Amy took it from his hand and looked it over. “What is this?”
“An opium pipe.”
CHAPTER 8
“Well then, it appears Mr. Albright not only served time for murder but also indulges in opium, which is a connection to Mr. St. Vincent.”
William moved the pipe this way and that, examining it in the light from the lantern anchored on the carriage wall next to him.
“What I find confusing is why he is not still in prison. Generally those convicted of murder never see the light of day.” Amy shifted on the seat across from him as the coach rolled along, removing them from the dangerous neighborhood. She patted a snoring Persephone and mindlessly ran her palm over the dog’s soft fur.
“That would be a good point to investigate. Had he escaped, perhaps?”
Amy shook her head. “No. The police would have mentioned that he was an escapee when they told us about him. I feel as though they’ve tossed down the gauntlet for me to do my own investigation.”
“No. No.” He shook his head. “They would not do that. I am sure the last thing they want is a woman wandering around Bath talking to strangers about murder.”
“I have done that numerous times in my research.”
“Amy, this is not research but real life.” He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “There is a murderer out there who will not be happy to know you are second-guessing the police. If it becomes known that their main suspect is conducting her own investigation, your life could be in danger.”
A light drizzle began as the coach made its way through the bumpy and dark streets of Bath. William rested his head on the soft Morocco leather squab and studied her. “Tell me a little bit more about how you came to write murder mysteries, of all things. I would think a young lady’s interests would lie more in romance stories, something like Miss Austen wrote.”
“I tried to write romance. I even started doing so in the schoolroom before I attended boarding school. My governess encouraged me to write stories, and it soon became a part of my daily life.”
“As other young girls keep a journal.”
She laughed. “Except my stories were not like what other girls wrote in their journals.” She tapped the side of her head. “You see, I have a logical mind.”
“And we all know there is nothing at all logical about romance.” His murmured words, along with his cocked eyebrow and slightly turned up lips, did strange things to her insides again. “Is it your contention that possessing a logical mind lured you from romance and toward murder and other ghastly themes?”
She shrugged. “I lost interest in writing romance, and after my governess pointed out many times that whenever she presented me with a problem I could usually solve it by using logical steps, I thought solving mysteries might be more fun.”
“Ah, not the way a woman’s mind should work.”
Amy drew herself up, narrowing her eyes at William, who was looking quite smug in the light from the carriage lantern. “And where is that written, my lord? Are women not as intelligent as men? Do they not have the same right as men to use the brain God gave them?”
He stared at her openmouthed. “You are a suffragette!”
“Of course I am,” she sniffed. “You are aware that I am a believer in women’s rights. Did you think a woman who has no problem dressing as a man or going into unsavory places to do research and then writes about murder would not be a suffragette?”
“That is an excellent point. I have no problem bowing to your superiority in this matter. With your nonfeminine logical brain and experience with murder and all the mayhem it causes, where do we go next?”
Amy dipped her head in deference. “You are above all other men, my lord.” She edged farther up on her seat, her facial expression quite serious. “Until we can locate Mr. Albright, we must turn our attention to others who had a reason to dislike St. Vincent so much they were willing to put a knife into his chest.”
“And also knew where to find him to do that.”
A slow smile teased her lips. “Yes. A very good point, my lord. I shall add that to my notes when I return home. I believe I will make a detective out of you yet.”
“Thank you, no. I prefer my murders to be between the pages of a book that I read seated in a comfortable chair in my library at night, with a warm fire in front of me and a brandy at my fingertips.”
“So very dull.” Actually, she was finding a totally different side to William that she’d never seen before. Protective, inquisitive, and willing to take a risk to help a friend. Maybe not so very dull, after all.
“One thing we have not considered is who will inherit St. Vincent’s estate.”
Amy’s eyes popped wide open. “Of course! How could I ever have let that slip from my mind?”
William offered her his now familiar crooked smile. “Perhaps investigating a murder where you are the main suspect has rattled your normally logical mind? In any event, St. Vincent has a nephew, Mr. Francis Harris. I don’t know the man well—the last I heard he was out of the country—but it would not hurt for me to poke around a few of the gentlemen’s clubs to see if he has returned now that his uncle is dead. From what I know, Harris is the only heir to St. Vincent’s estate.” William grabbed on to the strap alongside him as the carriage hit a large gap in the road that tossed her from her seat to the floor.