Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
It was only with a bit of luck that Jasper was able to catch Chief Inspector Coughlan on his way out of Scotland Yard for the evening.
By the bristling of the man’s ginger mustache, he knew Coughlan was not pleased to be waylaid in the lobby of the building.
However, the mention of a murdered woman found inside a stately home near Hyde Park was enough to restore Coughlan’s patience and interest. To Jasper’s relief, the chief inspector agreed that he could oversee the investigation—at least, the initial phase of it.
“You will, of course, return to Liverpool to finalize the case there,” Coughlan decreed firmly. “If you cannot make an arrest here before you are expected back in Liverpool, then the case will be turned over to another detective.”
The previous day, Jasper had wired the Liverpool station and alerted his superior officer of his intention to take at least two more days in London.
He now regretted not giving himself more time than those two days, but he hadn’t anticipated having a murder to investigate.
He gathered a few of his trusted men and set out for Harrow right away.
Sergeant Warnock and Constable Price had been easy to locate at the Rising Sun public house, and though they were not enthusiastic about the nighttime mission out of London, they knew better than to complain.
They downed the rest of their beer and met Jasper in the courtyard out back of headquarters, where he’d arranged for a police carriage to transport them to Anthony Dalton’s home at Field’s End Manor.
“Anthony Dalton is the murdered woman’s husband and is our primary suspect at the moment,” he said to Warnock and Price after explaining what had occurred. “But we will question everyone who knew Mrs. Dalton.”
The discovery that she was very likely carrying a baby as well as the note Leo had discovered in her handbag led Jasper to wonder if Helen had been having an affair.
He highly doubted the message had come from her husband.
The man had been staggering drunk, and the two of them had been like oil and water.
An affair certainly could have been a reason for Anthony to lash out at his wife—if he’d known.
But then, how did the glass vial Francine Stroud had hidden under the floorboard come into play?
There were too many avenues of speculation, and until he could sit down and question Anthony and the others who’d been present at Cowper Hall during their stay, none of them would lead anywhere definitively.
The road north of London toward Harrow wasn’t busy, but it was dark.
Their carriage lantern shook light over the well-worn dirt, still muddy from the torrential rains the previous night.
Debris left over from downed trees and branches littered the road, slowing their progress at times.
It was nearly eleven in the evening when their carriage passed the long drive leading up to Cowper Hall, heading instead toward the Daltons’ residence next door at Field’s End Manor.
In the darkness, and with the sky overrun with clouds that snuffed out any moonlight, the manor was barely visible.
Unsurprisingly, the windows were nearly all blackened.
Only one room on the second level was still lit, and the glow from it illuminated the limestone exterior nearby, choked with vines.
Jasper descended from the carriage and stretched his aching back.
Their approach up the drive hadn’t gone unnoticed; a light flared in a ground-floor room.
He, Warnock, and Price were met on the front step by a man in a dressing gown and nightcap, his expression one of annoyance at first. But then, at the sight of Jasper’s warrant card, it changed to concern.
The butler’s name was Saunders, and he allowed them into the house and asked them to wait in a front sitting room while he summoned Mr. Dalton.
“I will need all staff members awakened, Mr. Saunders,” Jasper said.
The butler frowned, his alarm visibly increasing. “Is that really necessary, Inspector?”
“It is. Please show Sergeant Warnock and Constable Price to the servants’ quarters after you’ve informed Mr. Dalton of my presence.”
Saunders nodded, then led the two officers away from the sitting room.
Jasper was left to pace for several minutes.
He’d had plenty of time on the ride to Harrow to put together his line of questioning for Helen’s husband and to brace himself for Anthony Dalton’s foul attitude.
He only hoped the man had not imbibed too much liquor this evening and would be clearheaded.
At the sound of fast-approaching footsteps, Jasper turned to greet Mr. Dalton. The man entered the sitting room in his nightrobe and slippers, his dark hair mussed. But he did not look as though he’d been sleeping. On the contrary, he appeared alert and slightly wild-eyed.
“What are you doing here?” he barked, forgoing any polite greeting. Not surprising, really. “Saunders tells me your officers are questioning my staff. What the devil about?”
