Once on the pavement, she shook her skirts straight, then allowed Kit to usher her through Mrs. Stenshaw’s gate and up the short path to the porch. Head high, she stood beside him as he lifted the knocker and rapped.
Light footsteps rapidly approached the door, and it opened to reveal a harassed-looking maid. Her eyes widened as she took them in. “Yes, sir? Ma’am?”
Kit handed over one of his cards. “We’re here to see Mrs. Stenshaw.”
The maid took the thick ivory card. Her eyes widened as she read the words inscribed upon it, then she looked up, bobbed, and said, “If you’ll wait here, sir—my lord—I’ll see if the mistress is receiving.”
With that, the maid stepped back and closed the door.
Kit arched a cynical brow at Sylvia.
She met his eyes, then her gaze shifted past his shoulder. He followed it, turning his head in time to catch the lace curtain in the front room’s bow window settling back into place.
Then the maid was back. She bobbed twice and said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but Mrs. Stenshaw is indisposed.”
Kit smiled reassuringly at the maid. Raising his voice, he said, “Please inform your mistress that Miss Buckleberry and I are investigating the fire that was deliberately set at the rear of the hall on the other side of the street, and if Mrs. Stenshaw prefers, I’m perfectly willing to place the matter in the hands of the local constabulary and return with them later—”
Something moved in the dimness of the hall. The maid swung around, then stepped back, and Mrs. Stenshaw, gloomy and forbidding in black bombazine, stumped forward, planted her cane on the threshold, and, her expression carved from stone, faced them.
Before Kit could part his lips, Mrs. Stenshaw declared, “I know nothing about any fire. But as I warned Councilor Peabody, such disruptive occurrences are guaranteed to happen now that a school for dockside brats has moved into our street.” She snorted inelegantly and brought her dark gaze to bear on Sylvia. “Bringing such uncouth elements into our peaceful streets—what did you expect would happen? It was doubtless some of those ungrateful brats unhappy about being sent to school.”
Sylvia drew in a sharp breath.
Kit felt his expression harden. “Having met each and every one of the school’s pupils, I’ve seen nothing of any such negative feelings about the school.” He caught Mrs. Stenshaw’s gaze. “But perhaps you know more about the boys than we do?”
Mrs. Stenshaw looked horrified—much as if he’d accused her of dealing with the devil. “I know nothing of those boys—or any dockside brats. The very idea!”
Appeared to have almost given her palpitations.
“I see,” Kit said. “So you have no knowledge or evidence to link any of the students to the fire, and furthermore, your opposition to the school and your opinion of the students are based solely on prejudice and nothing more.”
Mrs. Stenshaw’s expression remained truculent.
Sylvia, by the sound of her voice barely containing her ire, sternly said, “It might interest you to know that the fire was set against the rear door of the school. If the teachers hadn’t arrived unexpectedly and, assisted by neighbors, acted quickly to put out the flames, it’s possible the entire neighborhood might have burned.”
Mrs. Stenshaw paled, but snapped back, “That’s precisely the sort of danger I warned those boys would bring to this neighborhood!”
“Yet neither the boys nor anyone else associated with the school had any reason to set the fire. Indeed, all involved worked extremely hard to relocate the school. On the other hand”—Kit trapped Mrs. Stenshaw’s gaze—“we’ve been informed that you—and only you—have taken against the school to the extent of lodging an immediate protest with your councilor.” Kit paused, his gaze on Mrs. Stenshaw’s dark eyes. His tone unrelenting, he added, “I’m sure you can see how that looks.”
Mrs. Stenshaw’s complexion turned an even more ghastly shade, but she trenchantly declared, “Yes, I lodged a protest—a strong protest—with Councilor Peabody, and I am well within my rights to do so. But I had absolutely nothing to do with that fire, and you won’t prove otherwise.”
There was something in her attitude—her certainty—that convinced Kit she was telling the truth. He exchanged a quick
glance with Sylvia; she’d come to the same conclusion. Then he looked again at Mrs. Stenshaw. “Perhaps we might speak with your sons. Are they at home?”
Fleetingly, Mrs. Stenshaw’s eyes widened, then her expression snapped into a stony mask. Yet by the way her eyes flicked back and forth, Kit’s words had suggested a possibility she didn’t like. After too many seconds had passed, she replied, “They aren’t here. They went out after luncheon.”
“Indeed?” Sylvia said. “So they could have set the fire.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs. Stenshaw attempted to look down her nose at Sylvia—difficult as Sylvia was several inches taller. “My sons wouldn’t have had anything to do with that. I’m sure that, as usual, they went straight into the city.”
“Where in the city might we find them?” Kit asked.
Mrs. Stenshaw bridled. “I’m sure I don’t know.” Then she drew in a breath and said, “I daresay they went to the museum or the library or some similar, civilized place.”
Kit’s smile was edged. “So for all any of us know, influenced by your stance, your sons might have set the fire that could have threatened the entire neighborhood—perhaps because they share your views or perhaps to ingratiate themselves with you.”
It was the latter Mrs. Stenshaw feared; Kit saw it in her eyes.