Page 106 of Never a Duchess
She blushed and bobbed a curtsey. “The master’s right, sir. He does all sorts of experiments down in that basement.”
Callan wondered if the couple researched the effects of lust in their spare time.
“Have you ever added toxins to the perfume?” Lillian reached for Callan’s hand, clasping it tightly before continuing. “We have evidence to suggest Mr Baudelaire may be guilty of murder. That he used poisoned perfume in an act of vengeance.”
Callan silently sighed. Whenever anyone mentioned poison, the last moments of his mother’s life flooded his mind.
“Murder?” O’Malley clutched his chest. “Monsieur Baudelaire may be many things, arrogant and far too opinionated, but I doubt he’d risk his reputation.” The man seemed dazed. “And no. Why would I do something so despicable?”
With his patience stretched so thin it might snap, Callan said, “Have ye seen Baudelaire recently? We need to talk to him before someone else dies.”
O’Malley started shaking. “Y-yes. He purchased the old Bermondsey Spa. It’s to be his new business venture. He wants to create perfumes from flowers grown locally.”
“He’s been at the Spa since yesterday afternoon,” Glenda said in the tone of London’s best gossiper. “I saw him wandering about making sketches. From the upstairs bedroom, you can get a good view of the gardens.”
Daventry thanked the couple. He told them he would send an agent to take their statements and insisted on inspecting the basement laboratory while Callan and Lillian waited outside.
“I’d stake my reputation on their innocence,” Daventry said when he joined them on the pavement. “Let’s walk to the old Spa and see if we can gain entrance.”
They followed Daventry to nearby Grange Road.
“I’ve heard many wonderful stories about the Spa,” Lillian said, accepting Callan’s arm. “They say the firework displays were as spectacular as any seen at Vauxhall.”
“Dandies used to flock to the Spa to take the waters,” Daventry said, striding ahead. “The buildings have since been demolished. Baudelaire’s venture will come to nought. The railway company wants to buy the land, and will force him to sell. One cannot stand in the way of progress.”
Callan gave a mocking snort. “I mean to ensure they lock the devil away in Newgate. We should have brought a constable. I’ll nae rest until we have the Frenchman’s confession.”
The rusty iron gates were unlocked, and though they creaked when Callan pushed his way inside, no one came to chase them away or demand to know why they were trespassing.
With spring fast approaching, the beds were barren but for a scattering of snowdrops. The wide paths were littered with dead leaves and tufts of grass. Nothing remained of the grand house except for bits of rubble and the outline of the old foundations.
They walked for a few minutes, all hope of finding Baudelaire replaced by rising frustration.
“If the devil stayed here last night, there must be somewhere warm and dry to sleep.” Callan doubted the pompous Frenchman had camped beneath the stars.
“The gate is unlocked, so someone must have used the key.” Lillian pointed to a wooden structure in the distance. “Might that be an old potting shed or the gardener’s house?”
Keen to investigate, they hurried along the path with a renewed spring in their steps, quickly reaching the round wooden hut.
Lillian considered the facade and conical roof. “It’s in a good state of repair. Someone could have slept here.”
“Aye.” Callan’s thoughts turned murderous when he heard the low rumble of a man’s voice inside the building. “And I mean to make sure the blackguard dies here,” he whispered.
Hearing it, too, Daventry urged them to remain quiet. He gestured for them to advance, and they crept along the grass verge to muffle their footsteps.
“I do not know why you’re so irate,” Baudelaire said, his voice tight with fear, not confusion. “If you would just lower your weapon, perhaps we might speak like civilised people.”
The mention of a weapon had Daventry reaching into his coat pocket. He removed a sheathed knife and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.
“Civilised people?” came a woman’s mocking reply.
Lillian’s eyes widened upon hearing the soft French accent. It explained why Madame Delafont had not fled on the first stage to Dover. “The last time we met, you pressed a blade to my throat.”
She had not helped Monsieur Baudelaire because she’d been terrified; she had helped him to cause trouble between the men.
Baudelaire growled. “Yes, because I couldn’t trust you not to tell Valmary. I may have been too forceful, yes, but was I not the one who warned you about that scoundrel Sheridan?”
“I’ve seen your notebook. The one containing the long list of conquests. It is pathetic. Men of your age, playing games like wicked children.”
