Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After the triumph of Evie’s lecture, she and James attended to darker matters.
They had planned to use their final day in London to learn more about Dr. Murdoch and the blackmailer’s glove.
Since the tasks were delicate—they could not risk alerting the villain that they were on his trail—they’d decided to go incognito.
Xenia had given Evie brown hair dye to darken her locks, as well as a drab gown she’d worn as a housekeeper.
Evie had added a plain bonnet to the outfit and was satisfied that the woman in the looking glass could pass for a lady’s maid.
When James strode into the bedchamber, she burst into giggles.
“What are you laughing at, young lady?” he drawled.
“You, of course.”
He’d darkened his hair as well and added side whiskers and a dashing moustache.
He wore a rakish frock coat of plum broadcloth, a waistcoat glimmering with gold thread, and a striped cravat tied in a fussy knot.
In other words, he’d succeeded admirably in his goal: no one was going to recognize him as this boulevardier.
“The moustache makes you look like a villain from a Gothic novel,” she teased.
He swept her into a dip, his dramatic flair making her shake with laughter.
“Do not disparage the moustache, madam, until you have experienced its power.”
He nibbled the length of her neck, and her shaking took on a different quality as the bristly hair scraped sensually over her skin. He stopped, giving her a knowing look.
“After our errands, I shall keep this on and kiss you all over,” he murmured. “We’ll see where you like it best.”
“That is wicked.” Her lips curved. “I shall hold you to your promise.”
They headed to Perry & Morris first. Located on Oxford Street, the shop was narrow and neat, with plate-glass windows displaying gloves on velvet stands.
Evie entered first. The place smelled of leather, dried lavender, and wood polish.
Gleaming mahogany counters topped glass cabinets, where gloves were sorted by size, material, and color.
Female assistants dressed in black were helping customers.
When the doorbell tinkled, Evie stifled a smile as James sauntered in.
Her husband was enjoying this bit of intrigue more than she would have expected.
Indeed, he seemed lighter and more playful in general.
With her, he was not just a duty-bound husband and politician—or an untouchable god—but a flesh-and-blood man whose flaws and wicked desires made her love him more.
She liked to think that their reconciliation had helped them to grow. She felt comfortable in her own skin—felt free to love and play. Once the blackmailer was apprehended, she hoped she might shed the albatross of her history once and for all.
A young brunette approached. “May I be of service, ma’am?”
“Yes, indeed.”
As rehearsed, Evie posed as a lady’s maid whose employer had purchased gloves here some months ago and misplaced them.
“My mistress was ever so fond of those gloves,” Evie said, “and would like to purchase another pair. Alas, neither she nor I can recall the name of the model. She sent me to inquire if you might have a record of her purchase?”
“Certainly, if the purchase was made on her account. If you give me her name, I will consult our ledger,” the assistant offered.
“My mistress bought the gloves with ready money.”
“I see.” The assistant’s mien was rueful. “Unfortunately, we do not keep records of clients who pay in cash. Unless she has an account, I would not be able to identify which model of gloves she purchased.”
In other words, if the blackmailer paid in cash, we will not be able to trace his identity.
Thanking her, Evie left the shop, and James joined her in the carriage a few minutes later. She told him what she’d learned, and he shared his findings.
“I told the clerk I wished to replace several items obtained under the account of John Merrill. When said account was not found, I made a fuss, and the manager came and showed me the ledger. I insisted on flipping through the pages myself—and saw neither Merrow nor Murdoch listed under the surnames starting with ‘M.’”
“I suppose it was always a remote possibility that the glove would lead to the blackmailer.”
“Don’t lose hope, sweetheart. We may yet discover something at Murdoch’s offices.”
The physician’s fall from grace was evident in his address. Rather than fashionable Harley Street, Dr. Murdoch consulted from a building of shabby gentility on a narrow Bloomsbury lane. The office was surrounded by boarding houses and minor businesses.
“Wait here,” James said. “I shall be right back.”
He saw Evie struggle between desire and good sense. She wanted to accompany him, and she knew it was a bad idea, given that Murdoch might recognize her.
She sighed. “Be careful, darling.”
He kissed her before alighting. The building had three doors, and on the farthest left, he made out the words Dr. Ezra Murdoch, Physician & Surgeon engraved on a brass plate eroded by time.
The knob squealed as he opened the door, revealing a steep staircase to the third floor.
He made a rapid ascent, the floorboards creaking beneath his shoes.
The waiting room was furnished with chairs and a desk.
The latter was blanketed by dust. The air was musty, with an underlying hint of rot.
As the hairs on his nape rose, James headed toward the door to the consulting rooms. He pressed his ear against the wood—no sound came from within.
Grasping the knob, he turned it. The door opened, releasing a smell that churned his stomach.
Not a hint of rot, but putrid, full-fledged decay.
The origin required no deduction.
The body lay next to the desk, the hovering insects lending an illusion of movement.
Holding a handkerchief over his nose, James forced himself to walk into the shuttered room and look down at what had once been a living man.
Murdoch, as described by Evie, was still recognizable from his auburn hair and long-limbed figure, his garb that of a professional man.
However, decomposition had distorted him, melting parts and blackening others.
His eyes had lost their color, sunken into what remained of his face.
A cursory examination did not reveal a wound that would have caused Murdoch’s death.
Something glinted on the floor by the desk chair: crouching, James saw it was a rather fine cut-crystal tumbler.
Murdoch might have been drinking from it when he collapsed, which explained its current position.
James picked up the crystal vessel, turning it in his gloved hands, noting the dried amber film on the side where it had landed.
Replacing the tumbler, he headed to the mahogany cabinet against the wall.
The piece’s grandeur hinted at better times: the bottom half was fashioned as a sideboard and upon it was a tarnished tray holding crystal glasses that matched the one by the chair.
There were two decanters, one of brandy, the other of sherry.
Above the sideboard was a deep glass-fronted cabinet, and when James opened it, he saw an army of brown tincture bottles placed in exact rows.
They were filled with murky liquids and labeled in precise copperplate.
One bottle stood out from the rest—as if it had been recently disturbed.
James lifted it, and his blood chilled as he read the label:
Atropa belladonna.