Leo smiled at the compliment, then got back to the point of their visit. “Inspector Reid and I have come because we have reason to believe another murder victim might be connected to the death of the constable killed in the Scotland Yard bombing.”
The woman sat straight, her attention jumping toward Jasper. “How do you mean?”
Briefly, Jasper outlined Niles Foster’s and John Lloyd’s matching wrist ligature marks; the gashes on their cheeks, possibly made by the same signet ring; their deaths within 24hours of each other; and their gambling addictions that had led them to the same backroom casino in Lambeth.
“However, the natures of their deaths are not at all the same,” he continued. “Constable Lloyd apparently was the cause of his own death, while Mr. Foster was stabbed twice by an unknown assailant. My job is to find out who killed him. I might be able to do that if I can determine why Constable Lloyd was carrying that bomb in the first place.”
Mrs. Stewart spread her palms open. “I cannot tell you. I know no one believes me, but I had nothing to do with that poor constable’s death. If my valise was used to conceal the bomb, I have no idea how it came to be in his possession.”
Visibly overwrought, her eyes welled with tears. Leo covered her hand with her own, still gloved. It was cold in the cell, and the spring storm had reached through the thick walls to dampen the air.
“I believe you, Geraldine. And I believe your luggage was taken during the break-in at your home last month. I saw your husband and sister-in-law, Mrs. Bates, just yesterday. They believe the same and have told Inspector Tomlin.”
Mrs. Stewart hardened at the mention of the inspector. “He doesn’t believe them, does he?”
Leo shook her head. “But we do,” she said, speaking for Jasper, even though he’d rather she wouldn’t. He kept his lips pursed in a thin line. “And furthermore, we believe that whoever took that luggage broke into your home at a time when they knew it would be vacant. They bypassed expensive items, their only design being to steal the valise, which they knew exactly where to find.”
Mrs. Stewart sniffled and touched a crinkled handkerchief to her nose. “You believe this has been done by someone I know?” The appalling thought drained the rest of the color from her already wan cheeks.
“Someone who wished to implicate you once the bombing was carried out,” Jasper said. Laid out so starkly, he found he did believe it. The woman seated before him was no criminal mastermind.
She was a pampered, upper-class woman who had likely received a top-notch education from either private tutors or a women’s university, and who had the time and intellect to know that women were not treated as equal citizens to men. Using her influence, her money, and her social standing, she’d become a voice for the women’s equality movement. But she wasn’t violent.
“Do either you or your husband have any enemies?” he asked. “Political enemies, maybe?”
“I’m sure plenty of politicians dislike me,” she said with a humorless laugh. “Lord Babbage comes quickly to mind as one who loudly disagrees with the WEA’s tenets. Not Porter, however. My husband isn’t political at all.”
Leo folded her hands upon the small table. “Mr. Foster had a run-in with a man who has ties to a criminal gang known as the Spitalfields Angels.”
Jasper tensed, checking the open door. The warder, Miss Hartley, was still standing there, but she had her back turned. Leo must have recalled her earlier promise to him because she lowered her voice to a near whisper.
“Do you know of this gang?” she asked.
Mrs. Stewart screwed her expression into a grimace. “A criminal gang? Of course not.”
“You have servants,” Jasper said. “Might they be connected?”
She shook her head vigorously. “No, that’s impossible. We have a small staff, and all their references were fully vetted when my housekeeper hired them. It’s been nearly a decade. I can guarantee you; my servants are not in league with criminals.”
Jasper still wanted to question them, but he’d have to approach Mr. Stewart for permission. And were he to do that, word would get back to Tomlin. He rubbed his thumb along his chin, not wanting to make more work for himself.
“Who are these Spitalfields Angels anyhow?” Mrs. Stewart asked, her voice not nearly as soft as he would have liked. “Do you think they have something to do with the bombing I’m accused of?”
“Certain members of the Angels have been connected to Clan na Gael activity in the past. The gang is operated by a man named Barry Reubens,” Jasper said, hoping the name might spark something in her. But she only frowned. “Some other names associated with the Angels are Tricky Mills, Clive Paget, Harry Golding…do you recognize any of them?”
She continued to frown. “I’m sorry, but no. None of those names are familiar.”
Miss Hartley knocked on the frame of the door. “Time,” she said.
Leo pushed back her chair and stood. But Mrs. Stewart had frozen in her seat, her eyes blinking rapidly.
“Wait a moment,” she said softly. “Paget, did you say?”
“Yes.” Jasper’s pulse caught. “Clive Paget.”
“Odd,” she said, looking between him and Leo. “My late brother’s wife, Emma Bates…if I’m not mistaken, Paget is her maiden name.”
Leo spun toward him. The elation in her eyes reflected what he felt right then: the singing strike of gold.
