Page 14 of The Detective and the Baroness

Mitchell removed his hat and coat and flung them to the leather sofa. “Irish? Or Welsh?”

“Oh, Irish all the way. She said, ‘I may have a Welsh last name, but my family has been in Ireland for donkey’s years.’ She is quite the worker. Changed our bed sheets and cleaned the kitchen. She will be departing when she finishes the floor.”

Mitchell poured himself a cup of tea, grabbed a raisin biscuit, then sat on the sofa. “Can I get your professional opinion on something? What do you call a man who isn’t having an affair, yet refuses to have intimate relations with his new wife?”

“A homosexual, perhaps?”

“I have heard that term when performing my police duties. It’s relatively new,” Mitchell replied. “But it doesn’t apply to the man in question—so he says.”

“There are other terms for the classification of sexual preferences. Ready for a history lesson?”

Mitchell sipped his tea. “Go ahead.”

“In ’69, a Hungarian doctor, Karl Maria Kertbeny, wrote a pamphlet deriding a German sodomy law. In his writing, he classified three types of orientation: heterosexual, homosexual, and monosexual, meaning the person is only interested in self-gratification. Two years ago, I read a paper by a German physiologist where he crafted a new orientation: he referred to people without any sexual desire at all as anesthesia sexual. Some doctors have shortened that to a-sexual.”

Could that be it? Did Addington detest physical contact and harbor no desire toward anyone? “So it’s a rare sickness, then?”

Drew shook his head. “Some medical quacks think anyone’s sexual preferences beyond heterosexual is a mental illness. I do not subscribe to such narrow thinking, however. I also am not sure how rare a-sexualism is. Sex, in general, is not considered polite conversation, even within intimate relationships. So, because no one discusses it, studying it is problematic. Does this have to do with the baron you are following?”

“You will keep this confidence?”

“Of course.”

Mitchell popped the biscuit in his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. “Yes, it’s Addington. He told his wife he specifically married to continue the line. But on their wedding night, he couldn’t—and hasn’t. The baroness thinks he is having an affair, and so, is contemplating divorce.”

“Divorce cases are public. How mortifying for all concerned if a-sexualism is the reason for severing the marriage. It will make all the papers. Honestly, Mitchell, you cannot mention this to Lady Addington. First, this is just speculation on my part, nothing but mere conjecture. Second, this is a private and personal matter between a husband and wife.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “So I am to allow the lady to believe her husband finds her abhorrent?”

Drew nodded. “You were hired to follow Baron Addington and report to the baroness. That is all. Professionally speaking, that should be the sum total of your actions. Unless your feelings run far deeper than you are letting on.”

Mitchell frowned. Drew Hornsby, though maddingly annoying at times, was correct. Mitchell had no business inserting himself into a personal situation that was none of his business. He knew this. And yes, damn it all, his feelings ran deeper than was proper. He remained silent, sipping his tea and speculating whether he’d made a momentous mistake taking this case.

“By the by, I spoke to my father this morning,” Drew said, breaking the silence. “Alas, he has nothing scandalous to offer regarding Addington. The baron diligently attended the House of Lords before the recess and expressed an interest in joining my father’s progressive caucus.”

So, the baron conscientiously performed his duties and even showed eagerness to bring about reforms. Nothing scandalous there, indeed. It proved he was a decent sort, at least as far as society was concerned.

Mrs. Evans strode into the room. She looked no more than one or two inches over five feet. “The doctor and the detective! Everything is just grand! The chicken is in the icebox, along with the tats and carrots. Pick at it as you will. I’ll pop around the shops on the morrow to put in a grocery order; then I’ll make a nice apple tart. Make me a list of your preferences so I’ll know what to cook. That’s it, gents. I’m off.” With a wave, she was gone.

“Did you make out what she said?” Mitchell asked.

“She speaks fast, to be certain. Chicken and vegetables are in the icebox. She will be getting groceries tomorrow, and we are to make a list of our food preferences. Sorry, I couldn’t make out the rest.”

Mitchell chuckled. “I heard apple tart tomorrow.”

“Back to your case. It is not for me to tell you what to do. I do apologize. I was offering advice as a friend.”

Mitchell raised his teacup. “Cheers. As a friend, I will take that advice.”

And he should wrap up this case as soon as possible. Pining for a married woman would bring nothing but misery and heartache.

*

Jedidiah Danaher was alive.

Although, alive was a relative term. He walked about and breathed in and out. But since he’d been caught in the cellar when his burning pub had collapsed on him, he should be an unidentifiable blackened corpse that had been carelessly tossed into a pauper’s grave.

By the luck of Hades, he had escaped his fate. Peter Tassel, a homeless drunk who often swept up in Jedi’s Black Moon pub for the price of a pint of port and permission to sleep occasionally in the cellar, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that had been convenient—for Jedi.