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“My mother and I had just left my father at the law offices of Charles Conolly and Arthur Hinkley,” she said, calmly going through what had happened, from the moment that she and the Duchess had left the office. “We were walking toward Goldsmith Street.”
“Where were you headed?”
“The Millinery—Featherweights’—It’s run by Mr. Thomas Featherweight, and his wife, Mrs. Miriam Featherweight.”
“And you found the body of John Morton, the Earl of Dansbury,” he said.
“That’s correct,” she replied. “We saw the trail of blood, first. I didn’t think that it was—what it was.”
“Did you see anyone fleeing the scene?”
She thought back. Arabella hadn’t thought to look. She’d just stared at the body in absolute horror as recognition had dawned on her. “No. No one,” she said. “But I didn’t think to look.”
“Few would,” he said, kindly. “It was a shock.”
“Very much so,” she murmured.
“Do you find it odd that the body was located near Mr. Conolly’s place of work?” he asked.
Arabella straightened up, suddenly on edge. That was a leading question if she’d ever heard one. “It’s near to many other individuals’ places of work,” she replied. “Why aren’t you looking at any of them?”
“We note all circumstances,” he replied smoothly.
She stared at him, all the while attempting to keep herself from losing her temper.
What a snake.
“Constable Mills,” she said. “I have known Mr. Conolly for quite some time now. In that time, I have grown to know his character very well. Mr. Conolly would never harm another human being. I can assure you, wholeheartedly, that he is not the murderer.”
“Arabella?” her father said from the doorway. He was scowling darkly. She hadn’t heard him come in.
“What?” she demanded. “You know and trust him. Are we all really going to sit here, while Constable Collins accuses an innocent person of such vile crimes?” She turned her gaze toward the Constable, who was looking down.
“Shame on you, Constable.”
“He does, in fact, have an alibi for the time of death,” the Constable muttered.
“Well, good,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have nothing further to add.”
“Thank you, My Lady,” the constable said. “We will take your statements into consideration.”
* * *
Charles didn’t waste any time. He arrived at the Kensington townhome of Lord Dunsmore, private detective, within the hour. The drink with Arthur had steadied him. He knocked on the door, then waited. The townhome had a sleek black door. It was built out of smooth, gray stone. The door was opened by a severe-looking butler.
“Good afternoon,” the butler said.
“Good afternoon. I am Mr. Charles Conolly. I’m here to see Lord Dunsmore, about a case,” he stated, reaching into his pocket for one of his cards. He was prepared to leave one, and then return to his office, to wait. However, the butler stood aside, holding the door open for him to enter.
The butler nodded. “Right this way.”
Charles stepped inside. The house was darkened—all of the curtains were drawn, and there were no candles lit. There was a silence, which spread itself thickly throughout the house.
“He’s in his study, right this moment,” the butler said. “You’re in luck—he’s got no other clients of late.”
“Ah,” Charles said, following along behind the butler. He had the distinct feeling that the butler had seen and heard much. He didn’t seem surprised that Charles was there.
“Sometimes,” the butler went on, “he’s so busy that he has to turn people down.”
