Dinner Most Deadly Read online

  Pickett stepped into the room and nodded to her ladyship as she exited by the same door he had just entered. He closed the door behind her, and the viscountess and her thief-taker husband were alone. She found herself staring at his mouth. She had long thought he had the mouth of a poet, with a perfect Cupid’s bow above and a full lower lip below. Was it her imagination, or was it slightly fuller now, swollen from his recent . . . activities? She was possessed of a sudden urge to find a wet cloth and scrub his lips raw.

  Pushing aside the thought, she ventured a rather weak smile. “I have only to call, if I have need of her,” she said. “Really, I wonder what she thinks you intend to do to me?”

  “My lady,” said Pickett, ignoring this admittedly feeble attempt at humor, “what you saw out there, it was—you need not distress yourself over—”

  She raised a trembling hand to forestall him. “Pray say no more, Mr. Pickett. I realize I have no claim on you, aside from a legal one formed by the merest mischance. You need not answer to me for anything.”

  “I just want to assure you, my lady, that I have done nothing—with Dulcie nor anyone else—that would jeopardize the annulment in—in any way.”

  The annulment? She could not tear her gaze from the man’s mouth, and he thought she was worried about the annulment? But surely it was better that he should continue to labor under this misapprehension.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pickett,” she said stiffly. “It—it is kind of you to let me know.”

  There seemed to be nothing more to say after that. They remained there for a long moment and pretended not to stare at one another, he standing just inside the door, she seated on the chair where Lady Dunnington had placed her. At last Pickett took an awkward step backward in the direction of the door through which he had entered.

  “I’d best be going,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the front of the house.

  Going where, she wondered. To Bow Street, or back downstairs to Dulcie? She desperately wanted to know, but had no right to ask, no right at all. She nodded a farewell—she did not trust herself to speak—and when she looked up again, he was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  In Which John Pickett Wins the Day, but Loses at Love

  Pickett plodded down Audley Street in a slough of despond, the indignities he had suffered in Harley Street driven from his thoughts by a greater calamity. If he had harbored doubts before about his courtship of Dulcie, he now had his answer. She had made it plain enough that she was not averse to receiving his attentions, but it was wrong to encourage her to hope for more than he was able to give. He would not marry where he could not give his whole heart, and he could never give Dulcie his heart; that organ belonged, irretrievably, to a woman he could never have. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the stricken look on Lady Fieldhurst’s face as she stared down at him from between the wrought iron railings . . .

  His usually brisk stride grew slower as he pondered the image emblazoned on his brain for all eternity. He could still see her face . . . He could see her face! His steps came to a halt as the implications of this recollection began to dawn. James, the footman from the house three doors down, had seen no one leave the house. Nor, for that matter, had anyone in any of the houses across the street. Yet he had seen Lady Fieldhurst, foreshortened, it was true, due to the fact that she stood just slightly above street level while he was positioned several feet below. But he had seen her quite clearly nevertheless.

  He turned abruptly and strode back up the street. He did not stop at Lady Dunnington’s house, but walked straight past it and counted one, two, three doors beyond. He darted behind the wrought iron railing and descended the stairs to the servants’ entrance, then knocked on the door. While he waited for someone among the reduced staff to answer his summons, he withdrew his occurrence book from the inside pocket of his coat and rifled through the pages. By the time a wide-eyed kitchen maid opened the door, he had found the information he sought.

  “Is this the Fanshaw residence?” he asked urgently.

  Her head bobbed up and down. “Aye, that is, it’s their Town residence, but the master and mistress have gone back to York-shire for the winter.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t need—” Realizing he was getting ahead of himself, Pickett stopped and tried again. “John Pickett of Bow Street, miss. I believe there is a footman named James who works here. I should like to see him, if you please.”

  “Bow Street’s come for our James?” cried the girl, her voice rising on a screech.

  “James is not in any sort of trouble, I assure you,” Pickett put in hastily. “I should merely like to speak to him, if I may.”

