And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Together, they faced forward, and, arm in arm, went down the steps, out of the gate, and onto the pavement, where, as Henrietta had foretold, they were immediately mobbed by a coterie of curiously garbed ladies. After hugging them both, and oohing and aahing over James’s wound, said ladies dismissed their husbands’ reports as inept and insisted on hearing all in James’s and Henrietta’s own words—once they’d repaired to the comfort of Penelope’s home.

No one argued. Instead, everyone piled into or onto the hackneys, and the company adjourned to Albemarle Street.

Chapter Sixteen

It was after midnight before, between them, James and Henrietta had related their stories to the assembled company, and had in turn heard the tales of the amazingly complex, and at times quite mad, scrambling the others had had to do to follow Affry and Henrietta around the Mayfair streets.

“Keeping you in sight was one thing,” Barnaby said. “Doing it while staying out of his sight was another. He was the hardest quarry I’ve ever had to trail.”

“Still,” Martin said, leaning back in the corner of one sofa, his arm around Amanda, “at least we now understand why he was so desperate to kill you. He would never have been able to have a moment’s rest, forever knowing that at any time you might see something, or hear his voice at some ball, and make the connection.”

“And” Luc said, from his position perched on the arm of the chair in which Amelia sat, “while it would be bad enough for anyone to be convicted of such heinous crimes, for a Member of Parliament . . . the government, the entire ton, and all of society are going to be baying for his blood.”

Stokes walked into the room in time to hear those words. “Actually, impossible though it might seem, it appears his case is even worse than that.”

Various people made disbelieving sounds. Accepting a cup of coffee, Stokes sat beside his wife, Griselda, sipped, gave Griselda a small smile, then looked around at the inquiring faces. “I could barely believe it myself, but it’s true. When I got back to the Yard, it was to find one of the other senior inspectors, Mullins, waiting to collar me. He’d been about to leave when he’d seen Sir Peter brought in. Mullins is in charge of any investigations involving elected officials, and in that capacity he asked me what the charges were to be. I told him about Lady Winston’s murder, her dresser’s murder, and what I’d gathered Affry had planned for Miss Cynster and Glossup here.”

A sardonic smile flirted about Stokes’s lips. “Mullins went so pale, I thought he would faint, but then he asked me to wait and rushed away to his office, and returned with a file, which he handed to me. The file contained a report from the local constable of the town outside of which Sir Peter used to live with his aunt. Sir Peter’s current wealth, more or less all of it,

was inherited from this aunt—he was her sole living relative and, unsurprisingly, her nominated heir. The aunt was, by all accounts, a hearty, healthy, country lady, but just after Sir Peter won his seat in Parliament and was wanting to move up to London, his aunt was murdered. Brutally beaten to death in very much the same fashion as Lady Winston and her dresser.”

“Good Lord,” Barnaby said. “He’s murdered before?”

“Looks like it.” Stokes paused to take another sip of coffee. “However,” he went on, “Sir Peter was close friends with the local magistrate, as anyone might suppose of an up-and-coming politician, and the aunt’s murder was blamed on some passing vagabond—a convenient itinerant no one saw. The constable was suspicious because the staff at the house, all loyal to the old lady, said Sir Peter was there, in the house, over the time his aunt was killed, but Sir Peter said he’d gone out riding. No one had seen him out riding, even though there are numerous farms nearby and people had been out in the fields, but, equally, none of the staff had actually seen him in the house over the relevant time, so . . . but the constable remained suspicious, and to give the man his due, knew he had reason to be. He, the constable, knew of another murder, just like the old lady’s, that had occurred nearly a year before in a neighboring parish. A farmer’s lass who, rumor had it, had been walking out with a gentleman, one she’d never named and who had never been seen by anyone else. There were no other suspects for the lass’s murder, not even a convenient vagabond, so the death was put down as murder by persons unknown, but everyone agreed the secretive gentleman was the one who had done the deed.”

“So,” Penelope said, “the constable in the country had two mysterious murders that looked identical, and in one Sir Peter was the prime suspect, and in the other, an unknown gentleman was the only real suspect?”

Stokes nodded. “So the constable did the right thing. He sent the file to the Yard, and as Sir Peter’s name was in it, it was handed to Mullins for careful consideration.”

“Meaning,” Luc said, “that nothing would be done?”

Stokes smiled one of his quick, sharklike smiles. “That’s not quite how it works. Mullins sits on the case—it remains active—until we see if Sir Peter makes any further mistakes. But, of course, the file’s contents aren’t bruited about, so I didn’t know about the similarities in the killings, and, as we’d kept Lady Winston’s murder and that of her dresser secret, too, Mullins hadn’t heard about them. We wouldn’t have connected the cases if Sir Peter hadn’t been caught.”

“Which he now has been,” Portia said. “So will he be tried for all the murders?”

Stokes nodded. “Without doubt. I took a quick look at the descriptions of the bodies—there can be no question that it was the same fiend who committed all the crimes.” He looked at his wife, reached out, and grasped her hand. After a moment, he glanced at the others. “I’ve sent my fair share of villains to the gallows, but this will be one I’ll be glad to see hang.”

Agreement was universal.

When he’d finished his coffee, Stokes got down to business. Assisted by Penelope, who acted as his secretary and wrote down all that was said, Stokes formally interviewed and took detailed statements from Henrietta, James, Barnaby, Martin, Simon, Charlie, and Luc.

Once the statements had been reviewed and signed, Stokes nodded. “That should do it.” Gathering the papers, he stood. “I haven’t yet interviewed Affry. I’ll do that tomorrow, now I have all the facts, but from what little he let fall, I gather he couldn’t believe that you”—Stokes nodded at Henrietta—“wouldn’t recognize him, all but instantly, if you ever got a clear view of his face.”

She frowned. “But I never saw his face—I only saw him as the murderer that once in Hill Street, and his face was almost all in shadow . . .” Eyes on Stokes, she tipped her head. “Perhaps that was it? He didn’t know—and couldn’t tell—where the shadow fell across his face. He thought I saw more than I did.”

Stokes nodded. “Most likely. He’s got a scar that runs between his upper lip and his nose. If you’d seen that, chances are you would have recognized him the next time you came face-to-face with him in some ballroom, or over a dinner table.”

“And from his point of view, that would have happened at some point, and he couldn’t have that.” Barnaby rose, along with all the others. “So it was misplaced ego, in a way, that brought Affry down. If he’d just waited patiently to see if Henrietta ever said anything, and did what he could to avoid her meanwhile, he would have got away cleanly.”

“Overweening ego,” Simon said, “seems to be a trait that brings down a lot of villains.”

“For which,” Stokes said, “I, for one, am perennially grateful. The ego of villains—long may it be their Achilles’ heel.”

On that rousing note, the company broke up. Buoyed by collective satisfaction and unalloyed triumph, they exchanged farewells and drifted off, in the hackneys or on foot, to find their respective beds.

Henrietta asked Charlie to drive her and James to George Street. Very happy to oblige, Charlie left them on the steps of James’s house and, with a flourish of his whip, drove away.

“He’ll have to return the hackney to its stable, I suppose.” James hunted in his pocket for his latchkey.