‘Good heavens, am I a suspect? Well, I suppose the facts could be twisted to make me appear so, always supposing you’re desperate to pin the blame on someone. I knew the victim, I used to be romantically involved with one of his wealthy lovers and I am good friends with the other.’ He flashed another irreverent grin. ‘In your situation, I’d be tempted to slap the handcuffs on myself.’
‘I shall avoid doing anything quite that drastic, at least for the time being, but if you do think of anything else, you know where to find me.’ Riley drained his glass and both men stood to shake hands. ‘I’ll be hearing from you, no doubt.’
Buckingham nodded, then stood where he was, watching Riley walk away.
Chapter Thirteen
Riley enjoyed a quiet evening at home, with just his wife and son and what was proving to be a very faithful dog for company. Amelia was brimming with ideas for turning their new house into a home. She and Olivia had already looked at furniture and Amelia was bubbling with excitement as she showed him sample swatches of fabric for curtains and bed hangings. Riley pretended to take an interest but preferred to watch Amelia’s animation, counting his blessings for having secured the love of such a vibrant and compelling woman.
‘What do you think of the twill satin?’ she asked, recalling Riley’s wandering attention. ‘It would be perfect for the drawing room windows, exactly the right shade and thickness to make the most of the light, but I fear the cost will be prohibitive.’
‘Spend as much as you think necessary, my love,’ he said, kissing her.
‘You are too generous!’ she cried, her lovely face coming alight with the joys of planning the next stage of her family’s life.
‘Just promise me that you will not over-exert yourself.’
Would that all females became so animated about a length of cloth and Regency striped wallpaper, Riley thought, smiling as he made his way to Scotland Yard the following morning. Most would require diamonds at the very least and endless additions to their wardrobes to bring the same sparkle to their eyes.
He was in a relaxed frame of mind as he worked with Inspectors Turner and Grayson on their respective cases and updated his own paperwork, which took most of the morning. There was nothing he could do about the investigation into Ezra’s death until Salter finished his assignments in Clapham.
Having caught up with his outstanding work, Riley leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, glad for a moment’s peace in which to think without interruption. All his detectives were out and he had the place almost to himself. Only the distant sound of Sergeant Barton barking orders at some hapless constable and the heavy tread of someone’s feet on the boarded floor outside his room penetrated the walls of Riley’s domain.
He mulled over everything they had now established regarding Ezra’s lifestyle and became increasingly convinced that Verity Randall was the architect of his demise. He was also fairly sure that she had arranged for her brother to be killed, presumably with the intention of blackmailing Mrs Wendall into sharing his estate with her—an estate which she looked upon as hers by right for reasons Riley had yet to establish. She probably imagined that Mrs Wendall would pay up in order to protect her reputation and avoid being suspected of Ezra’s murder.
She ought to be a suspect, Riley conceded. If Ezra had found reasons not to disassociate from Ida, that would be sufficient cause for a jealous woman to seek revenge. The fact that she had been willing to share Ezra with Ida was the one aspect of Mrs Wendall’s account that Riley had found hard to accept. Most females who formed relationships with engaging men of Ezra’s ilk would not find that situation acceptable. Riley wondered why he had believed that Mrs Wendall had done so without pressing her on the point. She was a resident of Clapham and knew where Ezra would have been at the vital time.
Riley had not lost sight of the fact that it was an angry woman who had accosted Ezra in the Plough. She couldn’t risk killing him in her own home and expect to avoid both suspicion and scandal, but was she really calculating enough to come up with such an elaborate ruse? She could simply have offered him an ultimatum while she had him in her house—her or me. Perhaps she had done so, Ezra had found a way to prevaricate, and Mrs Wendall’s patience had run out.
No. Riley shook his head. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment crime of passion, nor was it an argument that had run out of control. It was a cold-blooded, carefully planned murder. Even so, Riley was unable to decide why he was so sure of Mrs Wendall’s innocence, despite the anomalies he had identified. Was Salter right? Had he been influenced by her beauty, her poise and her air of tragic dignity?
Riley hoped he wasn’t as shallow as that. He had learned to depend upon his instincts ever since setting out to become a detective. His mentor, Jake Morton, the Earl of Torbay, had encouraged him to evaluate people every bit as closely as he examined evidence—to watch their reactions and draw conclusions from the things that they did not say. Mrs Wendall had struck him as an honest person who had answered his questions without being evasive. A lady who was genuinely distraught by the death of the man she had so unwisely fallen for and had hoped to spend the rest of her life with.
‘She didn’t
