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“I don't have the answers you’re seeking yet, Mr. Pennington.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“I am still gathering information.”

Pennington gave a shaky nod and emptied the scant bit of remaining liquor in his glass. “I suppose the inquest was merely perfunctory.”

“It was a determination of the cause of your brother's death. That was its goal. My goal is to arrest the man responsible.”

The young man set the glass aside and folded his hands in his lap. Gideon noticed ink stains on a few fingers. Likely common among playwrights.

“What questions do you have for me, Inspector?”

“I met an interesting woman today by the name of Eleanor Mahoney.”

Gideon watched as the young man’s face shifted from shock to a kind of forced nonchalance.

“You're acquainted with her, sir?”

“Yes, I've met her on a couple of occasions.”

“And your brother was acquainted with her as well, I take it.”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Because you both visited a house that she owns in Regent Square.”

Color had begun to climb from the edge of Pennington’s collar into his cheeks. “It is an ungentlemanly topic, is it not?”

“I cannot restrain myself to topics that are gentlemanly during a murder investigation, Mr. Pennington.”

“Yes, we both went to the house on Regent Square.” Pennington bit out the words as if it cost him something to make the admission.

“The Rosebud Club,” Gideon said, “and it is Miss Mahoney’s salon, as she calls it. A place for gentlemen to meet ladies.”

“That is a fair description.” Pennington unclasped his hands and reached out to fidget with the rim of his glass.

“How often did you attend the salon?”

“Only twice. It is an expensive endeavor.”

“So, your lack of funds prevented you from making an arrangement with any of the ladies?”

Pennington shot a scowl at him. “I suppose you could say that, yes. My purse has never been as full as my brother’s, as he frequently reminded me.”

“But you met a lady that you favored and who favored you, according to Miss Mahoney.”

The young man's fingers began a rhythmic tapping against the arm of the chair.

“Can you tell me the name of that lady, Mr. Pennington? The one you favored.”

His eyes went glassy and, for a moment, emotions seemed to overwhelm him until he wrangled them and tried for a more dispassionate expression.

“Her name is Demeter Devlin.” He spoke it clearly, almost reverently. The way he said her name indicated his feelings for her ran deep.

“Mrs. Devlin was also favored by your brother, was she not?”

“No.” The reply was swift and firm. “He took an interest in her briefly, but he was fond of ladies in general. He formed attachments quickly but ended them almost as swiftly. You’ll recall my mention of the matter with Miss Beecham.”