Plus, if Papa learned from the investigator that she was conducting her own search for the killer, he would most likely order her to London. Even though the police had told her not to leave Bath, if Papa assured them she would be under his guardianship—prisoner, more like—they would most likely let her go. Marquesses had standing in society, and few people would be brave enough to naysay one.
She had warned William after she received the note the day before to be careful about what he said when the investigator began questioning them. He had tried at first to convince her that it might be wise to allow Sir Holstein to take over, but she’d refused. He said he was concerned for her safety. Indeed! Men always said that when they wanted you to do something you did not wish to do. One day things would be different. She hated how women were treated like children.
The curious part of her—the part that loved writing books that needed a murder solved—would never allow someone to take over an investigation she had begun. In fact, she had toyed with the idea of making the sleuth in her next book a woman. When she mentioned that to her publisher, he had said it wouldn’t sell. She would not give up on the idea, though.
After a lively debate, William had finally agreed to keep their investigation to themselves, and hopefully he would honor her wishes.
“Milady, Lord Wethington has arrived.” Lacey entered the room with William right behind her.
“Good afternoon, Lady Amy.” He bowed slightly and took the seat alongside her on the settee.
Persephone looked up at William, growled, then jumped from Amy’s lap and pranced from the settee, her chin high and her nonexistent tail in the air. She settled next to the fireplace and, with a soft groan and a deep sigh, closed her eyes.
William watched the dog, then shook his head. “That is a very strange animal. I don’t believe she knows she has no tail.”
“Shh. Don’t say that. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
William stared at her as if she’d just grown another head. “She doesn’t understand what we say.”
“Yes. She does. Watch.” She called to the dog.
Persephone ignored her.
She called again.
Still no response.
Amy looked over at William, who was smirking. “She is getting a bit deaf.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Persephone!”
The dog slowly opened one eye, stood, shook herself, and promptly left the room.
William cleared his throat. “Now that we have determined that I did not insult your dog, I must ask. Are you prepared for this interview?”
“Yes. I plan to be as helpful as I can be without giving Sir Holstein the information we have uncovered in our investigation. Let him follow his own trail. If I refused to at least appear as though I am helping, Papa would be here in Bath posthaste to escort me back to London.”
“Do you dislike London so much, then?”
“No. In fact, I love to visit there, call on friends, spend time at the museums, attend the theater and opera, do some shopping, but after a couple of weeks I grow very weary of all the people, noise, smells, and confusion. And, if I am relocated to London, you can be sure for all intents and purposes I will be under house arrest.”
“Let us compare notes before Sir Holstein arrives,” William s
aid as he withdrew a notepad from his jacket. He flipped a few pages. “So far we have cleared Mr. Albright.” He looked up at her. “I think we agree he had no reason to kill Mr. St. Vincent, since his sins—occasional opium use and a past murder charge—have all been brought out into the open. He was too anxious to hang around and continue his employment to possibly be the killer.”
“I agree. But that reminds me, I must have Aunt Margaret write to Papa and tell him Mr. Albright has been found and is innocent of any charges. We are still debating whether to mention that we have reemployed him.”
“Why your aunt?”
“Because she’s been dealing with Papa more years than I have. She has a way of calming him when she knows he will become riled by what she is about to tell him.”
William shook his head and laughed. “To get back to our notes. Yes, I agree, Mr. Albright can be scratched off our list.” He looked down at his notes again. “Then there is Mr. Harris.”
“He is firmly on my suspect list. His glee at Mr. St. Vincent’s death and joy at becoming, he thinks, a wealthy man troubles me. Also, there is that argument you were told uncle and nephew had outside St. Vincent’s townhouse the week before he was murdered.”
“And don’t forget how he tried to rattle you by claiming you killed St. Vincent. I believe he was hoping you would blurt something out about his connection to the deed.”