Page 49 of The Duke
In his memory, the girl’s body was tainted with sludge and silt from the river Thames, discarded beneath a bridge in Southwark rather than swathed in sunlight next to a playful fountain. A coarse frock had barely covered the evidence of her brutal death instead of a ball gown of magenta silk.
But the woman on the shore of the Thames had bruises on her thighs… and blood.
Caroline.His beloved sister. His twin.
She’d also been strangled to death and discarded like so much rubbish.
A familiar white rage drowned out everything but the evidence. Tattered undergarments, shredded to ribbons, floated limply in the Anstruther fountain. The countess’s skirts were twisted above her knees, though her silk stockings and slippers remained intact.
All evidence pointed to rape… but he’d require the body examined before he could be certain. Once his suspicion was confirmed, he could mobilize.
He’d conduct his inquest, find the culprit, and make certain justice was meted out.
Justice. It wasn’t a new obsession. Only an intensifying one.
A gentle voice permeated the roaring in his ears. “Chief Inspector? Sir?” The past melted from his vision, and the concerned features of Lady Anstruther replaced them. “Are you all right? You’ve gone rather pale.” She placed a hand on his sleeve, observing him with steady, watchful eyes.
Needing an anchor for his fervent thoughts, he reached into his coat pocket, and smoothed his thumb across the perforations of the sealed letter he found there. Perhaps he’d consult with Dr. Francis Aubrey-Dencourt. The man was not only a medical genius, but specialized in forensic medicine. Their professional correspondence had become ambiguously personal of late. Dare he say, more than just friendly? And while he didn’t care to examine the sense of indulgence he felt over the good doctor’s letters, he didn’t feel that asking for a favor would be out of the question.
“Pardon me,” he said shortly, searching for a brief explanation. “I hurried here without breakfasting first.”
“Of course.” She released his arm, patting his sleeve. “Allow me to call for Cheever, and he’ll have Cook send up extra breakfast.”
“No need.” Narrowing his eyes, he stayed the woman by grasping her arm.
She stilled like a rabbit caught in a snare, and Morley deduced that she was no stranger to violence. “I must say, I find your composure remarkable, Lady Anstruther. Does the fact that a woman was found murdered and sexually assaulted in your garden not at all disturb you?”
At this, Lady Anstruther winced and wrapped her arms around her middle in an oddly childlike gesture. “Chief Inspector Morley, I assure you I’m not only disturbed by this, I’m horrified and revolted. But, I confess that this isn’t the most upsetting thing to have happened in the course of my life. And, as I’m sure you’ll find out upon further investigation, before my fortuitous marriage to the earl, I was employed as a nurse at St. Margaret’s Royal Hospital. So, you see, this is also not my first experience with death, even one so gruesome as this.”
Morley searched her eyes and found only sincerity and regret. Either the woman was in earnest, or she was a better actress than Argent’s wife, Millie LeCour.
He noted the capable delicacy of her hands, and silently compared it to the wide span and thickness of the finger marks marring the vicountess’s neck. Whether Lady Anstruther was involved or not, she certainly hadn’t assaulted and strangled the victim.
“I need to establish just when this occurred,” he stated. “Do you recall the last time you saw Lady Broadmore?”
“It would have been at dinner,” she recalled, wrinkling a troubled forehead. “So, perhaps half past nine o’clock. Since we didn’t get along, I assumed she’d left early.”
“You assumed? You did not see her leave?”
Her eyes shifted away from his. “I—I’d had a trying evening, you see, so I came here, to the garden to compose myself.”
“And how long did you tarry in the garden?”
“Not long, maybe a quarter hour or less, but I didn’t see the viscountess after that.” She slid a glance to the body and closed her eyes briefly. “The ball ended around half past two, and I went straight to bed. I believe this happened sometime between then and when Isobel and my mother returned home at five. Isobel gave Mother a sleeping powder, and came down here for some tea and to take in the air. That’s when she found… when we sent for Mr. Argent.”
Morley nodded, making a notation of the times in his notepad. “So to your knowledge, you were the absolute last person alone in the garden before your sister arrived home early this morning to find Lady Broadmore like this?” he clarified.
A heavy, protracted silence caused him to look up and find that all the color had drained from the countess’s face.
“Lady Anstruther,” he pressed. “This is very important. Who was the last person you identified in the garden?”
Lifting her chin over a difficult swallow, she looked to the stately pale mansion towering over her garden wall. “Collin Talmage,” she answered in a quivering voice. “The Duke of Trenwyth.”
***
It took a herculean amount of will on Cole’s part not to swipe the entire mess of intelligence paperwork into the fireplace and tell the Home Office to go hang themselves. Even one-handed, he was still more capable than half the agents in the field, and he’d been relegated to little better than a fucking secretary.
A secretary with a lofty title and a great deal of power and influence, but even so.
