“As one might expect, Melinda doesn’t know much—just that the murder was thought to have been committed sometime that evening, and most likely by the gentleman Lady Winston was in the habit of entertaining in secret. She habitually sent her staff away for the night, so no one knows who said gentleman is.”
A pause ensued while James and Simon digested that. It was Simon who, frowning, said, “I don’t see how that involves you.” He sent a swift glance around, confirming no one else was near enough to overhear, before he met Henrietta’s eyes and said, “I’m assuming you think this has something to do with the recent attacks?”
So James had told Simon, which meant Charlie most likely knew, too. Tight-lipped, Henrietta nodded. “I’m coming to that.” She switched her gaze to James’s eyes. “It was cold and foggy, but my carriage was waiting just across the street. Melinda saw me out, and I told her to go in and shut the door—the groom and coachman were there and watching—then I went down the steps . . . and a gentleman ran into me. He would have knocked me over, but he caught me and steadied me. I think he did that instinctively. He had on a cloak, and the hood was up. He apologized—his voice, his diction, was exactly what I expected from his clothes. Then Gibbs—my groom—called out, and the gentleman released me, nodded, and walked quickly off. I thought nothing more of it . . . until Melinda told me about the murder.”
Neither James nor Simon was slow. Both shifted, but, glancing around, immediately reined their reactions in. James’s gaze refixed on her face. “You think he was the murderer?”
Henrietta met his gaze steadily. “I’m almost certain he was. There was one thing I registered at the time, one thing I didn’t understand, but subsequently I forgot about it.”
“What thing?” Simon asked.
“When I started down the steps, I glanced around—instinctively, as anyone would—and the pavement was clear. Yet mere seconds later, the man nearly mowed me down, so where did he come from? Why hadn’t I seen him when I looked?” When James and Simon frowned, understanding the point but not immediately realizing the answer, she gave it to them. “He had to have erupted, moving at speed, from the area steps of the house next door—the one in which Lady Winston died. That was why he didn’t see me, and why I didn’t see him. He was running away from what he’d done.”
Both men stared at her, and she stared back. She could see in both pairs of eyes trained on her—one pair warm brown, the other sharply blue—that they were putting things together, linking the facts.
Lips thin, James said, “He thinks you can identify him.”
“But,” Simon put in, “you can’t, can you?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “Since this morning, I’ve gone over those seconds countless times in my mind, but there was nothing I saw that could in any way tell anyone who he was.”
James’s expression grew to be the definition of grim. “But he, unfortunately, doesn’t know that.”
“I suspect not.” Fingers instinctively tightening on James’s arm, Henrietta looked at Simon. “Which I suppose means my accidents were, indeed, not accidental at all.”
“No. But that also suggests,” Simon said, his face now coldly expressionless, “that he believes that you do know but haven’t yet realized the significance of what you know. He must be living in fear that you’ll hear about the murder, and suddenly realize . . . and expose him.”
James had been thinking. Now he looked at Simon. “I haven’t heard anything about this murder, have you?”
Simon shook his head. “Not a whisper.” Raising his gaze, he looked across the room. “Which means Portia hasn’t heard of it, either.”
“Melinda said her mother had told her not to speak of it,” Henrietta said.
“Perhaps the authorities are, for some reason, holding back the news.” Simon shrugged.
“Possibly so they don’t scare the horses,” James cynically said. “Can you imagine the outcry such a crime in Hill Street, in the heart of Mayfair, will provoke?”
Simon grimaced. “Very true. So . . .”
“How can we learn more?” James asked. “Clearly, if that is the reason behind the attacks on Henrietta, then there’s no reason to suppose the blackguard will stop.”
Not until she’s dead didn’t need to be said.
Henrietta shivered anyway. James closed his hand over hers on his sleeve.
Simon humphed. “Barnaby Adair, and through him, Inspector Stokes.” Simon met James’s gaze. “You’ve met Adair, haven’t you?”
James nodded. “Here and there, and I already know Stokes from that time at Glossup Hall.”
“Not something I’m likely to forget,” Simon said. “But Adair and Stokes joined forces, so to speak, in another matter later, and subsequently they’ve often worked together, with the higher-ups’ blessings, whenever there’s a difficult serious crime within the haut ton.”
“I remember,” Henrietta said. “Stokes was the policeman who helped Penelope and Barnaby with that matter about the orphan boys going missing.”
Simon nodded. “Yes—and that case was a social and political mess, which is where the Adair and Stokes combination comes into its own. Stokes isn’t just any old policeman. He understands enough about us—the haut ton—to know how to navigate our shoals, and Barnaby’s father has significant political clout.”
Increasingly grim, James said, “This murder has the hallmarks of just such a case.” He looked at Simon. “Can you speak with Adair?”
Simon nodded decisively. “He’ll be interested, I’m sure. I doubt we’ll find him out tonight, but I’ll invite myself to breakfast tomorrow—such useful things, family connections—after which I’ll bring him around to Upper Brook Street.” Simon met Henrietta’s eyes. “He’ll want to hear everything from your lips.”