Mellon rallied at the change of subject. “Both had been sipped, but neither drained.”
“Where, exactly, was the key?”
Mellon looked toward the door, and pointed. “There, on the floor—by that knot in the wood.”
Hermione shifted. Christian glanced at her, and saw she was attending avidly. He glanced at Letitia; she was attending, too, but not with the same intensity. He looked again at Hermione. Her eyes were wide; she was definitely tense. Without looking at Mellon, he said, “Put your finger on the spot.”
Mellon obeyed. “The best I can recall, it was here.”
Hermione’s eyes hadn’t left Mellon, but as he straightened, she glanced at Christian expectantly.
Unsure what was going on, he looked at Mellon and asked the obvious question. “How do you imagine the key got there?”
“I can’t rightly say, my lord.”
“If you had to guess?”
“I think…that Lord Vaux locked the door behind him, then slipped the key back under the door.”
Christian nodded. That seemed the most likely explanation, except…“Why would Lord Vaux do that? If he’d just murdered your master in gruesome fashion, why go to the bother of locking the door and slipping the key back inside?”
Mellon frowned, unable to answer.
“To give himself time to scarper.”
The words drew all eyes to the door; they came from a whippet-thin individual who’d appeared in the hall. One glance at his ferrety features and Christian knew who he was.
Letitia had stiffened to a scarifying degree. In tones worthy of the haughtiest duchess, she said, “Dearne, permit me to introduce Mr. Barton. Of Bow Street.”
She didn’t need to say anything more; her tone effectively conveyed her contempt. Clearly Barton had already succeeded in thoroughly putting up her back.
Deliberately mild, Christian nodded to Barton. “Lady Randall has asked me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death. Might I ask why you imagine Lord Justin Vaux has, to use your phrase, ‘scarpered’?”
Barton wasn’t at all sure how to act toward him; Christian left him to make up his own mind, which resulted in Barton opting for caution. He answered civilly. “In light of the circumstances, I’ve been around to his lordship’s lodgings. I was given to understand that her ladyship here”—Barton glanced at Letitia—“sent a message requesting his presence earlier, but had received no reply. Not surprising, as his lordship has disappeared.”
Letitia looked startled, and shocked. So did Hermione.
“Disappeared?” Letitia stared at Barton; Christian could all but see the wheels in her mind churning. Then she sniffed and looked away. “I daresay he’s gone to the country to visit with friends. It is August, after all. I suspect, Mr. Barton, that your ‘disappearance’ is nothing more than that.”
Barton looked pugnacious. “Would you say his lordship normally leaves for country parties in a tearing rush late at night? With his man, who hadn’t had any warning?” When Letitia said nothing, Barton went on, “Because that’s what happened according to his landlord who lives downstairs.”
After a moment Barton glanced down, drawing all attention to what he carried in one hand; it appeared to be a cloth garment, folded many times. “And then there’s this.”
He shook out the garment, revealing it to be a gentleman’s coat. “Would this be one of your brother’s, your ladyship? Do you recognize it?”
Letitia frowned. She walked closer, considering the coat’s cut. “It looks like one of Justin’s.” Halting before the coat Barton obligingly displayed at arm’s length, she raised her brows. “Is it from Shultz?” She reached for the left lapel.
Barton whisked the coat away. “You might want to be careful about touching it, your ladyship. There’s blood on it, see—most likely your husband’s.”
Every drop of blood drained from Letitia’s face.
Christian was at her side instantly, before he’d even thought. “Barton.” The single word resonated with menace, yet was nothing to what he felt. His hands had fisted; he battled an urge to strike the runner. His tongue itched to tear strips off the man, but…they needed to learn what he’d discovered. “Did the landlord have any idea where his lordship was headed?”
He’d barked out the question. Barton stiffened; he wanted to refuse to answer, but didn’t dare. “No.”
“Did he know how they left—in a hired carriage, or did Lord Vaux drive his curricle?” He glanced at Letitia as he asked; lips tight, she nodded. Justin did indeed keep a curricle in town.
Barton