Page 110 of Where the Heart Leads
“One moment.” Stokes’s tone halted her. “I’ll need to speak with your employer. Please fetch him.”
The maid eyed the rabble behind him—and turned up her nose. “Her. And it’s far too early. It’s barely eight—hardly a decent hour—”
She broke off, staring at Stokes and the notebook he’d hauled from his greatcoat pocket.
He glanced up at her, pencil poised. “Your name, miss?”
She primmed her lips, then, “Very well. Wait here—I’ll fetch Miss Walker.”
She turned and shut the door, allowing Stokes a small smile.
Barnaby joined him on the steps; they leaned on the railings to either side of the porch. “Ten minutes,” Barnaby said. “At least.”
Stokes shrugged. “She might make it in five.”
Eight minutes later the door opened again, but as the vision revealed was rather scantily clad in a lacy robe, Barnaby felt he’d been closer to the mark. The woman’s face was fashionably pale, but there were dark smudges under her eyes. She took in Stokes—slowly—then looked her fill at Barnaby before returning her gaze to Stokes’s face. “Yes?”
“You’re the mistress here?” Stokes colored faintly; judging by the woman’s attire, the question stood an excellent chance of being ambiguous.
She raised impressively arched brows, but nodded. “I am.”
When she volunteered nothing more, just looked at him expectantly, Stokes went on, “I’m looking for a Mr. Alert.”
The woman didn’t reply, waiting for Stokes to explain a connection, then realizing, she said, “There’s no one of that name here. Indeed, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the name.”
From Grimsby came a muttered, “Strewth. Knew I should never have trusted the shifty beggar even that much.”
Stokes glanced back at Grimsby. “If you’re still certain this is the house…?” When Grimsby gave an emphatic nod and grumbled “I am,” Stokes went on, “Then we’re still left with one question.”
Turning, he looked at Miss Walker; her maid had reappeared, peering over her shoulder. “A gentleman calling himself Mr. Alert has been using your back parlor to meet with this man”—he waved at Grimsby—“and one other, on a number of occasions in recent weeks. I would like to know how that came to be.”
The confusion on Miss Walker’s face was clearly genuine. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know how that could be.” She glanced at her maid. “We haven’t had any…incidents, have we? No instances of the parlor garden doors being left unlocked?”
The maid shook her head, but she was now frowning.
Barnaby and Stokes both saw it. Stokes asked, “What is it?”
The maid glanced at her mistress, then said, “The armchair by the hearth in the back parlor. Someone’s been sitting there, on and off. I straighten the parlor before I leave at nights, and sometimes the cushion is dented the next morning.”
Stokes looked his puzzlement. “But Miss Walker…?”
Miss Walker turned an interesting shade of pink. “I…ah…” She darted a glance at her maid, then confessed, “I’m usually in bed by the time Hannah leaves, and I sleep rather heavily.”
Hannah nodded. “Veryheavily.” There was disapproval in her eyes, but no hint of prevarication.
Barnaby understood, as did Stokes, that they were telling them that Miss Walker was, as many like her were, addicted to laudanum. Once in bed, dosed, she wouldn’t hear an artillery shell exploding in the street.
“Perhaps,” Barnaby suggested, “this man, Mr. Alert, might be known to your…benefactor.”
Stokes took the hint. “Who owns this house, Miss Walker?”
But Miss Walker was now alarmed. She tilted her chin. “I’m sure that’s none of your business. He isn’t here, and you don’t need to bother him over a matter like this.”
“He may be able to help us,” Stokes stated. “And this is a matter of murder.”
Barnaby inwardly groaned. Mentioning murder predictably didn’t help. Miss Walker and the maid were now thoroughly frightened and refused point-blank to reveal anything at all.
There was a shuffling on the pavement, then Griselda joined them; she tugged Stokes’s sleeve.
