Page 50 of Murder at the Dinner Party
I wasn’t sure if he was being insulting or not, so I ignored the comment. “When was this?”
“About two days before he died.”
“Did you overhear what they talked about?”
“No, but it was clear the conversation was tense. It ended when the toff stormed out.”
“What did he look like?”
“Middle-aged, gray beard, reddish moustache.”
That fit the description of Arthur, Lord Whitchurch. We may not know for certain whether he was the one arguing with Mr. Hardy in the courtyard of the Campbells’ house, but now we could be sure that he’d spoken to him here.
He’d claimed he didn’t recognize Mr. Hardy at dinner, but we now had enough evidence to confront him and accuse him of lying.
CHAPTER10
Iwanted to speak to Lord Whitchurch without his domineering mother ordering us out of the house, so we decided to wait for him to leave. After thirty minutes, Harry gave up and went to fetch a boy to deliver a message while I wrote it on a page of my notebook. If his lordship was inside, hopefully it would flush him out.
When Harry returned with a lad in tow, I tore out the page and handed it to him. We watched him head up the steps to the front door and hand the note to the butler.
“What did it say?” Harry asked as the butler closed the door.
“‘I know what you did,’” I said. “‘Meet me at your club.’ I left it unsigned. Arthur’s imagination can fill in the name.”
“Do you know which club he frequents?”
“No, but we’ll soon find out.”
“I’d better arrange a cab.” Harry paid the lad, then set off to find a hansom.
Just as it pulled up a few minutes later, so did the Whitchurches’ private carriage. Lord Whitchurch climbed in and the carriage set off at a brisk pace. I had to scramble into the cab quickly or we’d risk losing our quarry.
We followed the carriage to St. James’s Street where it stopped outside White’s. Lord Whitchurch alighted and looked around. Spotting us stepping out of the cab, he charged toward us, nostrils flared.
“Did you send me that message?” he demanded. At that moment, he looked like his mother. It was easy to imagine him being angry enough to kill.
Harry moved forward and a little in front of me. “Calm yourself, sir. We just wanted a brief conversation away from your family.”
“Why?”
“Because what we have to say is delicate. You may not want to be overheard.”
Lord Whitchurch glanced at the doorman standing on the porch of White’s, pretending not to notice us. Lord Whitchurch signaled for us to move even further away.
“Go on then,” he snapped. “Say your piece.” He spoke to Harry.
Harry looked at me.
I cleared my throat. “Sir, you told us that you didn’t recognize Mr. Hardy.”
“Who?”
“The Campbells’ butler. But you did recognize him, didn’t you? He was altered since the last time you saw him twenty-two years ago. He was older and he’d grown a beard, but he was still very familiar to you.”
Lord Whitchurch stilled.
“He was your brother, Rupert, wasn’t he?”