“Mr. Dalton, I wonder if you can tell me where your wife is,” Jasper replied, not yet wanting to reveal her fate.
“Not here,” he spat. He ran his fingers through his hair, as though aggrieved. “She’s probably in London with the Perrys. The bloody harridan left in the middle of the night yesterday, not telling a single soul where she was off to.”
Anthony strode to a table of decanters and poured himself a drink. He did not offer one to Jasper, which was just as well.
“Who are the Perrys?”
“Friends of hers. She stays on with them whenever she’s in Town.” He tossed back his drink and glared at Jasper again. “Now, bloody well tell me why you are here. Does it have to do with Helen?”
The faintest expression of concern softened Anthony’s brow.
“It does, I’m afraid,” Jasper answered. “Your wife was found dead at the house on Craven Hill.”
He waited a moment to let the news land. Then, as Anthony’s shock sent him reeling toward a chair, Jasper continued, “She was murdered, Mr. Dalton. Struck on the head with a heavy object. Scotland Yard has opened an investigation into her death.”
Anthony sat down, his gaze flat as he stared across the room into nothing ness. Slowly, he sipped his drink. With more poise than Jasper expected from a man who’d just learned his wife had been killed, he asked, “What was she doing there?”
“That is what we are trying to determine,” Jasper answered, unwilling to reveal any details involving the hollow in the floor, which he presumed she’d been there to access. “I’d like to know where you were last night, Mr. Dalton. You left Cowper Hall around ten in the evening.”
“I came right here,” he replied evenly. “I did not go to London and murder my wife, if that is what you are thinking.”
His blasé tone disturbed Jasper as much as his dry-eyed appearance.
Other than the need to take a seat, he didn’t seem overly affected by the news of his wife’s murder.
Over the years, Jasper had told many people that their loved one had died.
Everyone reacted and grieved differently.
But there was a coldness to Anthony’s reaction that Jasper did not often see. Had he not loved Helen?
If someone were ever to come to Jasper’s door with news of Leo’s death, he did not know what he might do.
Last summer, when she had been taken hostage by gunmen at a charity dinner, Jasper had spent the next handful of hours believing she would be found dead somewhere, shot just as callously as another woman at the dinner had been.
He’d launched a search for her, refusing to give up hope for her return and fighting the paralyzing fear of losing her.
Leo had been found safe, but had there been a different outcome, he knew he would not be sitting placidly, drinking a whisky, as Anthony Dalton now was.
“My officers are questioning your staff right now,” Jasper said. “If you are telling the truth, it will be verified. When did you learn Helen had left the viscount’s home during the night?”
He fidgeted by scrubbing his forehead harshly and tapping his foot. “I don’t know. This morning, maybe ten o’clock? I woke up around then, I think, and Saunders told me there was some commotion over her disappearance.”
“You didn’t worry?”
Anthony waved his hand. “No. She was outraged, and when Helen is upset, she avoids me. I figured she went to see the Perrys in a fit of temper.”
“Who did you assume traveled with her into London?” The note in her handbag rose to mind. “It wasn’t her maid, as Dora had no idea Mrs. Dalton was gone until this morning.”
Again, Anthony waved his hand and shook his head. “To be honest, I didn’t give it much thought.”
Jasper was incredulous at the man’s uncaring attitude. “You didn’t worry that your wife seemed to have traveled alone for hours in the night, in a storm, along darkened roads?”
The man did not answer, and his expression remained impassive as he sipped his drink.
No. He had not loved his wife. He’d likely only married Helen for her money.
She had met with someone last night, though from the wording on the unsigned note currently in Jasper’s pocket, it could have been with a friend or a lover—though Jasper leaned toward it being a lover, considering she’d been carrying a child.
She had been at least four or five months along, according to Leo’s estimation.
Had Anthony discovered she was meeting someone? Or that she was pregnant?
If Anthony was lying about being home last night and had instead gone to London, he would have needed a horse and carriage to get there.
If Helen was killed around five in the morning, that would have given Anthony more than enough time to hasten back to Harrow and pretend to have been abed all night.
However, his curricle and horse would show signs of use.
Jasper would be making a visit to the stables.