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Miss Livingstone dogged my footsteps. “He got what he deserved.”
I stopped and turned to her.
She must have realized how her angry words sounded because she quickly added, “But I didn’t kill him.”
The butler appeared and waited for Miss Livingstone’s directive. But she said nothing. She simply stared at me, waiting for me to acknowledge her statement of innocence.
“Good day, Miss Livingstone. I wish you well.”
I followed the butler downstairs to the front door. Before leaving, I glanced back up the staircase to see Miss Livingstone watching me. Perhaps it was the angle, but she looked composed again, except for the slight sneer as she peered down at me.
“I’ve never metanyone like her,” I told Harry as I sat opposite him at his desk. “I wanted to feel sorry for her, but she doesn’t deserve my pity.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want it and being rude is her way of rejecting it.”
That was one way of looking at it, but I suspected Amelia Livingstone was merely a spoiled, immature girl who wanted everyone to admire and desire her. If the lack of invitations over the past few days hadn’t changed her opinion of herself and her place in society, then a few more days would. Once it sank in that those invitations were never going to arrive again, she might learn some lessons in humility.
“All of this speculation is well and good, but we have no firm evidence,” I said. “We have more motives and suspects, but no way of narrowing them down.”
“What I’m about to tell you might help.” Harry settled back in his chair and crossed his arms. He’d hung up his jacket and wore only his waistcoat over his shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed, except for the serious expression. “The coachman from Park Mansions called on me this morning. He claimed he frequently took McDonald to a club called the Portland in Marleybone.” He arched his brows, waiting for me to say something.
I shrugged. “I don’t know it. Is there something special about that club?”
“It’s where gentlemen go.”
“Like White’s or Brooks’?”
His lips twitched. “No. It’s where gentlemen go to find other gentlemen for…intimacy.”
“There’s a club for that? I thought it was illegal.”
My innocence amused him. “It is, but the clubs are careful and have plans in place if the police show up. The Portland is very discreet. I sometimes directed hotel guests new to London there when I worked at the Mayfair, if they hinted they were after that sort of place.”
That was a conversation I had difficulty imagining.
“We know Mr. McDonald earned his income through blackmail,” I said. “What if he blackmailed someone he saw at the Portland? Someone with a lot to lose if his proclivities were discovered.”
Harry nodded, clearly having already come to the same conclusion. He was holding something back from me, however.
“Go on,” I urged.
He looked as though he was about to protest, but I tilted my head to the side and arched my brows, daring him to try. I wasn’t going to believe him if he denied it. He sighed. “I didn’t know whether to tell you this. It might change your opinion of him. But I see I can’t hide anything from you.”
“I’m glad you realize it.”
He cleared his throat and fidgeted with his tie. I waited quietly until he was ready, and he finally rewarded me. “You know someone who attends the Portland, as it happens.”
“I think I can guess, but go on.”
“Chapman, the Mayfair’s steward.”
It came as no surprise. I’d suspected he preferred men over women ever since meeting him. “That explains why his name appeared in Mr. McDonald’s coded blackmail register and why he seemed very interested in the newspaper articles about the murder.”
“It does.”
“I know we agreed to leave him out of this, but I don’t think we can anymore. Perhaps now is the time to confront him. He could offer us some insights into who Mr. McDonald associated with at the club.”
Harry shook his head. “He’d be horrified if you knew that about him. He’d also worry that you’d inform Sir Ronald. Your uncle would dismiss him on the spot if he found out. I think it’s best if you don’t let on.”
