The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

me, and love their dogs.”

Fellows looked unimpressed. “Are you certain you wish to hear the story? Some bits are gruesome.” “Be remorseless, Inspector.”

He had remorseless eyes, did Inspector Fellows. “Very well. Five years ago, almost to the day, 1 was called to investigate a crime in a private house in High Holborn. A young woman, Sally Tate, had been stabbed five times through the heart with a knife, according to the coroner. She bled some, and her blood had been smeared on the walls around her.”

I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. . . . Beth shut her eyes, trying to forget the harsh sound of Ian’s voice as the words tumbled out.

Fellows continued “It took some time to pry out of Mrs.  Palmer, the owner of the house, the names of the gentlemen who’d visited there the night before. You do know that the place was once owned by Hart Mackenzie? He bought it to keep Mrs. Palmer, a famous courtesan he’d taken as his mistress.  He sold her the house when his political career began to rise.”

“I presume you did discover who was there?”

“Oh, yes. Five gentlemen attended Mrs. Palmer’s salon the night before. Hart Mackenzie and Ian. A gentleman called Mr. Stephenson—Hart had brought him to win him to his side in some financial game. A Colonel Harrison, who was a regular guest of Mrs. Palmer and her young ladies, and his friend Major Thompkins. They apparently all managed to leave well before the murder occurred, very convenient for them. I was able to interview each man the next morning, but not Ian Mackenzie, who had been bundled off to Scotland by his brother Hart.”

Beth smoothed her skirt. “You speak of them familiarly, Inspector. You say Ian and Hart, instead of ‘his lordship’ and ‘His Grace.’”

Fellows gave her a deprecating look. “I think about the Mackenzies more often than I do my own family.” “Why, I wonder?”

His color rose. “Because they are blights on society, that’s why. Rich men who spend money on women, clothes, and horses and don’t do an honest day’s work. They’re useless.  I’m surprised you take to them, you who know all about an honest day’s work. They’re nothing.”

Bitterness rang in his words. Beth stared at him, and Fellows flushed and tried to compose himself.

“Very well,” she said. “You interviewed all the gentlemen but Ian. Why don’t you suspect them?”

“They were respectable,” Fellows said.

“Visiting a brothel is respectable, the vicar’s widow asks with her brows raised?”

“They were all bachelors. No wives breaking their hearts at home. Mr. Stephenson and the two military officers were astonished by the news of the murder and were able to account satisfactorily for their movements. None of them had gone near Sally Tate, and they’d departed the house just after midnight. Sally Tate was killed near five in-the morning, according to the doctor. They left Hart and Ian Mackenzie behind. Ah, I mean, His Grace and his lordship.” “And Ian’s servants swear Ian had returned home by two,” Beth said, remembering what Fellows had told her before.

“But they’re lying.” Fellows sat forward. “What I’ve pieced together from their stories is this: Hart Mackenzie brings his friend Stephenson and his brother Ian to enjoy an evening with high-class courtesans. At about ten, in the parlor, the four men—Hart, Stephenson, Thompkins, and Harrison—begin a game of whist. Ian declines the invitation to play cards and reads a newspaper. According to Major Thompkins, Sally Tate sat down near Ian and started talking to him. They had a good chin-wag for about a quarter of an hour, and then she convinced him to go upstairs with her.”

“Ian talked for a quarter of an hour?”

Fellows smiled faintly. “I imagine Sally did most of the talking.”

Beth fell silent. She burned up inside, thinking of Ian leading a woman to bed, though she reminded herself that she hadn’t known Ian then. He’d had no obligation to her at the time. Jealousy wasn’t rational, however.  She forced herself to think over what Fellows had told her.  Sally had talked to Ian for a quarter of an hour, but she couldn’t have been trying to entice him upstairs all that rime.  Beth knew from experience that persuading Ian Mackenzie to do anything he didn’t want to was an impossible task. He would have made up his mind at the start whether he wanted to bed Sally, and either gone upstairs with the woman right away or never. So, if Sally hadn’t been trying to persuade him, what had they talked about?

