Page 53 of The Marriage Method

“Still trying to place those names, sir,” Mr. Higgins answered. “There are any number of people called Innes in London. No Fawn-Purvises, however. But I do have a contact at the post office who—”

“Have you tried Debrett’s Peerage?” Miles asked. The blank looks on both the men’s faces provided his answer. “Fetch me a copy, Flack. I believe there’s one in Cowgill’s office.”

Mr. Flack raced off to do Miles’s bidding.

Mr. Higgins remained. “Are you sure Mrs. Quincey wouldn’t prefer to wait in my office, sir?” he inquired of Miles. “I would be happy to bring her a cup of tea.”

“Would you prefer it?” Miles asked Nell.

She continued sewing. “I’m perfectly contented as I am, my love. But I do thank Mr. Higgins for his consideration.”

My love.

The words hung in the air for a fraction of a second.

Miles had obviously heard them, and marked them, too. Just as she’d marked his endearment in the hall. His pointed lack of reaction was reaction enough. “My wife is fine where she is,” he informed Mr. Higgins. “You may put her and her sensibilities out of your head.”

The office door opened again with a clatter. A breathless Mr. Flack entered with a large, leather-bound volume held out in front of him. “Debrett’s Peerage, sir.”

Miles took it. He retreated to the great leather chair behind his desk. Placing the book down in front of him, he purposefully turned through its pages.

Nell’s needle stilled on her sampler. She watched Miles in silent expectation.

“Fawn-Purvis,” he said at last, with a distinct sound of satisfaction. “Family name of Baron Amstead, age three-and-seventy, of Northwick Hall, Moor Cross, Hertfordshire.”

Mr. Higgins and Mr. Flack drew closer to examine the entry. “It mayn’t be the same Fawn-Purvis that Mr. Cowgill had in his notebook,” Mr. Higgins said.

“It’s the only one in the Peerage,” Miles returned. “And it’s in Hertfordshire. If Cowgill wasn’t referencing Baron Amstead himself, it might well have been one of his relations.”

Nell couldn’t imagine what an aged Hertfordshire baron would have to do with the murder of a newspaper reporter in a Whitechapel slum. Then again, if she’d learned anything at the Academy, it was that men were capable of anything. And that went double for men of means and position.

“What else does it say?” she asked.

“His first two wives are deceased,” Miles replied, still reading. “But he has issue. A son and heir—Christian—born of his first wife in 1829. And a daughter—Jane—born of his second wife in 1843.” He looked up from the book. “Cowgill was known to attend fashionable house parties. Did he ever attend one at Northwick Hall?”

Mr. Higgins and Mr. Flack murmured their uncertainty.

“He’ll have heard something somewhere that set him down this path,” Miles said.

“We can send a reporter to Moor Cross,” Mr. Higgins suggested. “Ask some questions about the baron and his family.”

“No,” Miles said. “We remain in London until we know what we’re dealing with. Flack, pull all of Cowgill’s columns from March. I want to see if anything correlates to the dates he wrote in his notebook. And Higgins, search the newspaper records for mentions of Fawn-Purvis and Innes with those dates in mind—the nineteenth and twenty-eighth of March and the third of September.”

“What about the police, sir?” Mr. Flack asked.

“I’ll speak with them today,” Miles said.

Nell couldn’t conceal her surprise. “And tell them everything?”

“No, not everything,” Miles said. “But it won’t hurt to share some of what we discovered about the events at the brothel. They needn’t know how we learned it. As for the Hertfordshire connection…We keep it between ourselves for now. No police. No other members of staff. I’ll have none of the younger reporters putting themselves at risk in hopes of breaking the story. You saw where that landed Cowgill.”

Mr. Higgins and Mr. Flack nodded in solemn agreement.

“I’ll pull those columns,” Mr. Flack replied.

“I’ll search the newspaper records,” Mr. Higgins said. “And I can reach out to our contacts at the clubs, and anywhere else the baron or his son might be known.”

“Do,” Miles said. “And for God’s sake, be discreet.” With a jerk of his head, he sent the two men on their way.