“A boy,” Flora said, speaking for the first time since entering the kitchen. “A little boy.” She lifted her hand and touched the table, petting it as if it was something other than a table. “My little boy.”
Then, without warning, Flora’s face screwed up into an expression of pure anguish. She let out a low moan, her hands coming up to cover her face.
“My darling,” Claude said, pushing back his chair and coming to his feet. “Flora, dear.”
But she continued to sob, the heart-wrenching sounds so alarming that Leo did not know what to say or do. Claude took his wife’s arm and tried to bring her up from her chair. Finally, Leo snapped out of her stunned stupor and stood to assist him. Amazingly, Flora allowed Leo to touch her arm and help Claude get her to her feet.
“Uncle?” Leo whispered as he began to guide Flora slowly from the kitchen.
“It’s all right, Leonora,” he told her, readjusting his spectacles. “As for this boy you mentioned, the mole. It isn’t always the case, but it would most likely have been passed to him by his mother.”
She nodded at her uncle’s rushed explanation, and then, a moment later, she was standing alone in the kitchen. Flora’s sobbing grew distant as Claude helped her upstairs to her room. Leo shook off the strange turn her aunt had taken and cleaned up the breakfast dishes before getting ready to go out. She had an important visit to make, though nothing she could explain easily to her uncle.
The flat banking of gray clouds in the sky let only a little sunlight filter through, and once again, the humidity thickened the air. Leo drew her mind from the bothersome perspiration gathering on her skin as she took an omnibus toward Park Crescent in Marylebone. Jasper had not let slip the exact address for Paula Blickson’s home, but once there, Leo easily asked a crossing sweeper boy which home belonged to the Blicksons. After giving the enterprising young lad a penny, he pointed to a three-story home across the tidy garden square.
She gazed upon the home’s exterior as she made her way through the square toward it. Jasper’s voice was lodged in the back of her mind, commanding her to stop and turn around.Leo had promised him not to do anything regarding the case while he was away, and she felt slightly guilty that she was now breaking that vow. But there was no telling when he and Sergeant Lewis would return to London, and with George Hayes missing and her theory about hereditary moles confirmed by her uncle, Leo felt she had no choice but to see if Paula Blickson was at home.
If Leo was correct in her supposition, there was a good chance Mrs. Blickson would not be there. She might be long gone—with her son, George Hayes.
She climbed the stoop and brought down the front door knocker, her pulse bubbling with anticipation. A maid opened the door and assessed Leo with a lengthy stare.
“Is Mrs. Blickson in?” Leo inquired. Before the maid could answer, she continued, “I am from Tate’s, the funeral service handling her late mother’s burial.”
The lie was no guarantee of entry, but as she’d hoped, the maid was alarmed enough to invite Leo in to wait while she checked with her employer. The maid didn’t go far, just down the short hall and into a room, before returning a few moments later.
“Mr. Blickson will see you,” she reported.
Leo masked her disappointment that it wasn’t to Mrs. Blickson she would be led and followed the maid into a study. However, just because Mr. Blickson had agreed to see her, it did not mean his wife was out. The maid might have decided Paula’s husband should handle burial arrangements rather than the mistress of the house.
In the study, a well-dressed gentleman stood from his chair to greet her, and surprise dragged Leo’s heels to a stop. With thin, silvering hair and lined, mottled skin, Mr. Blickson appeared to be at least sixty years of age. Perhaps older. Leo didn’t know why it startled her as much as it did; womenmarried older men all the time, especially if the match was intended for financial security. But one glimpse of Mr. Blickson, and Leo couldn’t help but think of Paula being led from the detective department on the arm of her cousin, the handsome, thirty-something Felix Goodwin. Why her mind touched on him perplexed her, which caused her to delay answering Mr. Blickson’s greeting.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said after recovering.
“This is in regard to Mrs. Seabright’s arrangements?” he asked, sounding and looking as doubtful as he rightfully should have. It wasn’t at all common for funeral services to show up, unannounced, at one’s door. Leo only knew which one was servicing Martha’s funeral because of their arrival at the morgue the previous day.
The maid stepped out then, and Leo let the ruse drop.
“It is regarding Mrs. Seabright, but the truth is I am not from Tate’s. I only told your maid that because I was afraid if I told her the truth, she would turn me away.”
The lines on Mr. Blickson’s forehead deepened as he raised his silver brows. “Is that so? How intriguing. I suggest you take a seat, miss, and tell me what my maid might find so objectionable.”
He gestured toward a leather chair and then folded himself back into the one he’d been sitting in. He crossed his legs and waited. His bemused interest wasn’t what she’d been expecting, but Leo did as bade and perched on the edge of the chair.
“The truth, Mr. Blickson, is that I was seated next to Martha Seabright at the benefit dinner when she was shot.” At this, his bemusement transformed to alarm. Leo went on. “And I was then taken by her killer, as a sort of hostage, so that no one would chase after him.”
He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “Good God. That sounds utterly harrowing.”
It had been, but Leo found focusing on the investigation helped dilute the distressing memories. “I have been assisting Scotland Yard in their work to capture the criminals from that night,” she said, even though she knew Jasper would reprimand her for revealing her role in the investigation.
Mr. Blickson’s forehead creased again. “That is admirable, young lady. Quite brave, I’d say. But what brings you here? I was told my wife has already spoken to the detective inspector leading the inquiry.”
His commendation of her for helping the police was given so naturally and artlessly that she believed he truly meant it. Even having just met him, Leo’s impression was that he was much like her uncle: mild-mannered and kind.
“She has spoken to Inspector Reid. However, I have a few lingering questions. Is Mrs. Blickson at home?”
His open interest shuttered slightly. After lacing his fingers together, he rested his hands on his lap. “No, my wife is out, I’m afraid.”
She stopped herself from asking where Paula had gone. It would be rude, and so far, Mr. Blickson had been accommodating. Leo didn’t want to push too hard for answers, and yet she also could not back down.
