She looked down at the page again. “When the body is denied the drug, withdrawal is experienced. One can suffer from various discomforts, including agitation, anxiety and stomach cramping.” Amy slammed the book shut and looked up. “Do you also remember the state Lady Carlisle was in when we met her and Mrs. Miles on the street?”
While William dwelled on that information, she continued. “Another point. If she was spending all the money her husband gives her as an allowance on opium, it follows that she would have to sell her jewelry to continue purchasing it, but without her husband aware of it.”
“Yes. I concede that she is most likely addicted to opium, but we still have no motive. Why kill the man who brings the much-needed drugs into the country?”
Amy shrugged. “I’m not too clear on that point. Maybe he threatened to cut her off?”
“But if we are correct, he was not supplying drugs to individuals, but most likely to Mr. Miles, who, in turn, did the selling.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t say I had it all figured out.”
He shook his head. “Nevertheless, we must go to the police with this information. We are in over our heads now. If what you say is correct, this is no longer a game, or a fictional murder that you write about.” William stood and tugged on his jacket cuffs. “I suggest we go to the police station now and lay this all out for the detectives.” He looked in her direction and then pointed toward the door.
“Um, just a minute.”
He placed his hands on his hips, his frustration evident. “Amy, this is serious now. You cannot continue; it’s too dangerous.”
“I agree.” She held up her hand when he moved toward the door. “Wait.”
“What?”
His suspicious look had the words tumbling out of her. “I am waiting for one more thing.”
He groaned and hung his head, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand as if not seeing her would make her disappear, like a small child would do when caught doing something wrong. “Amy,” he sighed, “what now?”
“Lacey has a cousin whose dear friend’s brother’s wife’s sister’s niece, on her husband’s side, that is—”
“Stop.” He held up his hand. “I’m dizzy.”
“—works for Lord Carlisle,” she finished, lamely.
He cupped his chin and studied her for a minute. “And? What does that discombobulated string of relatives and friends have to do with this?”
“Marion—that’s the woman—is checking to see if a knife is missing from the Carlisle kitchen.”
When his eyes lit up, she knew he’d forgiven her the hesitation in going immediately to the police. “Yes. If we can ascertain that, there is our proof. We can dump it all in the police department and be done with it.”
“I agree,” Amy added.
Maybe.
* * *
Three hours later Amy still awaited word from her contact that a knife was indeed missing. She was certain the answer would be in the affirmative. With the elimination of their other suspects, this one made sense. She was still weak on a motive for the murder, but if everything else added up, the police could certainly gain a confession. If she decided to turn their evidence over to them, that is.
William had left over an hour before to an appointment he could not miss. He’d made her promise that once she had the information on Lady Carlisle, she would wait for him to return and they would go to the police together.
“I wondered if you would like a carriage ride this afternoon.” Her brother, Michael entered the drawing room, pulling on his fine leather gloves. He was dressed as a gentleman should be for an afternoon out. She studied him, realizing she had never given him much thought throughout their childhood. He was seven years older than her and they were not close, since he’d been sent off to Harrow at a young age, and Amy and her mother had spent most of their time in Bath. Once Michael finished school, he had lived with their father in London, learning how to run their estates. He’d also taken up some of Papa’s favorite causes in Parliament, helping with contacting other members on Papa’s behalf.
She had never questioned her parents’ living apart most of her life, but now that she was older, she did wonder about it. Mother had detested London and Papa loved it, so that must have had something to do with it. When they were together, they had been pleasant to each other, but almost in a formal, overly polite way. She’d never asked but had always assumed theirs had been an arranged marriage.
Since Aunt Margaret had made her home in Bath, once Mother died it had been natural for her to take over Amy’s supervision, even though she was only five and twenty herself at the time.
Although Michael was a nice-looking man of thirty—and if the London newspaper society pages were correct, he enjoyed the company of many women—he had managed to avoid settling down with one woman and setting up his nursery. Amy imagined that with no mother to push him, it could very well be some time before her brother did his duty to his title.
She assumed that, with Papa a hale and hardy specimen of a man at five and fifty years, the Winchester title would not pass anytime soon to Michael, who currently held Papa’s courtesy title of Earl of Davenport.
A bit taken aback by his request now, she offered him her sweetest smile. “Oh, how lovely, but I’m afraid I must pass.”