  “I don’t know if I ought to let you in, without the master or missus being present,” confessed the girl. “Still, if you’ll wait here, I’ll send him out to you.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Darting a last, mistrustful glance at Pickett, the girl shut the door. It opened again after a brief delay, this time to reveal the same footman he remembered from the night of Sir Reginald’s death.

  “James, isn’t it?” asked Pickett, although he already knew the answer from the notes he’d made on the night of the murder.

  “Yes, sir. You’re from Bow Street, aren’t you? I remember you, but I’m afraid I don’t recall your name.”

  “Pickett, but it isn’t important. I have a question to ask you regarding the murder of Sir Reginald Montague.”

  “I’ll be happy to answer it if I can, but I’m afraid I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “If I ask you anything you don’t know, you have only to say so. Now, I want you to think back to that night, if you will. You said—” Pickett consulted his notes. “ ‘I heard the shot, and a moment later this thing came flying over the railing. It clattered down the stairs and landed almost at my feet.’ ” Pickett looked up at the footman. “Is that correct?”

  James nodded. “Yes, it is. It’s not the sort of thing a fellow would be likely to forget.”

  “Think carefully, if you will. Did you see anyone leave the Dunnington house immediately after the shot?”

  “I didn’t see no one,” the footman insisted. “I swear to God, I didn’t.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Pickett assured him. “Now what I want to know is, why didn’t you see anyone? Did you look up when you heard the gunshot? I understand your attention was, er, otherwise occupied at the time.”

  James grinned. “I’ll not deny my Polly is plenty distracting, but I can’t imagine the female that would make a fellow fail to notice a gunshot practically right over his head—especially when he’s afraid for a moment that the gun might have been aimed at him! No, Mr. Pickett, I was occupied right enough, but hearing that gun—well, I shoved Polly back inside, but I’ll swear my eyes never left the railing up there, for fear the next ball might find its mark! But I never saw no one, just the gun, like I said.”

  No one had seen anyone leave the house following the shot, and yet Pickett knew—indeed, would he ever forget?—that anyone leaving the house should have been easily visible to James, standing in almost the very same spot where he had stood only moments ago and seen Lady Fieldhurst. The logical conclusion—no, the only conclusion—was that no one had been seen leaving because no one had left. The person who had shot Sir Reginald had still been in the house.

  “Thank you, James, you have been more helpful than you know.”

  “Will I—will I get to be a hero?” James asked hopefully, apparently not only resigned to having his rôle in the little drama made public, but by this time actually looking forward to the experience.

  “I think there is a very good chance you will be called to testify in court,” Pickett told him.

  The footman seemed highly satisfied with this answer, and Pickett suspected James would lose no time in notifying Lady Dunnington’s kitchen maid Polly of this gratifying turn of events. Pickett frowned at the thought. It would not do for word to get out before he was fully prepared.
As he passed Lady Dunnington’s house, he would stop in and—no, he would not. Lady Fieldhurst would still be there, and he could not allow himself to be distracted, not at this stage of the investigation.

  And so it was with mixed feelings that he strode past Lady Dunnington’s door and made his way straight to Bow Street.

  “John!” exclaimed Mr. Colquhoun, who had been waiting more impatiently than he cared to admit for his youngest Runner’s return from his appointment in Harley Street. “How did it go?”

  “Very well, thank you,” Pickett said distractedly, his attention fully engaged in dashing off a note to be delivered to Lady Dunnington as quickly as might be arranged.

  Mr. Colquhoun’s eyebrows rose. From what he had learned while looking into the annulment process, he could quite see how some young men of four-and-twenty might find the experience pleasurable enough (particularly if they knew themselves to have no difficulties in that particular area), but he had not thought his rather naïve young protégé would have been among their number. In fact, he had feared the boy would return to Bow Street more than a little traumatized by the ordeal.

  “Have you a moment, sir?” Pickett asked. “I think—I very much think I will need you to make out an arrest warrant.”

