Simon grinned grimly. “I can but try.”
“I’ll leave you to that, then, but if she won’t, I’ll ask officially, but I’d prefer to do it your way—discreetly—without having to explain my reasons for wanting it.”
James exchanged a look with Simon, then said, “It seems we’re all in agreement that it’s the gentleman who killed Lady Winston who is now attempting to kill Henrietta, presumably because he believes she saw enough to be able to identify him, thus putting a noose around his neck.” James studied Stokes, then glanced at Barnaby. “What I don’t understand is why there has been no hue and cry. None of us had heard that Lady Winston had been murdered, and it seems the whole affair has been hushed up.” He refocused on Stokes. “And now you don’t want to explain to Lady Marchmain why you want her guest list.” Again he glanced at Barnaby, then looked back at Stokes. “What’s going on?”
Stokes met James’s gaze, then looked at Henrietta, then glanced—faintly questioningly—at Barnaby.
Barnaby hesitated, then nodded. “We need to tell them all of it.” He met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “We can’t risk leaving you operating in the dark and not understanding what we’re up against with this villain.”
Stokes grimaced, but nodded. He cleared his throat. “Right then. What I’m going to say now . . . I won’t say it can’t go past this room, but be careful who you tell. We can’t afford panic in Mayfair—that’s why you haven’t heard about Lady Winston’s murder.”
Stokes paused as if gathering his facts, ordering his thoughts, then he said, “Lady Winston was murdered sometime that evening. She’d sent her staff off for the night—they were not to return until midnight. She’d been in the habit of doing this for the past several months—since late January, at least. The staff don’t know precisely why, but they concluded her ladyship was entertaining a gentleman, and their view was that it was he who had insisted on that level of secrecy. Her ladyship was a widow of long-standing, and had entertained lovers at her home before, but never before had she ordered her staff away. None of them have any idea who the gentleman was. They never saw or heard or found any hint or clue to his identity.
“So—that night, he killed her. He beat her near to death with his bare fists, then strangled her.” Stokes paused, then, his voice rougher, added, “Seemed like he’d enjoyed doing it, too.” He glanced at Simon and James. “If you know what I mean.”
Meeting Stokes’s eyes, understanding what he was trying to convey, James felt ill.
“So . . .” Stokes drew in a breath. “He killed her ladyship—and left via the area steps. He stepped onto the pavement and bumped into Miss Cynster, which must have been a shock.”
“Oh . . .”
Everyone looked at Henrietta, only to discover she’d paled. She was staring at Stokes.
James reached for her hand, held it.
“What is it?” Stokes asked.
She blinked, then softly said, “I just remembered. There was an instant—a pause. He ran into me, steadied me—then he looked at my face. I had my cloak on, but my hood wasn’t up, and the light came from over his shoulder. He must have seen my face quite clearly. He was holding me—one of his hands gripping each of my upper arms—and he . . . hesitated. I remember wondering what he was going to do—whether he’d recognized me and was someone I knew, or . . . and then Gibbs called out and the man released me, nodded, and quickly walked away.”
An instant of silence ensued, then Stokes cleared his throat. “You might want to give that groom of yours a tip. Whoever this blackguard is, he likes to hurt women, and you met him at a very . . . fraught moment.” Stokes sighed. “Which probably helps explain why he thinks you’ve seen too much.” He paused, then rather glumly said, “But there’s more. We questioned all the staff the next day, of course, and I’d swear all of them told us the truth, told us all and everything they knew.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, tipped his head his way. “Adair was there.”
Barnaby nodded; his expression had grown even grimmer. “And I agree—I’d take my oath all the staff, including her ladyship’s dresser, told us everything they knew—which in terms of identifying the villain amounted to nothing.”
“But,” Stokes said, “two days later, her ladyship’s dresser—she’d gone to stay with her sister in Clapham—was murdered, too. Same way as her ladyship—
beaten near to death, then strangled. Her sister went out just before noon and came home later in the afternoon, and found her.”
Quiet horror engulfed the room, then Simon said, “So he killed her, too, in the same god-awful way, even though she knew nothing?”
Stokes’s lips tightened. “It’s possible she did know something and had contacted him—tried to blackmail him—but . . .” He glanced at Barnaby. “Neither Adair nor I think that’s the case. The woman—the dresser—was an honest sort. She was devoted to her ladyship—had been with her from when her ladyship was a bride. If the dresser had known anything about this beast, she would have tripped over her own tongue to tell us.”
“So yes,” Barnaby said, “Stokes and I, at least, feel certain this blackguard killed her just in case. Just to make sure there was no chance she knew something she hadn’t yet thought of.”
Stokes nodded grimly. “He’s covering his tracks, regardless of whether he actually needs to or not. Which brings us to the attacks on Miss Cynster.”
James glanced at Henrietta, tightened his grip on her hand. “He thinks you know something—”
“Or that you might know something even if you haven’t realized it yet,” Barnaby put in.
“Or,” Simon said, his tone hard, “that you might have seen enough of his face that if you see him—come upon him at some event—you’ll recognize him then.”
“Any or all of those.” Stokes shut his notebook. “It won’t matter to him. He wants you dead, and the fact that you haven’t any information that might identify him won’t stop him.”
“He views you as a potential threat.” Barnaby met Henrietta’s gaze. “And he’ll keep on until he succeeds in silencing you.”
James felt the moment grow heavier as they absorbed that apparently incontestable fact. After a moment, he said, his tone cold, “To return to my earlier question—why no hue and cry? How on earth are we to find this villain without going after him?”
Stokes looked at Barnaby.