dared to utter a word.
Grace Child’s still form hovered in Evelina’s mind. Not that she believed Keating had played a role in her death or that of the grooms—why would he? Still, he and the other industrialists, with their streetkeepers and their hunger for power, had encouraged a world where that kind of brutality could happen. A maid could be slaughtered. A maid could be repeatedly shocked in front of her employers and they would make no move to protect her. A lady could be insulted at her own birthday party with her husband standing mere feet away.
Her thoughts were mirrored in the disgust stamped Tobias’s face. He rose, his glare moving from Keating to his father and back again before he pressed the wristband against Jackson’s chest and tapped the key. The man started, but it was nothing like Dora’s violent jerk.
He cast a final icy glance at the Gold King. “I think you’ll agree that’s a little safer.”
He turned away, letting the wristband fall. Jackson reflexively caught it, giving himself another shock. Tobias let him fumble, then stalked back toward the house in the same direction Dora had gone.
Evelina wanted to cheer.
Chapter Seventeen
They’d been Disconnected.
Evelina’s stomach was in knots. The heat had gone off five minutes after Jasper Keating departed, leaving the kitchens and baths cold. The cooks had been forced to wash up in frigid water. Then the gas had gone out the moment dusk fell. Fortunately, candles were one staple that was still easy to get, and there were plenty on hand. Lord B had never run gas to the upper floors, only lighting the rooms that guests were likely to see.
Apparently, Tobias’s outrage had warranted retaliation. There was no need for raised voices or displays of temper. All Keating had to do was send workmen out to turn off the lines running to Hilliard House, and his point was made for all to see. It was hard to miss a pitch-black house among all the brilliantly lit yards.
Of course, no one had said
The less suspicious guests who overheard the crewman accepted that the failure was a malfunction. The cynical looked askance and said nothing. The only question in Evelina’s mind was how long a house could be “out of order” before it became officially “Disconnected”. Not long, she guessed. As warnings went, the situation was abundantly clear. Bancroft had better watch his step.
To top everything else, Inspector Lestrade and his men arrived just as the bulk of the guests were leaving. Evelina was fairly sure the Gold King had arranged that, too, because Lestrade seemed unconcerned about either the party or the Gold King’s move to cut the power. Normally, the police trod more carefully around the gentry than this.
“It’s just routine, you understand,” he promised.
Lestrade sat on the chair opposite Evelina’s place on the sofa, not mentioning the Disconnection by word or deed. She couldn’t guess whether that was strategy or sensitivity. They were in the same drawing room where she had met her grandmamma, but there was no tea and biscuits this time. Just some candles, the rat-faced inspector, and her. Normally, a young lady would have a chaperone, but everyone else was dealing with the utility crisis.
The inspector had out his notebook and pencil. “Tell me again exactly how you came to be with the deceased.”
If he was speaking to her, that meant he hadn’t found more promising leads. Evelina wondered about her bird. It had been gone three days. It was supposed to have spied on Lestrade, but it hadn’t come back. Worry made her stomach knot.
“What were you doing when you heard there was trouble in the house?” he asked.
She’d been with Nick in her bedroom, wanting him to stay and wishing he would go. Her mind cast about for a different answer. Anything to deflect the question. “You don’t have a recording cylinder?”
“I don’t need one, miss,” he replied a little testily.
“But you can get verbatim statements from the punch rolls.”
“Sometimes it’s not the words that matter, miss. It’s what lies between ’em.”
The look he gave her chilled her to the bone. Uncle Sherlock might cow Inspector Lestrade, but Evelina related the events of the night—the ones she saw fit to tell him, anyhow—without further ado. It would be little more than he already knew.
“If you don’t mind my saying miss, you don’t seem terribly upset by all this.”
Evelina stared at the candle on the side table beside her. “Swooning won’t help you or Grace.”
“No, miss.”
“You think me unladylike.”
“I find you an unusually calm young lady.”
Whatever his opinion, Lestrade was a good listener, taking copious notes. When she was done talking, he reread them silently, tracking his progress down the page with the tip of his pencil.
“You say you heard voices outside earlier that night. When was that?”
“I heard the church clock strike eleven.”
“You’re very precise, miss. I appreciate it.”
She gave a small smile. “I have it on good authority that cases can be solved by the observance of trifles.”
He gave her a sour look. “You sound like Sherlock Holmes.”
“He is my uncle.”
“I know.” He lifted a brow. “He told me to pay special attention to what you might say, and promised to be my undoing if you came to harm before this case was done.”
“Really? He knows about this case?” Chill dread rose.
“Oh, aye. He had to go haring off to the Continent, or he’d be here, I’m sure.”
Panic engulfed her, making her shift restlessly in her chair. She’d meant to get ahead of Lestrade, solve Grace’s murder, and steer the police away from Lord B and his automatons, but every tick of the clock seemed to make matters worse. At this rate, there would be nothing left of the family before she had her first real break in the case.
Suddenly the shadows in the candlelit room oppressed her.
“By the by,” Lestrade said casually, “do you happen to know when young Mr. Roth came home that night?”
He nearly caught her off guard. “I didn’t see Tobias come home.”
“Did he tell you when he came home?”
The scene by the clock came back to her. The kiss. His nonconfession about coming back from somewhere that night. Somewhere he wasn’t going to speak of. And the kiss. If she was smart, she’d give him up. Tell Lestrade everything, and show Tobias she wasn’t a stupid girl who could be silenced with a few soft words and a grapple in the shadows.
But then, he’d stood up to Jasper Keating to protect Dora. Tobias wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve to be tossed under the charging locomotive of Lestrade’s investigation.
“Tobias didn’t tell me anything. Young men don’t confide in their little sisters’ houseguests.”
His lips twitched, or maybe that was just the shadows of the candle flame shifting over his features. “I take your point, miss. In that case, I think I have everything I need from you.”
He flipped the notebook closed, but reached into the pocket of his overcoat. “I just remembered—I spoke
