“Left. Toward Piccadilly.”
Christian cocked a brow at Letitia.
Arms again folded, she was glowering, quietly smoldering, but there was worry behind her eyes. When he waited, she reluctantly vouchsafed, “Justin’s lodgings are in Jermyn Street.”
Mellon had given the correct direction without hesitation; he most probably had seen Justin leave. Christian thought, then asked, “If anyone else had called on your master last night, after Lord Vaux left, or even before, would you have known?”
“Indeed, sir-my lord. If they’d rung the bell, I would have heard-it rings in my room as well as in the kitchen. Even if they’d knocked on the door, I couldn’t help but hear, my room being where it is.”
There seemed little point in suggesting he might have been deeply asleep. “Very well.” Christian turned toward the bloodstain on the floor. “Let’s move on to this morning. What happened once you came downstairs?”
“I was in my pantry seeing to the cutlery for the breakfast table, when Mrs. Crocket, the housekeeper, came to tell me that the tweeny who does the study of a morning couldn’t open the door. I went straight away, thinking perhaps the master had gone to his study early. Sometimes he does lock the door. But when I knocked, there was no reply, not even when I called. Then one of the footmen looked through the keyhole-I was surprised he could, as the key should have been in it. He turned green and said the master was lying on the floor, and there was blood.” Mellon paled.
“What happened then?”
“We tried to force the door, me and the two footmen, but it wouldn’t budge. We were thinking of breaking a window and putting someone through when one of the maids told us the scullery boy could pick locks. We got him up here, and he managed to open the door. We rushed in…” Mellon’s eyes were drawn to the bloodstained floor. “…and we found the master there, dead. Quite dead.”
His voice quavered on the last words. Christian gave him a moment to compose himself.
He glanced at Letitia; her face was chalk white. “I realize this is distressing”-he addressed the comment more to her than Mellon, then returned his gaze to the butler-“but if you could describe how Randall was lying-on his back, or on his face?”
All color drained from Mellon’s countenance. “On his back, my lord.” His jaw worked. “There wasn’t much of his face left to speak of.”
Letitia made a small choked sound and turned away; hand at her throat, she stared out of the window. Hermione had paled but was less distressed.
Tamping down a disconcertingly strong urge to suspend the interview to spare Letitia, who would certainly not thank him, Christian forged on. “So it would seem Randall was facing the fire, and his attacker. I understand there were two glasses of brandy on the side table-had they been drunk?”
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.
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 had noticed the interplay. Eyes dark with suspicion, he nevertheless grudgingly conceded, “His lordship drove off in his curricle.”
“Do you have any further light to shed on this matter? Any information at all?”
“No, my lord. The body’s been taken to the police surgeon. When he’s done with his examination, the corpse will be released to her ladyship for burial.” Barton used the word “corpse” deliberately, his gaze sliding to Letitia.
Christian battled an almost overpowering urge to throttle the man. “Very good.” His harsh tones had Barton looking his way again; he caught the man’s eye. “When that time comes, you-personally-will inform Mellon, and he will convey the information to me. Her ladyship is not to be disturbed with this matter again. Any query you may have, you may make through me.” He held Barton’s gaze. “I trust I make myself plain?”
His last words came out in a menacing purr, much like a lion anticipating his next meal. Letitia heard, not just
