Page 14 of In the Midnight Hour

“I am,” Harry ground out. “If he was murdered, who are the suspects? What do they have to gain?”

North thought of the cranky housekeeper who hadn’t seemed upset about the death of her employer, but neither did she seem glad. She’d said Sir Radnor’s death was a calamity—not just for her, but for everyone in the household. That wasn’t a motive. In fact, it was the opposite of one. He also thought of Lady Cartwright, but whilst she had the opportunity to kill her friend, what was her motive? There were also Sir Radnor’s disinherited relatives. Surely they had a motive.

“I don’t know yet,” North replied. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Why? Do you want to try to take up my old position at Bow Street? Are you bored?”

“I’m concerned about my new neighbors,” North replied with great defense.

“The hell you are,” Harry muttered.

“I want to see that justice is done. I should think you would want the same. You’ve dedicated your life to that.” And had done so since their days at Oxford.

“I’ll have a damn inquest. Tomorrow. I’ll send notices immediately as the funeral will need to be postponed.” He fixed his stare on North. “And you’ll be my first witness.”

Satisfaction streamed through North. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Hypatia Cartwright sat down at the desk in her study with the intention of writing to her parents, but she couldn’t think of what to say. She was upset over the sudden death of Sir Radnor, but she was equally agitated by what had happened that night before he’d died, neither of which she planned to share with her stolid father and meek mother.

For they would not respond kindly to any kind of distress. They hadn’t during her marriage. Why would they start now?

Instead, they would tell her to cease wallowing in emotion and carry on. And, above all else, keep her thoughts and feelings to herself. There was nothing more vulgar than a woman who encouraged gossip or did anything inappropriate to degrade her reputation.

Hypatia’s friendship with Sir Radnor was almost certainly improper—at least to her parents as well as a few others in the square. Their connection would draw even more attention as gossip surrounding Sir Radnor’s death grew. Which it was already doing. In addition to learning of Sir Radnor’s demise early Saturday morning through the chain of servants’ gossip, Hypatia had heard yesterday that his closest relatives—his great-niece and great-nephew—had been left out of his will.

“Lady Cartwright?”

The sound of her butler’s voice was a welcome respite from her thoughts. Hypatia pivoted in the chair to face him standing in the doorway. “Yes, Ferris?”

Her butler of three years, hired when she’d moved to Pemberton Square, stepped farther into the room, approaching her with an eager glint in his hazel eyes. His prematurely white hair was ruthlessly combed and pomaded, as usual, and his dark green costume was immaculate. He was the quintessential London Society butler, except for his fondness for singing, particularly old bawdy Irish songs he’d learned from his grandfather.

“A solicitor called Wadham is here to see you,” Ferris said. “He said it was urgent, so I’ve shown him to the drawing room.”

Hypatia wasn’t familiar with a solicitor named Wadham. “I wonder what this is about.”

“Perhaps it’s to do with Sir Radnor,” Ferris suggested.

“I can’t imagine it would be.” Hypatia stood and smoothed her hand over the burgundy wool of her gown. “I suppose I must find out.”

She walked past Ferris and made her way to the staircase hall. This couldn’t have anything to do with Sir Radnor. Unless he left her some of his books? That would make sense. He had an excellent collection.

The solicitor stood in the drawing room near the seating area by the windows where there was a small table. A leather case sat atop it.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” the solicitor greeted her. “I’m Mr. Gilbert Wadham.” He handed her his card. It read, “Wadham & Henshaw of Gray’s Inn, Solicitors.”

Hypatia clasped the card and held it between her thumb and forefinger as a sense of foreboding swept over her. She regarded Mr. Wadham, a distinguished gentleman of middle age and less than average height. At five feet seven inches, she stood an inch or so taller than him.

“Please, sit.” She gestured to one of the chairs at the table, then sat so that he would feel comfortable doing so. The leather case commanded her attention. What was inside it?

Mr. Wadham took the chair opposite hers and pulled the case close. He opened the brass latch and removed a piece of parchment, which he slid across the table to her. “I’ve come to inform you that Sir Radnor has left you a substantial inheritance.”

“Substantial?” Perhaps he’d left her his entire library.

“Indeed, you are the primary heir to his unentailed property. This memorandum details everything. Your inheritance includes number twenty-four Pemberton Square and the entirety of its contents, save a handful of items that he specifically bequeathed to others.”

The house and everything in it? Or nearly everything. Hypatia managed to keep from gasping. Only just.

“Furthermore, you will inherit a sum of twenty-five thousand pounds.”