“Ex fiancé.”
“—many ideas come to mind that we’ve considered before. Perhaps he did not feel his cut of the profits was large enough. Maybe St. Vincent threatened to shut him out altogether for some reason and work with someone else.”
“But how would killing him help? If St. Vincent was dead, there went the whole scheme, it would seem to me.”
“Not if Miles thought he could work out a better deal with Mr. Harris.”
Amy tapped her chin. “The heir.”
“Correct.”
She pondered that for a while. The fact that her logical, murder-solving brain had not worked that out convinced her she was much more shocked at the revelation about Mr. Miles than she’d thought.
Mr. Miles. The man who accompanied his mother everywhere but didn’t appear to like it. “Perhaps the reason he always looks so bored at our meetings is because he is only there to keep his contacts?”
“Blasted roads. They need to fix these ruts.” William grabbed the strap hanging alongside his head. “If what you say is correct, then one, or more, of our members are addicted to opium.”
“Who?” Amy grabbed the strap on her side and winced with each bounce the carriage took.
William looked toward the ceiling, which, Amy had learned from her research, people tended to do when they were thinking. “I can’t imagine anyone in our club being addicted to opium.”
“One thing is certain. We need to confront Mr. Miles with this information. If it is true, and it sounds like Mr. Albright has no doubt about it, Miles might cast some light on our investigation.”
William shook his head. “Or he might be the killer, and we could be placing ourselves in danger.”
“Then perhaps not confront him, come up with another reason to pay him a visit, and then in the course of conversation, slip in a word or two that might make him say something helpful.” At least that was a method she used in her books. Keep the suspect talking until they revealed themselves. The old saying He who speaks first loses.
As if he’d read her mind, William said, “That might work in your books, but in real life we could be confronting a man who murdered someone in cold blood.”
Amy perked up. “We shall bring a gun.”
William groaned.
* * *
They decided not to send a note ahead of time but to call with the pretense of visiting with Mrs. Miles. The fact that they’d never done so before was considered and tossed aside. Older ladies always enjoyed company, and Amy doubted Mrs. Miles would question their intent.
Unfortunately, when they arrived the following Monday, Mrs. Miles was the only one at home. All Amy knew of Mr. Miles, besides that he was a bit grumpy with his mother on occasion, was that his time was occupied with gentlemanly pursuits. In other words, he did not have gainful employment of any sort. Of course, now she realized his income might very well come from the sale of drugs.
“I am so glad you came to visit.” Mrs. Miles smiled at them while she fussed with her dress, belt, cuffs, collar, and hair. “I sent for tea when Gertrude told me you had arrived.”
Amy wasn’t sure if the woman was nervous because she was not used to company or for other reasons. Now that they were involved in this investigation, she had begun to suspect everyone’s actions. “Thank you very much. Lord Wethington and I happened to be in the neighborhood, and we thought it would be pleasant to have a visit with you.”
Mrs. Miles clapped her hands like a young child. “How wonderful. We shall have a lovely chat.”
A maid entered the room pushing a tea cart. She set everything on the table in front of them.
“Lady Amy, would you pour, please?” Surprised that Mrs. Miles would not perform the typical hostess task herself, Amy did as the woman requested and poured tea for the three of them. She filled three plates with a selection of small sandwiches and biscuits and passed them around as well.
Amy patted her mouth with a white napkin embroidered with tiny pink and green flowers. “How are you enjoying our latest book, Mrs. Miles?”
“It is quite nice. Well, since it’s a murder mystery, I don’t think nice is quite the proper word, but I am enjoying it.” She picked up a small biscuit and held it to her mouth. “I do wish we would read another of E. D. Burton’s books. They are so much more … vivid.” She popped the biscuit into her mouth and smiled.
William choked on his tea, and Amy hid her giggle. Not just because she was E. D. Burton, but because William had thought the ladies’ sensibilities were too delicate to enjoy her books.
Apparently not.
“My dear son, Richard, enjoys Mr. Burton’s books too. He always tells me that Mr. Burton is very adept at solving a murder.” She leaned in close to Amy. “It is too bad you cannot have that author on your side. I know you are distressed at the murder of Mr. St. Vincent. Perhaps if you contacted Mr. Burton’s publisher, he might allow you to speak with him.”