  The magistrate regarded him keenly. “You’ve discovered something.”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Would you care to enlighten me?”

  Pickett did so. At the end of his recital, Mr. Colquhoun wagged his head. “I don’t know, John. You may be right—in fact, I think it very likely you are—but most of your evidence appears to be circumstantial. I’m not sure the charges would ever hold up in court.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir, but I don’t think any more concrete evidence exists.”

  “An unprovable case, then.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. In fact, I am hoping to force a confession.”

  “Are you?” The magistrate’s bushy white eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his nose, and he regarded his youngest Runner sternly. “And what if you fail?”

  Pickett sighed. “Then I am afraid I shall make rather a fool of myself, and the case will remain unsolved.”

  “That wouldn’t be the idea, by any chance, would it?”

  Pickett stiffened at the suggestion. “To make a fool of myself? Oh, I see: to allow a killer to escape justice. I trust I know my duty, sir.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Colquhoun conceded with obvious reluctance, “you shall have your arrest warrant. I don’t like taking such a risk, mind you, but I’m afraid you’re right when you say it’s our only hope of getting a conviction.”

  “Thank you, sir. And can you spare a couple of men from the foot patrol to accompany me?”

  “Certainly, if you wish, but why? Do you expect the situation to be dangerous?”

  “No, sir, not dangerous, but it might be—awkward.”

  The magistrate chuckled. “Yes, I can see how it might.” He signed the warrant with a flourish, then shook sand over the paper to absorb the wet ink, rolled it up, and handed it across the railing to Pickett. “Good luck to you, then. I shall expect a full report in the morning.”

  Pickett nodded in agreement, then took the warrant, tucked it into his hollow wooden tipstaff, and returned to the note he’d been writing. He had a busy evening ahead, and its success or failure might well depend on Lady Dunnington’s cooperation.

  He arrived in Audley Street that night accompanied by two members of the foot patrol clad in the signature red waistcoats that had given them the sobriquet of Robin Red-Breasts. Everyone who had been in attendance at the fateful dinner party was already assembled in the drawing room, including Lord Dunningon, the uninvited guest; Lady Dunnington had not disappointed him, although the signs of strain about her eyes and mouth suggested she took little pleasure in carrying out his request. In fact, as he was announced Pickett glimpsed a sudden movement and realized his hostess had grabbed her husband’s hand and now gripped it so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Lord Dunnington, Pickett was pleased to note, patted her hand with his free one, all the while glaring at Pickett as if daring him to make any accusations against her.

  “Do have a seat, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Dunnington urged him. “I understand you have something important to tell us. I assure you, we are all agog with curiosity.”

  “Agog” was hardly the word he would have chosen. His gaze instinctively sought out Lady Fieldhurst, whom he found sitting stiffly on a chair near the fire, looking up at him with a stricken expression in her blue eyes. He wondered if she was thinking about Sir Reginald’s murder at all, or about his own seeming betrayal earlier that afternoon. Lord Edwin Braunton and Mr. Kenney sat side by side on the sofa; Pickett wondered if their united front indicated they had come to an agreement concerning Miss Braunton. Captain Sir Charles Ormond looked faintly annoyed at being called away from his regiment on such a pretext, Lord Rupert appeared bored, as usual, and Lord Dernham fairly bristled with hostility.

  “Excuse me, sir,” murmured a feminine voice at Pickett’s shoulder. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Pickett?”

  He looked down and saw Dulcie proffering a silver tray laden with glasses of sherry. Although she addressed him formally and with eyes modestly downcast, she peeped up at him through her lashes with a secretive smile. Pickett was somewhat surprised to realize that she had no idea it was all over between them.

  He shook his head. “No, thank you.” As Dulcie removed herself to a discreet corner of the room, Pickett seated himself in the only vacant chair remaining, leaving the men of the foot patrol to take up stations on either side of the door. “I thank you all for coming, and at such short notice. I thought that, since most of you have been under suspicion at one time or another, you would all be eager to know the results of the investigation.” There was more to it than that, of course, much more, but that was all they needed to know, and it appeared to be enough.

