Page 28 of In the Midnight Hour

Chapter 7

It seemed all the London newspapers the next morning contained a story about Sir Radnor’s inquest and the shocking verdict that he’d been murdered. Though the inquest hadn’t resulted in anyone’s arrest, several of the articles suggested Lady Cartwright as well as the Clavertons had motive to kill Sir Radnor.

Now that North had heard from the suspects and the witnesses at the inquest, he’d made up his mind about Lady Cartwright. He believed her when she declared her innocence.

There was something troubling about a man who’d left his fortune to a woman he was planning a future with, and the woman hadn’t had any inkling. Some would argue the inheritance gave Lady Cartwright a motive, except it was clear to North that she hadn’t expected it, nor did she need it. Lady Cartwright appeared to be a widow of substantial means.

None of the “evidence” against her was very strong. It was circumstantial at best.

But what bothered North most of all was the disdain from some of the jurors—notably Wetherby, who’d seemed disappointed by the verdict. North suspected it had not been a unanimous decision.

Then, when he’d escorted Lady Cartwright downstairs, her own bloody neighbors had been whispering and casting looks of doubt and censure in her direction. Would they convict her before she was even accused?

The stories in the papers didn’t help her cause. Whilst the Clavertons had also been mentioned as potential suspects, Lady Cartwright had received most of the speculation regarding motive and guilt.

As upset as he was, Lady Cartwright had to be reeling. How could she not?

Yesterday evening, North had called on his brother to discuss the inquest. Harry hadn’t wanted to say much since the investigation was ongoing. He’d also declined to share what he planned to do next. North recalled the frustrating conversation, in part because Harry had determined Lady Cartwright to be a primary suspect.

“Why do you care so much about Sir Radnor’s murder?” Harry asked. “And don’t spout any of that nonsense about being a concerned neighbor.”

“I already told you—my objective is the same as yours. I only want justice to be done.”

Harry narrowed his eyes with skepticism. “Be that as it may, you seem to have a bias toward Lady Cartwright, who is a primary suspect. Is there something I should know about you and her?”

“Not at all. I barely know her. I don’t care for her to be assumed guilty before a murder investigation is even fully launched. Nor do I like seeing her judged and slandered by her neighbors as she’s trapped beneath a net of suspicion.”

Harry had sent him a look of caution. “Your passionate defense of her is noted. I’d advise you to keep Lady Cartwright at a distance. She may be hiding a great many secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets, Harry,” North had snapped back, irritated that his own brother seemed to want to believe the worst of Lady Cartwright. “Including you.”

That had earned North a glare, then Selina had come into the study and interrupted further discussion.

North was certain Harry—or Drummond—would be investigating Lady Cartwright most thoroughly. North wanted to call on her, to offer his help again. He thought she’d considered accepting, but then she’d stalked off.

There was no harm in trying once more. He could at least stroll by her house. Grabbing his hat and gloves, he went to walk around the square. As he approached Grey Street, he saw a hackney coach drive into the square and turn onto the street. North recognized one of the occupants, whom he could clearly see through the window: Drummond from Bow Street.

Bloody hell. North watched as they turned right onto Pemberton Street. They were either returning to Sir Radnor’s house for some reason, or they were going to Hypatia’s house. Given his conversation with Harry yesterday, North suspected it was the latter.

Quickening his pace, he followed the coach’s path. It parked in front of Lady Cartwright’s house just as he’d feared.

North crossed the street and walked by Sir Radnor’s house, which now bore a black wreath on the door. By the time he reached Lady Cartwright’s, Drummond was already inside, for there was no one in the hack and the front steps were empty.

The door opened suddenly, and Quill dashed out.

“Quill!” North called. The cat didn’t stop. He streaked across the street—a black blur—and vaulted over the wrought-iron fence into the center garden.

What had happened to provoke him to run off like that? Concerned as well as curious, North went to the door and knocked. It was opened almost immediately by a butler whose face indicated he was perhaps in his late thirties, but his hair was completely white. His hazel eyes held a shadow, and his jaw was tight.

“Good morning,” North said. “I’m Lord Northwood from across the square. I’d like to speak with Lady Cartwright.”

“I’m afraid she isn’t receiving.”

“But I just saw someone arrive—Mr. Drummond from Bow Street, I believe.” North summoned his most genial expression. “If Lady Cartwright will allow it, I’m here to help with whatever is going on.”

The butler’s expression registered a hint of surprise.

Before he could decline the offer, North leaned forward with the intention of stepping inside. “Lady Cartwright and I are acquainted. My arrival will be most welcome.” He hoped.