“How’d that be?” the Chief Inspector asked, his brogue thick.
“One blow, up high into the stomach cavity. Sliced the renal artery. That’s why all the blood. He bled to death in a matter of minutes.”
The maid began to weep once more. Pureton frowned and looked toward the door. His gaze fell upon Adele.
She stared back, not in the mood to smile politely.
Pureton came toward the door, his expression no more pleased than hers. As he navigated the puddle, Adele’s attention was drawn to the stairs, thirty yards away. From them came the sound of men arguing. Or one man arguing, at any rate, his Irish brogue thick. The voice was drawing closer. Adele suspected the man was heading to this room.
Pureton stepped out of the room with a long stride that put his foot beyond the expanding radius of blood soaking into the carpet and moved over to her. “This is no place for fainting women, Lady Adelaide. Return to your room.”
“Who is the victim, Sir Godfrey? I don’t know his face.”
“This is no concern of yours or that bobby of yours, I assure you.” Pureton’s voice was cold.
The trouble on the stairs leapt in volume. From the corner of her eye, Adele saw a man step into the corridor from the stairs, surrounded by three footmen, all trying to get a grip on his arms.
He shrugged them off with a mighty heave and pushed one of them aside. “‘tis me own brother! I’ve a right t’see! Naff off, the lot of ye!” He pulled his jacket back into place and stalked toward them. He was a tall man, a typical Black Irishman in looks and temperament. His black hair was thick, unruly curls, the dark eyes snapped fire as he bore down upon them. Adele imagined she could see steam trailing behind him.
Pureton raised his hand as the Irishman came up to them. “This is a police matter, sir. You cannot go any further.”
The man threw out an arm and pointed to the door. “That is my brother, sir. You’d deny me the view of ‘im?”
Pureton hesitated.
“If the King’s man won’t deny you, I must,” the Chief Inspector said, as he lunged over the soaked carpet in the doorway. “I can’t have ye messin’ up the investigation, Slane.”
The man swayed to peer around the Chief Inspector. His face worked. “Dear God. Eilish…what damn fool thing did you get into?” He closed his eyes and turned away from the view.
“Perhaps just a moment with the body, Chief Inspector McDermott?” Pureton said, his tone delicate.
Chief Inspector McDermott smoothed both sides of his thick moustache. “‘fraid I can’t do that, Sir Godfrey. This man ‘ere,” and he nodded at the brother, “is Torin Slane. He’s a trouble-making Nationalist, a member of Sinn Féin and well known to the Garda—got heself arrested more than once.”
“Nationalist, hmm?” Pureton said, shooting a disapproving look at Torin Slane.
“What of it?” Slane demanded, his hand curling into a fist. “A man is dead, sir! My brother!”
“Aye and the difference between you and your brother is night and day,” McDermott added. “Which is why I can’t let ye in.” He looked at Pureton. “‘e’s just as likely to tamper with t’ings, just to make our jobs harder. Devil beguiled his mother, that one.”
Adele felt a little squeeze of surprise as she put together the names. Eilish Slane was an Irish Member of the British Parliament, the Member for Galway. He also happened to be one of the King’s favourite hunting companions and a constant guest at Balmoral. And now he had been murdered.
“Oh, the King will not like this,” Adele murmured.
Pureton glanced at her with an expression that said he’d forgotten she was there. “Make yourself useful, Lady Adelaide. Escort Mr. Slane to the dining room and…entertain him until the police are ready to question him. There’s a good woman.”
The avuncular tone made Adele seethe. She gritted her jaws together.
Torin Slane sent her a look of disbelief, then said to the two men, “I’ll not sit about, waiting upon your pleasure. I have better things to do!” He spun away.
“We will have to question you, sir!” McDermott called after him.
“Come and find me when you’re ready!” Slane slung over his shoulder. He turned down the stairs and disappeared.
“Will he abscond?” Pureton asked.
“He can’t,” McDermott said, sounding pleased. “Trinity College is open all summer. We can find him there when we need him, never fear.”
Adele had heard enough. She followed Slane’s example and stalked along the corridor to the stairs, but climbed up them, rather than down. She shut her room door with a solid thump, which didn’t relieve her feelings.
She walked about the small clear area at the end of the bed, trying to think. What would Melville do? What would Daniel do? But they were both men and wouldn’t have been rebuffed at the doorway in the first place.
How could she learn more about this murder and establish that it was not the act of enemy agents, while Pureton denied her the most basic access to the facts?
She was alone. It was up to her to figure this one out.
BY BREAKFAST TIME THE NEXT morning, Adele still had no idea how she might deal with Pureton and McDermott. The Chief Inspector seemed to be of the same opinion about women as Pureton.
She slept fitfully, despite a day of sea air, walking and sunlight, and rose with an aching body and thudding head. She desperately wanted tea and toast. She dressed hurriedly in a morning gown, descended to the ground floor and entered the dining room.
She was shown to the table. “The morning papers, please,” she asked the waiter as she sat down.
He looked astonished. “Newspapers, ma’am? You?”
She tilted her head. “Yes, me. Chop-chop.”
He hurried away, shaking his head, and brought a folded newspaper
