“We were supposed to be investigating thistogether,” I reminded them coldly.
“And we are,” J. J. replied, smoothing her skirts over her lap. “Mornaday and I are here, are we not? We came to discuss the development of Lord Ambrose’s death and exchange ideas about the current whereabouts of Julius Elyot.”
“You are only here because I invited you,” I pointed out.
“No,” she said patiently, “you sent for us, which is an entirely different matter. Mornaday and I are tired of being overlooked, Veronica. You and Stoker,” she said, gathering him into the conversation with a glance, “have an irritating habit of behaving as though you were the maincharacters in every story. But Mornaday and I have notions of our own, you know. We have things to contribute, ideas and stratagems.Insights.” I gaped at her, then snapped my mouth closed as she went on in a kindlier tone. “It isn’t your fault. I suspect it is a matter of genetics. Royal blood has a tendency to make a person high-handed, and heaven knows Stoker has six centuries of aristocratic ancestors looking down loftily at the rest of us.”
Stoker raised a brow but did not bestir himself to comment as I looked to Mornaday. “Do you feel the same?”
He tugged uncomfortably at his collar. “Well, I think given what J. J. and I have contributed to previous investigations, we might have earned a bit more of a place at the table,” he said, blushing furiously and staring at the tips of his shoes.
“Very well,” I said, striving for a courteous tone. “We shall bear that in mind going forward. Your contributions have indeed been valuable. But I have to say, I do think you mishandled the situation with Inspector Abbington by telling him you think Lord Ambrose was murdered. Clearly there is some sort of effort underway to conceal the fact, and you have put him on notice that you mean to ask awkward questions. Hardly discreet, Mornaday.”
Mornaday’s expression was outraged. “I might remind you that the Metropolitan Police are actually the ones whose responsibility it is to solve murders, not this motley crew of insufferable amateurs. Besides,” he added, subsiding into sullenness, “it did no good whatsoever. Inspector Abbington was furious I even suggested such a thing. Apparently he had just finished a very cordial interview with the Marquess of Harwich who promised to stand him membership at his club if the matter could be handled quietly.”
“Surely he did not admit to you that he accepted a bribe from the marquess,” Stoker protested.
“Oh, no,” Mornaday acknowledged. “But the implications were veryclear. I was not to breathe a word of my suspicions, ill-founded and incendiary as they were. When I dared to press the matter, he began to throw around words like ‘slander’ and ‘suspension.’ I am relieved of duty until further notice,” he finished darkly.
“And what did you learn from Sir Hugo’s private papers?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Little enough besides the report indicating Elyot had likely escaped to the Continent. There were newspaper cuttings—a story about the fire, Elyot’s obituary—and a letter.”
“From the late Marquess of Harwich, presumably,” J. J. put in.
“Just so. Thanking Sir Hugo for his discretion in the matter of the ‘recent unpleasantness’ as he put it. There were no details given. The marquess was too canny a fellow for that. He wrote in the vaguest of terms, but the dates tally. The letter was dated 1873.”
“And the cuttings?” I asked.
“From theDaily Harbinger, a brief obituary stating the barest facts of Elyot’s life with no mention of a surviving sister or how he died.”
“They painted him out of his own life,” J. J. mused.
“They must have been so happy to wash their hands of him,” I agreed. “How very convenient for them. Did no one think it too convenient?”
Mornaday spread his hands. “If they did, there’s no record of it in Sir Hugo’s files.”
“I suspect he would have forgot the matter entirely were it not for the marquess’s gratitude,” Stoker said blandly.
“How cynical you are!” I exclaimed. “Sir Hugo is an upstanding man of the most comprehensive probity. You make it sound as if he intended to blackmail the marquess!”
“Not blackmail,” Stoker corrected. “But I think we all understand Sir Hugo is man enough of the world to know the worth of a marquess’s gratitude.”
“Hear, hear,” Mornaday said, extracting a flask from his pocket and taking a deep draught.
“Have you taken to strong drink then?” J. J. inquired, her eyes bright with mischief. “Only do let us know if you can’t hold it, and we will be certain to roll you home, you feckless inebriate.”
Mornaday drew himself up, offended. “I will have you know it is peppermint tea, you fishwife. My stomach has been none too good these past few weeks, and ever since Abbington relieved me today, it’s been positively afire.”
He swigged again, muttering darkly as J. J. blew him a kiss of apology. “Save your gallant gestures. I am ended as I always knew I would be—friendless and ruined. I shall be cast on the streets and finish my days as a beggar man.”
“Come now,” J. J. chided. “It needn’t be so dire. We shall all contribute a little and buy you a barrow. You could push it through the streets and sell muffins. Wouldn’t you like to be the muffin man?”
Mornaday bared his teeth in a humourless grin. “I don’t know why you are so high and mighty, Miss Butterworth. I’ve had it on good authority that your editor at that filthy rag of yours is none too pleased with your work after your latest failure.”
“That is hardly my fault,” J. J. snapped in return. “I cannot help it if Nellie Bly decided to embark upon a trip around the world in eighty days just a fortnight before I was due to depart on exactly the same voyage!”
Stoker’s attention volleyed from one to the other as they bickered, but I held up my hand before J. J. could elaborate on her antipathy towards her American nemesis.