Amy’s heart took off, and her stomach dropped to her knees. She had not been in the library since the night of the murder. “Lord Wethington will be happy to escort you.”
Holstein was not having it. “I would prefer if you joined us, Lady Amy. I need to have you replay exactly what happened.”
Kudos to the investigator. He was thorough.
The three of them left the room and walked down the corridor to the library. Taking a deep breath, Amy turned the latch and opened the door. The staff had done a good job of cleaning the room. A large vase of fresh flowers on Papa’s desk gave the air a sweet, fragrant smell.
The French doors were locked, but two of the tall windows had been opened from the bottom, allowing the scent from the garden to drift throughout the room.
“Lady Amy, kindly walk me through your steps that night, starting when you entered the room.”
Amy retraced her steps from when she had entered the library until she found St. Vincent’s body, giving Sir Holstein a running narrative of her movements.
Sir Holstein turned to William. “Please, my lord. If you will pick up from the time you entered the room.”
William then walked the investigator through what he’d seen that night. The man scribbled notes the entire time.
“Thank you. I would like to ask some more questions, but if you are feeling fatigued, my lady, I will be happy to return tomorrow.”
Normally she would never admit to being affected by emotions and fatigue, but entering the library for the first time since the murder had rattled her. “Yes, thank you, Sir Holstein. I believe I would like to take a break.”
“Very well.” He bowed to them both. “I shall return tomorrow at the same time, if that is acceptable?”
“Yes. That will be fine.”
The man turned on his heel and left the room, an
d Amy breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
That evening Amy sat at the desk in her office next to her bedchamber and went over their notes once again, looking for something she was missing. Three people comprised her list: Miss Hemphill, Mr. Harris, and the not-as-yet-identified man who had accepted the drugs from her former fiancé and sold them. She tapped her lips with her pen and considered the names.
They all seemed plausible, but none of them had a very good reason to see St. Vincent dead. Except Mr. Harris. Money, human relationships, and power were the three main causes of murder that she’d discovered in her hours of research.
She could attribute one or more of those reasons to every name on her list. Mr. Harris: money. Miss Hemphill: human relationship. And the drug dealer could be seeking power and money as well. Killing St. Vincent meant he would become the main distributor. If, she reminded herself, the new owner of the shipping company continued with the import of opium.
However, the unknown distributor could even have been working with Mr. Harris, who would inherit the business. Again, money. Maybe the dealer wasn’t getting what he thought was a fair share of the revenue.
Sliding the pen into the holder, Amy sat back and rubbed her eyes with her fists. What she needed was an early night. Aunt Margaret had gone to a musicale at one of her friend’s homes. Amy had been invited as well, but after the interview with Sir Holstein that afternoon, she had not felt very congenial.
She was about to ring for Lacey to prepare a bath for her when the maid entered her room. “Milady, a Mr. Harris has arrived and asked for a minute of your time.”
Mr. Harris? The man had the impertinence to show up at her home after insulting her so horribly at the Assembly? Did he wish to engage in fisticuffs? This time she would use her knee to make her point that he was an obnoxious, uncouth, horrid man.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, milady. He brought a bouquet of flowers with him.”
Flowers? Whatever was that all about? Since Mr. Harris was at the top of their suspect list, she could not afford to turn him away.
Despite the voice in her head telling her not to bother, she took a quick look in the mirror over her dressing table. She glanced at her ink-stained fingers and shrugged. With all the writing she did, her fingers were never completely clean.
Mr. Harris rose when she entered the drawing room. She nodded at his bow and took the seat across from him, back straight, hands folded demurely in her lap. “Why are you here, Mr. Harris? If memory serves, we did not part in a pleasant manner at our last encounter at the Assembly Rooms.”
He managed to look sheepish. “Yes, Lady Amy. I have come to offer my deepest apologies for the way I spoke to you that evening.”
“If you are expecting me to say I am sorry for the punch I threw at you, it will be a long wait.”