There was no time to lose. Hamish had to get to St John’s Wood as fast as he could. Dr Swithins was not the caring physician Lily believed him to be. While he might have some knowledge of how to ease Lily’s anguish and ameliorate, if not shorten, her episodes of insanity, Sir Lionel clearly thought he was an unhealthy influence on her.

Hamish was just trying to piece together the many strands of Sir Lionel’s rather disjointed series of fact, fantasy, and conspiracy, when he saw Miniver hurrying along the pavement near the offices of McTavish & Son as Hamish was about to flag down a hackney.

“Sir, there’s a constable waiting for you in your office,” the young man told him. “

Apparently, it’s important. I’ve come looking for you as I knew you were at your club.”

A policeman? Hamish’s hand went to his temple. Something had happened. But then, of course, what did anyone know of his involvement with Lady Bradden? Lily.

“Lucy?” was his next fear.

“Your sister went to visit a friend,” said Miniver, and with that reassurance, Hamish hurried up the steps to his office where the policeman, who introduced himself as Inspector Webb, was seated in the chair across from his desk.

“If you’d be so good as to answer some questions of a private matter, sir. Hopefully, I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Hamish nodded, hiding his impatience for he was burning to locate Lily. Even if she were still in the grip of her anguish, Hamish would find her proper medical care. He would dispense with Dr Swithins’s services, that was certain.

Hamish was now in charge. He would look after Lily and, perhaps, under his tender ministrations, she would find greater periods of peace and tranquility.

“Can I then ask you, sir, to what extent you are a regular at Madame Chambon’s?”

Hamish jerked his head up. Unexpectedly, blood burned his cheeks. Surreptitiously, he gripped the edge of the table. “I am not even a casual visitor, Inspector.”

“Do you deny that you have visited the establishment, sir?”

“I don’t deny it, but I had a good reason for going there. One that was not connected to,” he hesitated, “the usual reason a gentleman might visit.” Disliking the look in the other man’s eye, Hamish added defensively, “I do not consort with the women of Madame Chambon’s establishment, and I have no idea why you should accuse me of anything in relation to—”

“I am not accusing you of anything.” The inspector scratched his jaw. “I am conducting an investigation into why your name should be mentioned in a letter found in the bedchamber of one of Madame Chambon’s girls, now, unfortunately, deceased.”

“Dear God, no!” With a start, he could only imagine it was Lily, given his current fears, but then, she was at home, in St John’s Wood. No, it could not be her.

The inspector studied him with interest and, when Hamish had calmed himself, asked, with as little emotion as the man before him, “Dead? Please elaborate, Inspector. Who is dead?”

“A woman known simply as Celeste, though we are searching for her full identity. None of the girls with whom she…er…worked…knew where she came from or, indeed, what her real name was.”

“Celeste?” Hamish ran a hand across his brow.

Dead? Did she take her own life? Die of any number of medical complications?

“The young woman was murdered sometime last night.”

“Murdered?” he repeated. “Good God! And my name was in a letter in her possession? Do you have a suspect?” The questions tumbled out before he even realised that he may indeed be the suspect. “What did the letter say?” He swallowed with difficulty, asking through a painfully dry throat, “Has she accused me of something?”

“Your name was mentioned in her diary, in fact. And no, she has not accused you of anything. It appears that she had intended to seek your assistance over some matter involving another woman by the name of Lily Eustace.” The inspector cocked his head at Hamish’s reaction, and asked in a tone that indicated he already knew the answer. “You are acquainted with this woman?”

Hamish nodded. “I am.” Then, “What did Celeste say with regard to my…interest in Mrs Eustace?”

“Interest, was it?” He looked interested himself. “She doesn’t mention that, sir, but she does indicate concern regarding this Mrs Eustace. A certain disdain for her, also, but ultimately, a concern.”

So, Celeste had witnessed Lily’s wild moods, perhaps, and was afraid? Hamish knew they’d shared a room for some weeks. Had Lily exhibited the kind of wild, erratic moods that had frightened Celeste?

He was almost too afraid to ask the question. “You believe Mrs Eustace had something to do with Celeste’s murder?”

“Mrs Eustace? Where did you get that idea, sir? No, Celeste was throttled by a very powerful pair of hands. Not a woman’s hands. Celeste was afraid of one of her particular gentleman friends who had indicated a desire to harm Mrs Eustace.”

Before he could stop himself, Hamish burst out, “Not the Russian?”

“Mr Igor Novichov sounds a very Russian name, doesn’t it, then, sir? And this is the man who the late Celeste thought intended harm to her friend, Mrs Eustace. Apparently, he’d threatened Mrs Eustace in the street, and then, in company with Miss Celeste, elaborated upon a most specific form of injury, and Miss Celeste was in two minds as to whether to warn her. Sadly, she ended up losing her own life.” He hesitated, looking at Hamish as if suggesting he might know more than he was giving away.

Tags: Beverley Oakley Fair Cyprians of London Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net