“I expect not.” William eased his glass away.
“I’m glad you brought a gun.” Amy looked behind her. “In my books, anyone who feels threatened always sits with their back to the wall, facing the door.”
“In real life, people who feel threatened sit with their back to the wall, facing the door.”
Mrs. Johnson rushed by, ignoring them.
“Do you think she will talk to us?”
“I hope so. The fact that she’s avoiding our table makes me wonder if she knows something and is afraid to say anything. I think Whitney might have told her what we discussed when I visited him.”
The next time she came near their table, William said, “Madam, may I have a brandy?” If he ordered something, she would have to come to their table.
She reappeared a few minutes later. “Here you are.” She slammed the small glass down on the table. She looked around and leaned in. “If you want to talk to me about anything, it won’t be here. Too many ears.” She looked around again.
“When?”
She leaned closer and wiped the table with a dirty cloth. “Come to the Roman Baths square tomorrow. That’s the best I can do.” She walked away, then turned back. “Three o’clock.”
William nodded, placed some coins on the table, and stood. Amy followed him, and he took her hand in his as they left the pub.
The next day William sat behind his desk going over his files again, trying to reconcile his bank statements with the records he had received from Wilson. Hopefully his new man of business—who seemed very efficient—would help to get all of this straightened out, before too long. He’d found himself unable to sleep the past few nights with all the worries on his mind.
Another conundrum—as if he hadn’t enough of them in his life—was his missing appointment book. He had left it on his desk and had planned to go over it to see if he could piece together his activities the week James had been killed.
With the way things were in his life right now, there was a good possibility he hadn’t left it on his desk but had put it somewhere else. He planned to leave for Amy’s house in about an hour so they could proceed to see Mrs. Johnson. He was sure she had wanted to give them some information the night before but had felt uneasy doing so at the pub. Hopefully it would be something that could lead to Harding’s killer.
Since his session with his solicitor, his barrister, and the police, he had felt as though he were waiting for an ax to drop. The fact that the detectives had come to his house to harass his mother and hadn’t returned since worried him. If it had been something important enough for them to make the trip to his house, why hadn’t he heard from them?
His mother entered the library, pulling on her gloves.
“Are you going out?”
“Yes. I have an appointment with my modiste. I am in dire need of an updated wardrobe.”
William leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Why the sudden need for more clothes?” He hadn’t spoken to her yet about Mr. Colbert seeing her home the Saturday before. She’d been busy making her morning calls and receiving her own guests. She’d also been out a couple of nights with no indication of where she was going. Although he was very curious, it felt odd asking his own mother to keep him abreast of her comings and goings.
Truth be known, he was a bit reluctant to question her because he was afraid to hear what she’d have to say. He knew that she was a grown woman and had already lived through a marriage, so she certainly knew what was what about male-and-female relationships.
He could not condone any sort of an affair, however. After all, she was his mother. Watching her sneak into the house in the early-morning hours, or worse yet, seeing Colbert creep out the front door, would push him close to calling Colbert out.
“I just feel the need for some new things. Is there a problem with funds, dear?”
William shook his head. “Not at all. You may purchase whatever you like.”
“Thank you, son.” She kissed the top of his head and proceeded toward the door, almost running into Stevens.
“My lord, the two detectives are here again.”
“I thought I told them never to return,” his mother huffed.
William stood and walked around the desk. “Mother, one does not forbid the authorities from coming to one’s house if they have reason to.”
She raised her chin. “They have no reason. This idea of you having anything at all to do with the death of that business manager is preposterous.”
“Thank you for your vote of confidence, but nevertheless, the police generally tend to dismiss character references from one’s mother.”
“The drawing room?” William asked.
“Yes, my lord. They are waiting there.”
He would really have preferred to leave his mother out of it, but she appeared unlikely to sail out the door for her appointment, so they both entered the drawing room.
The two detectives stood in the middle of the room. When William entered, Detective Carson moved up to him. “Lord William Wethington, please place your hands behind your back.”
“What?”
“You are under arrest for the murder of Mr. James Harding and Mrs. Millie Johnson.”
“Mrs. Johnson! I just saw her last night.”
“Yes. We know that. She was found behind the Kings Garden with a bullet in her. We had a tip that you met with her last night after she finished her shift.”
“That’s absurd. I did not meet her after her shift. Who provided this tip?”
“It was anonymous.”
Just then, with a soft sigh, his mother slumped to the floor. Somehow he didn’t think this swoon was fake.
“Detectives, I cannot leave until I see to my mother.” William walked to where she lay on the ground, picked her up, and placed her on a settee. “Get
