“Thank you. I am delighted to be part of such a noble project.” ’Twas indeed a noble project, but if Miss Hemphill did not join them, there would be very little delight on her part.
“I am so glad to see you out and about, Lady Amy. So many women would take to their beds after a tragedy such as what your fiancé endured—”
“Ex-fiancé.”
“But then, some women don’t have the delicate sensibilities that I possess.” Mrs. Richmond, an older woman with a pointed nose, a perpetual scowl, and an unpleasant demeanor to match it all attempted to look sympathetic.
The woman’s ploy did not work. Her joy at Amy’s predicament, and her insinuation that Amy was without delicate sensibilities—which was undoubtedly correct—were simply too hard to hide.
“Actually, Mrs. Richmond, Mr. St. Vincent was not my fiancé when he died. We had already gone our separate ways.”
“Indeed? I did not know that.” Miss Penelope O’Neill, sitting next to her sister, Gertrude, both of them dressed identically again, put the cloth she was working on down on her lap. “Why was he at your house, then?”
Amy sighed. Some women danced around a question; others came right out with it. Miss O’Neill was one of the more forthright ones. “That shall forever remain an unanswered question, Miss O’Neill, since I did not speak with him before he was … killed.”
Three women sucked in their breath. Botheration. They knew the man had been murdered. Amy reached for her cup of tea and took a sip before pulling out the items from her satchel.
Silence, broken only by the sound of teacups placed in their saucers and mumbles of “Would you care for a tart?” descended on the group as the ladies all lowered their heads and took a great deal of interest in their sewing. Apparently Amy’s presence had a silencing effect on the group. Hopefully there would be no more questions. She wasn’t there to provide answers but to discover some. If it hadn’t been for her need to solve this case before she was arrested, she would never have put herself in a position where she could be picked apart like carrion.
She’d barely stabbed the cloth in her hands with her needle when Lady Ambrose’s butler appeared at the door to the drawing room again. “Miss Hemphill, my lady.”
Miss Eva Hemphill walked through the door. Her hair was in disarray and her clothing looked wrinkled, as if she’d slept in the outfit. She was pale and appeared quite fatigued. The newly arrived guest took a few steps into the room, took one look at Amy, and slid to the floor in a dead faint.
CHAPTER 11
Amy watched slack-jawed as Miss Hemphill collapsed, and several women dropped their sewing to rush in her direction. Had the woman really swooned when she looked at her? There could be any number of reasons for her to be lying in a heap on the floor. Perhaps she had missed her breakfast, or she was beginning to suffer from an ague, or she had tripped on something when she entered the room.
Or she thought she had come face to face with her ex-lover’s killer.
Amy quickly reminded herself that Miss Hemphill had made their list of most likely to have brought an end to Mr. St. Vincent’s life. Maybe she had fainted because she thought Amy knew she had killed Mr. St. Vincent. Or suspected as much, at any rate.
“Oh, dear. Whatever happened?” Miss Hemphill struggled to sit up, looked around at the group, and grew even paler when her eyes settled on Amy. There was absolutely no mistaking the anger and hatred in the woman’s eyes. Enough to make Amy back up a bit in her chair, wondering if Miss Hemphill was about to lunge across the room and tear the hair right out of her head.
As quickly as that anger had surfaced, it disappeared, and she even offered Amy a slight smile. Miss Hemphill climbed to her feet with Lady Ambrose’s assistance and stumbled her way to a chair, where she sat and sighed deeply. For heaven’s sake, were they to be troubled by all this drama the entire afternoon?
Rather than start up any new dramatics, Amy put her head down and grew busy with her sewing as the other women fussed over Miss Hemphill, sending for fresh tea and running for cool cloths and a pillow for her head. All the time, however, Amy’s mind was in a whirl about what had just happened. Two things were certain: Miss Hemphill had swooned when she spotted Amy, and her eyes had been filled with hatred when she first awakened and looked at her again.
Someone with that much anger would be quite capable of plunging a knife into a man’s chest. Miss Hemphill went from another name on their list to the very top. No matter how hard it would be, she must talk to the woman today. Maybe once everyone had tea and things settled down, she could ask a few questions that would not seem out of the ordinary but might help things along with the murder investigation.
Amy’s logical mind began to sort out the known facts and assemble them into an equation. Miss Hemphill had expected to receive an offer from Mr. St. Vincent. Sometime after that, she’d left for London. Mr. St. Vincent began to court Amy and traveled to London himself to see Amy’s father. She and St. Vincent became engaged. A mere few weeks later, Amy received a letter from an anonymous correspondent telling her about St. Vincent’s unsavory dealings. She ended her relationship with the man. Miss Hemphill turned back up in Bath and Mr. St. Vincent turned up dead.
Miss Hemphill sent the note!
It was so obvious, Amy almost shouted with joy. Of course she had sent the note. Who else would care if Amy knew St. Vincent was trading in drugs? If Lady Amy learned about his nefarious business, there was a good chance she would call an end to their engagement. And Mr. St. Vincent would be free to marry Miss Hemphill.
Except he didn’t marry her.
He had called on Amy instead.
And ended up with a knife in his chest.
Another fact: it was well known that her ex-fiancé owned a shipping company, which was where, Amy assumed, he had been able to bring opium into the country to sell to unfortunate individuals. Hopefully, with William investigating St. Vincent’s financial information, he might gain facts and figures about his business as well.
“My goodness, Lady Amy, you certainly have a fervor for making garments for the poor.”
Amy’s head snapped up as she regarded Miss Gertrude O’Neill, who grinned as she looked down at the two garments Amy had already sewn while she worked out steps in her head. In fact, a cup of cold tea sat in front of her that she’d ignored since it had been placed there, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the ladies had all been conversing while she ruminated on murder.
“I apologize. I’m afraid I was distracted by a problem we are having with a member of our staff, and I have impolitely ignored all of you.” She took a sip of the tea and grimaced at the temperature.