Beth took a breath. “And then?”

“The other four gentlemen remained downstairs playing cards. None of them went upstairs, according to the ladies, the gentlemen, and the servants. Only Ian and Sally Tate.” “And everyone departed after midnight?” “Stephenson, Harrison, and Thompkins enjoyed talking together so much that they decided to adjourn to Harrison’s home. According to their statement, Hart went with them but turned back almost immediately, saying he wanted to wait for his brother.”

“And did he?”

“According to Mrs. Palmer, Hart returned at about one, waited for Ian, who came down at two, and the brothers departed together.” Fellows smiled. “But here we reach a snag.  One of the maids declared that Hart had gone upstairs at some point, then rushed out later on his own. When pressed the maid got confused and couldn’t swear to anything. But later, after Mrs. Palmer managed to get the girl alone, the maid changed her story and said that Hart and Ian had definitely left together at two.”

Beth bit her lip. Fellows wasn’t stupid, and the maid’s waffling was suspicious. “What did Ian say?” “I did not get the chance to interview your good husband until two weeks later. By that time, he couldn’t remember.” A small pain began in Beth’s heart. Ian remembered everything.

“Exactly,” Fellows said. “I thought I had enough to pursue him, but suddenly, my chief inspector pulled me off the case and took away my notes. My chief declared that a passing tramp killed Sally, and he faked the evidence to prove it.  Case swept under the rug and closed.”

Beth pulled her thoughts together with effort. “What happened when Sally was found?”

Fellows sat back in the chair, his expression one of frustration.  “What I was told happened was that a maid found her and screamed. The others came running, and Mrs. Palmer sent for the constable.” Fellows paused, giving Beth a keen stare. “What I believe happened is that Ian was found in the room with Sally, Sally dead. But the ladies of that house are all loyal to the bone to Hart Mackenzie, so they sent for Hart, who cleaned Ian up and got him out of there. Then they shouted for the police. By the time the constable arrived, Ian was on a train to Scotland, and his servants instructed to swear up and down that he’d slept at home.” Bloody hell. Beth knew it had happened just as Fellows said. Ian had to be taken away, because he wouldn’t know how to lie. He’d have told Fellows the literal truth and been arrested, perhaps hanged for a murder he didn’t commit.

Then Beth might never have met Ian, never seen his golden eyes warm with his fleeting glance, never kissed his lips, never heard his voice whisper her name in the night. Her life would have been empty and shallow, and she wouldn’t have known why.

“You’re a pillock, Inspector,” she said vehemently.  He scowled. “Respectable ladies don’t use those words, Mrs. Ackerley.”

“Botheration about respectable ladies. You’ve rubbed my background in my face, so you will receive the brunt of it.  You are a pillock. You have been so fixed on Ian that you’ve let the real murderer—probably one of the other three gentlemen or Mrs. Palmer—get clean away. Hart might have told Ian to lie, but Ian can’t. He doesn’t see the world like the rest of us, doesn’t know that people never tell the truth if they can help it. He thinks we’re all mad, and he’s right” Fellows snorted. “Ian Mackenzie will say anything His bloody Grace tells him to, and you know it. Lies or no lies.” “You don’t know the Mackenzies very well at all if you believe that. Ian doesn’t obey Hart. He does as he pleases.” She understood that now. “Ian helps Hart because he’s grateful to Hart for releasing him from that horrible asylum.” “And will lick Hart’s boots the rest of his life for it,” Fellows snapped. He stood. “You are the deluded one, my lady.  They’re using you like they use everyone else. Why do you think the Mackenzie marriages fail? Because the wives in question finally realize they’re being chewed up and spat out by the uncaring machine that is Hart and his family.” “You told me Hart’s wife died bearing his child,” Beth said, getting to her feet to face him. “She hardly did that on purpose.”

“The woman was terrified of him, and the two barely spoke to each other, according to all gossip. His Grace was most relieved when she died.”