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“We’re helping the police to investigate the murder of Ambrose McDonald,” Harry said as he sat on the chair nearest her. “He died at the Bunburys’ Ball last night.”
“Yes, I was there.”
“You were?” His tone suggested that if he had eyes in the back of his head, he would be glaring at me.
Lady Quorne’s fingers stilled in the cat’s fur. It raised its head in protest and she resumed patting it. “I wondered when the police would question me. I’ve been waiting all day.”
Harry didn’t inform her that the police thought they had their man. He must think she’d be more co-operative this way. He was probably right. “Did you see anything?”
“I don’t think so. I was in the ballroom when I heard the scream. We all were. Poor Mr. McDonald.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Only in passing. Ruth—Lady Bunbury—only invited him to make up numbers. There’s always a shortage of eligible men at these things so one can’t be too particular.”
“You don’t think he should have been invited?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. He was charming and handsome. The young girls liked him. But that’s also the problem. He was a dreadful flirt and he took the attention away from some of the more worthy gentlemen.”
“Worthy?” Harry echoed.
“From better families. No one knows much about Mr. McDonald. He could be a blacksmith’s son who inherited a little money from a distant relative. That’s the thing. No one knows and so one ought not to entrust one’s daughter or niece to his company. It would be quite a to-do if he trapped her into marriage. But with such a charming manner, it’s impossible to keep the silly girls away. Isn’t that right, Foxy?”
“Foxy?” I blurted out. It was a nickname I’d been given in school.
Lady Quorne looked up from Foxy the cat and studied me properly for the first time. “Don’t I know you?”
I lowered my head further and shook it.
“My apologies,” Harry said. “She has a habit of repeating what people say in a very loud voice. It makes it almost impossible for her to be out in public. I thought in the privacy of a home, it won’t be so embarrassing.”
I was going to throttle him when we got out of here.
Lady Quorne bestowed a smile on Harry. “It’s very good of you to take her out. She’s fortunate to have a friend like you.”
“Thank you. It can be difficult, but I manage.” How did he keep a straight face? “Since you were at the ball last night, did you hear that a painting was taken from the wall of the library some time before the murder?”
Lady Quorne’s fingers stilled in Foxy’s fur. She glanced at the wall behind Harry. “Good lord. No, I didn’t.”
Harry followed her gaze to a picture of a stream with willows dipping into the water and a stone bridge crossing it. “Is that the painting that was stolen from you? It’s been found?”
“No. It’s a replacement. The stolen one was of Paris in the evening. Is there a connection between the Bunburys’ stolen painting and mine? Was the same thief responsible?” She gasped. “Did the thief murder Mr. McDonald?”
“That’s what we’re trying to discover.”
“I do hope this is the breakthrough the police need to retrieve our Grandjean.” She sighed. “My husband and I had lost hope of it ever being found. I didn’t think the police had a suspect, but now…well, this is marvelous news. Perhaps it won’t be long before it’s recovered.”
“Our focus is on solving the murder.”
Her eyes had begun to dance brightly, but now they dimmed. “Of course, but there might be a link between the thefts and the murder. In fact, there must be. It’s too great a coincidence.”
“It’s possible, which is why we want to find a connection between your painting and the Bunburys’.”
“They are great art lovers. They have some fine pieces.” If she knew or suspected their paintings were fakes, she hid it well.
“Tell us how yours came to be stolen.”
She frowned. “I’ve already told the detective in charge of the investigation.”
