Page 79 of A Fearless Heart
“I still don’t believe it! Such a vigorous gentleman. Why only last week we chatted and he was in the bloom of health…”
“What of the house and estate now? Some second cousin will inherit, but they live in America, and surely won’t keep the property…”
“The master dismissed nearly everyone but his valet, Watkins, and said he intended to stay in for the evening, which wasn’t surprising. But in the morning when Watkins entered the bedroom to wake the master, he was stone dead…”
Gabe leaned back a little to catch sight of who was sharing that last bit of information. It was a nervous-looking housemaid speaking to a constable, who was jotting down notes in a little leather book.
“And the valet, miss—er, Watson.”
“Watkins.”
“Just so. Had he quarreled with the master at all? Or complained of ill treatment, or thought he ought to be paid more?”
“No! Watkins has been in this house for years and years. Cut himself up in little pieces for the master, sir.”
“Hmmmm, well then.” The constable looked disappointed at this intelligence. No doubt he was hoping for an easy case to make against a disgruntled employee who finally snapped, resulting in a quick trial and a quick hanging. “Well, if you think of anything else, my name’s Phillips, from the parish office in Lion Street.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gabe took note of the maid’s face so he could find her and speak to her later, then continued on through the house. He didn’t care about the unprofessional legal system’s attempt to solve the crime fast enough to prevent the newspapers from picking it up or for the wealthy of London to worry about a madman on the loose. What Gabe needed was information about this victim—why he’d been chosen, and what evidence the killer might have left behind.
While standing the foyer, he looked down. There amid the calling cards on the side table, a card that had the familiar illustrations of nightshade, foxglove, and oleander. He picked it up and slid it into his pocket.
“You there!”
Gabe didn’t even turn his head at the call. He’d long since learned not to react to every little thing.
The man who’d shouted walked toward Gabe. It was the constable, his expression stormy. “You there, excuse me. Are you a family member? You can’t simply walk around, you know. There are rules!”
“Indeed there are,” Gabe returned in the most supercilious tone he could muster. “So you’re Phillips, eh? Miller sent me down. I think he’s not quite pleased with how Lion Street have been handling things lately.”
The constable was taken aback. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Who’ve you interviewed so far? Come on, man, speak up.”
“Er, just finished with the housemaid, and before that the butler and housekeeper, and the valet. The valet did it, if you ask me.”
“I did not. Your notes, if you please.” Gabe held his hand out, palm up.
“My notes?”
“Dear God, tell me you’re not so dull as to think you can remember it all. How long have you been in this position?”
“Er, eight months, sir. And I do take notes.” He produced the little leather notebook from before.
Gabe took it before he could put it away again. “Well, that’s a relief. Let’s see what you’ve got so far.” He flipped through the last few pages that had been used. Phillips’s notes were actually quite good, tidy and easy to read.
“Did you ask about what the victim ate and drank the full day before, not just the evening meal?”
“Yes, the cook gave me a full accounting, whether I wanted it or not. Ham, eggs, and toasted bread, plus coffee, for breakfast just after ten. Then he went out to make a few calls…”
“To whom? Did he say?”
“Uh, no.”
“Did he walk or was he driven?”
“Driven. He owns a carriage that’s kept at the nearby mews. Coachman took it round and drove him out and back again.”
