She sported a smug smile.
“Did Mrs. Iverson admit she’d do anything for her husband?” I asked.
“No. I don’t think she cares a whit for him. I pretended to empathize with her, telling her that as a woman whose husband had also been wrongly accused of a crime, I understood what she was going through. I mentioned my suffering, et cetera. She remained emotionless throughout.”
“Then why do you look like the cat that got the cream?”
“Because you may be the detective who solved all those murders, Miss Fox, but I’ve discovered something about Mrs. Iverson that you did not.”
“What?”
“She’s a sapphic.”
I stared at her. Beside me, Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“It means she likes to have relationships with women,” Rose went on.
“I know what it means.” I thought back through my encounters with Mrs. Iverson. It all began to click into place. My unease in her presence wasn’t because she was lying to us or because she was guilty—although she may very well be—it was because she’d taken a sapphic interest in me.
Rose Bolton’s lips tilted with her wry smile. “You’re blushing, Miss Fox. Does that mean she did look at you in a way that only men have before?”
“Her gazes did linger,” I admitted. “And she showed an uncommon interest in me.”
“She flirted with you,” Harry said flatly.
“I suppose it was flirting, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I thought she was playing some sort of strange game with her husband, encouraging him to flirt with me.” It sounded ridiculous now that I thought about it, but it had never occurred to me that she was attracted to me.
Rose made a miffed sound through her nose. “Don’t consider yourself special. She flirted with me, too.”
“Did you let on that you guessed she was sapphic?” I asked.
She scoffed. “Of course not. I’m not a fool. Do you know, I’m not entirely sure she realized she was flirting.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked.
“I think she was admiring me without being aware of what she was doing.”
“So she didn’t intend anything to come of the admiration,” he clarified.
“I suppose not. Do you have any more tasks for me, Mr. Armitage?”
“That’s all. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Don’t thank me. Pay me. I apologize if that’s too forward coming from a woman, but we don’t all have the luxury of working for free because we live in a luxury hotel owned by our uncle.”
“Well done, Miss Bolton,” I said smoothly. I was determined not to let her ruffle my feathers. “When did you work it out?”
“I knew I’d heard your name somewhere, so I spent most of yesterday scouring old newspapers, focusing on the social pages. You were mentioned a few times in connection to the Bainbridges of the Mayfair Hotel, most recently when you attended a ball a few weeks ago.”
I acknowledged her investigative endeavor with a shallow bow. “Congratulations.”
Her lips pinched, perhaps in irritation that I wasn’t more upset at being found out.
Harry broke the awkward silence. “You have my card with my office address. Come tomorrow and I’ll pay your fee. If I’m not there, I’ll leave it with Luigi in the Roma Café below.”
Rose gave a curt nod, tugged on her jacket hem, and strode away.
“Well,” I said, blowing out a breath. “That was enlightening.”
“But not too surprising.”
I frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“It stands to reason Mrs. Iverson found you attractive if she’s that way inclined.” His fingers skimmed mine. “You are lovely, Cleo.”
“Oh. Uh. Thank you.” When I realized I was touching the hair at the nape of my neck I dropped my hand to my side.
Harry smirked. “Come on. Let’s confront her.”
“Mrs. Iverson?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“If you’re too embarrassed—”
“I’m not embarrassed. I’m flattered and somewhat nervous, if I’m honest. What if I blush when she looks at me?”
“She’ll think you’re even prettier than she already does.”
“That’s not helpful, Harry.”
“You’ll be fine, Cleo. Just relax and follow my lead.”
Now that I was aware of Mrs. Iverson’s interest in me, the signs were obvious.
I was somewhat used to the lingering gazes of men, the coy smiles, and their efforts to give the best impression of themselves, but I’d misunderstood those same cues from a woman.
The meeting wasn’t as unnerving as I thought it would be. Indeed, I felt quite flattered.
That is, until the tone of the encounter changed when Harry brought up the topic of the anonymous note. “Why didn’t you tell us you were working the day it arrived in the clinic when we first mentioned it?”
“Was I?”
“Miss Wainsmith was ill. You worked at the reception desk last Wednesday in her stead.”
“Did I? Goodness, I quite forgot.”
“Come now, Mrs. Iverson. You don’t expect us to believe that.”
She bristled. “Are you calling me a liar?”
I decided to step in. Perhaps Mrs. Iverson’s interest in me would work to our advantage and soften her a little.
“When we mentioned it, you sat where you are now, and almost said something when we brought it up with your husband. But you didn’t.
It makes it seem as though you have something to hide. ”
Her long, bony fingers clasped together in her lap. It wasn’t the softening I’d hoped for, but she remained silent, which I took to mean we were right.
“You received the letter along with the regular mail,” I went on. “You placed it with your husband’s other correspondence, knowing it was from a would-be lover.”
“That’s absurd. Why would I want him to meet a lover?”
“Because you have no interest in your husband.”
She studied her interlocked fingers a moment before lifting her gaze to mine.
“You’re right, Miss Fox. My husband and I are merely friends now.
Intimacy ended when we realized we couldn’t have more children after our son was born.
” She lifted her chin, challenging. “I’m not jealous of his lovers, so why would I murder one, if that’s what you’re suggesting?
Let’s assume I did want to murder Isabel Kempsey for some reason, why would I do it in my husband’s clinic?
His success is my success. Ruining his reputation and business would be an utterly stupid thing to do.
Come now, Miss Fox. You’re better than this. ”
Her rebuke stung, but I hadn’t played my trump card yet. “Perhaps you wanted to murder Mrs. Kempsey because she discovered your nature and planned to expose you.”
“My what?”
“Was she blackmailing you?”
“Of course not. Why would she?”
“You like women, in the sapphic sense.”
The knuckles on her interlaced fingers turned white.
“Don’t bother denying it. My instincts tell me it’s true and apparently my instincts are very good. Also, the journalist who was just here told us you flirted with her.”
The muscles in Mrs. Iverson’s jaw bunched with the clenching of her back teeth. She remained silent, however, so I continued.
“As to the point about punishing your husband, I’m presuming you don’t care what happens to him. If the police arrested him for the crime, it was of no consequence to you.”
“How dare you! I may not love him, but we are married. I made a vow. That means something to me.” It was telling that she responded to that accusation, but not the one about being sapphic.