  “Are you saying you know who killed Sir Reginald?” demanded Lord Dernham, leaning forward in his seat.

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Half a dozen pairs of eyes darted about the room, gazes colliding briefly before shying away to encounter another speculative glance. Is it you? they seemed to ask each other. Is it you?

  “From the beginning it was clear that almost all of you had reason to hate Sir Reginald, yet it seemed to me that two of you, Lord Dernham and Captain Sir Charles, had more compelling reasons than the others.” He turned to address the captain. “I confess, Captain, you were at the top of my list for a time. You might have made things a great deal easier on both of us if you had thought to mention that your horse threw a shoe on your way back to the barracks after leaving Audley Street.”

  The captain gave a grudging laugh. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickett. The omission was not deliberate, I assure you. I can only plead distraction, as the review the next morning drove the event from my mind.”

  “Quite all right, sir. There was another problem with your motive, as far as I could tell, which also held true for Lord Dernham’s perfectly understandable hatred of Sir Reginald.”

  “The timeline,” guessed Lord Dernham.

  Pickett nodded. “Exactly. I suspect both of you thought longingly of doing Sir Reginald an injury when your losses were fresh, but that was three years in your case, my lord, and almost a decade in the captain’s. I couldn’t understand why either of you would have taken revenge now, when you had managed to restrain yourselves at the time. I wondered what in Sir Reginald’s recent past might have recalled your injuries to your mind to such an extent—not that they were ever forgotten, of course—” he added quickly, anticipating Lord Dernham’s objection. “—But the only momentous event I could find in Sir Reginald’s life of late was the upcoming marriage of his daughter to the Marquess of Deale, eldest son and heir of the Duke of Covington.”

  “Murder as a method of preventing a marriage?” drawled Lord Rupert skeptically. “I can certainly see how one might be tem
pted, Mr. Pickett, but surely the bridegroom would be the more logical target in such a case?”

  Pickett could not have failed to understand the subtext, but had more pressing concerns at the moment. “I assure you, Lord Rupert, it made no more sense to me than it does to you. Still, it was enough to send me off on a search for mare’s nests.” He glanced at Lord Edwin, but saw no reason to drag the disgraced Miss Braunton into the discussion.

  “So Miss Montague’s marriage had nothing to do with it, after all?” asked Mr. Kenney.

  “I didn’t say that,” objected Pickett. “But I’ll get to that in a minute. There was something else, too, that puzzled me. James, the footman at the Fanshaw residence three doors down, was standing at the servants’ entrance below the street, but although the gun nearly hit him, he never saw anyone fleeing the house. Nor did any of the servants across the street see anyone leaving. It was not until earlier today”—he cast an apologetic glance at Lady Fieldhurst—“when I had occasion to be standing in that same spot myself, that I realized anyone leaving the house should have been clearly visible from that vantage point. The obvious solution, then, was that no one had left. Whoever had shot Sir Reginald was still inside.”

  “Now, see here, fellow!” blustered Lord Dunnington. “If you are suggesting that Lady Dunnington—”

  But Pickett paid him no heed. Instead he rose from his chair and turned to Dulcie, who moved discreetly along the perimeter of the room refilling glasses. “I’m sorry, Dulcie, but in the name of His Majesty, King George the Third, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Sir Reginald Montague.”

  “Me?” exclaimed Dulcie, her tray wobbling wildly enough to set the glasses on it rattling. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “You were the only one who would have known Mr. Kenney had a gun in his coat pocket, much less had the opportunity to remove it and substitute a porcelain figurine in its place. You weren’t summoned to show Sir Reginald out, but you very well could have waited for him in the hall, shot him, thrown the gun out the door, and then been watching in apparent shock and horror from the top of the servants’ stair when the others arrived on the scene.”