Page 51 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

For a moment he seemed likely to say a thing we would both have to live with afterward. The corner of his mouth moved instead, very slightly, and did not become anything.

At Lady Pembury's musicale, an old woman had said that Crane knew everybody. Another corrected her: he knew somebody who knew everybody. I had never discovered what she meant by it because a coughing fit took the room before she could—deep and rasping, the sort that empties a man's lungs and turns every head in the place—and the circle broke apart to murmur over poor Sir Reginald and his dreadful chest.

Last night he had coughed the answer at me across a drawing room full of people. Every one of us had turned to look at him, and not one of us had seen a thing.

Chapter

Eighteen

A Reasonable Conclusion

Finch's feet went down the stairs, Milford said something in the hall, and the front door shut.

And then there was nobody left in my study but the two of us.

She’d come to her feet and clutched the back of her chair.

"He won't have Benson tonight," I said.

"I know."

"He'll have him by the end of the week, though. Finch doesn't miss."

"That doesn't help." She let go of the chair. "I gave away the one thing Claire asked me to keep."

"You gave it to Finch. He’ll keep your confidence." When she said nothing, I said, “It moves us further along, Rosalynd.”

When she remained silent, I set my thumb against the crease between her brows and held it there until it went. “Shall I send for coffee?”

“Yes, please.” She moved to a settee near a table where the coffee service would be served.

While we waited, I arranged what would come next. Because she was going to say Harcourt, and I was going to have to take him away from her.

"Sir Reginald Harcourt is the masked man."

"Tell me why."

"Benson went into his house. Crane attached himself to him. Sir Reginald had a coughing fit when I asked a lady what she meant by Crane knowing somebody who knew everybody. And the room forgot the question." Her hands folded themselves in her lap, which with Rosalynd was not composure but its opposite. "Three things, Steele. All pointing at one armchair."

"How many people were in that room?"

"Sixty. Perhaps more."

"And how many of them coughed at some point in the evening?"

"That is not fair."

"It isn't meant to be fair. It’s meant to be logical.” I let that breathe for a moment. “I’m going to take your case apart. Not to be right. If I'm wrong, we lose two days. If you're wrong and we act on it, we tell a man who has spent two years arranging not to be seen exactly how much we can see."

Milford arrived with the coffee service, placed it on the small table in front of Rosalynd, and swiftly departed. She poured cups for both of us.

"Go on."

"The man at the Floralia caught your wrist and turned it until you cried out." I kept my voice level, which took some doing. "Months later he crossed a ballroom in your own house and danced a waltz with you."

She sipped her coffee and said nothing.

"Harcourt can't cross a drawing room without a stick, and he has a chest that stops him three times in a sentence." I leaned forward. "Was that the man who held your wrist?"