Page 61 of Courier of Death
“It was addressed to someone named Paget?” Lewis asked.
At the maid’s nod, Jasper said, “Do you recall anything else about whom it was going to? A first name? Street address?”
An indiscernible voice came from within the house, and the maid jumped and hurried back inside.
“Please, miss, anything at all?” Lewis asked as she was closing the door. All that remained was a sliver of her face when she said, “Mr. C. Paget. That’s who it were addressed to. That’s all I know.”
The door shut on them then. It was enough.
“All right,” Lewis said as they started back out on the pavement. “So, she’s got kin in the Angels.”
“Not just kin.” Jasper ignored the soreness of his ribs as he walked more swiftly. “Clive Paget is top brass. Old enough to be her father, maybe.”
“You really think this lady made a bomb?” Lewis didn’t believe it, even now. Jasper wasn’t sure he did either.
They turned north toward nearby Carlisle Street, where they ended up having more success. Mr. Stewart was in, though the maid who allowed them to step into the foyer was not nearly as cowed by their warrant cards as Mrs. Bates’s maid had been. She glared at them, as if they were personally responsible for dragging her mistress off to prison.
“Wait here while I see if Mr. Stewart is in.”
“Betty, I told you not to allow Mrs.—” A tall, handsome man in his middle thirties swept into the foyer from a back hall. His stride stalled, as did his reprimand for the maid, when he saw the two Scotland Yard officers.
“Mr. Porter Stewart, I presume?” Jasper said.
The man blinked and cleared his throat, attempting to recover his poise. “Yes. And you are?”
As he held up his warrant card and introduced himself and Lewis, Jasper took in Porter Stewart’s appearance. The knot of his ascot was loose, and a bright red mark colored his left cheek. He had the stunned look of a man who’d just been slapped.
“Who were you telling your maid not to allow inside your home?” Jasper asked.
“What is the reason for your visit, Inspector?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. First, I’d like to know who you instructed your maid to keep out.”
Mr. Stewart gaped like a fish. “That is none of your concern.”
“That cuff on your cheek looks fresh,” Lewis said.
“A couple minutes old, at the most,” Jasper agreed. “My guess? You told your maid not to allow in the woman who landed it.”
The banker touched his reddened cheek reflexively, then lowered his hand. “It’s a personal matter, Inspector. And I find I need a drink.”
He turned into a large room, divided into two spaces by a cloister-like arch. The front half of the room was a sitting area, and the back was a dining room with a large marble hearth. Stewart went straight for a cart of decanted spirits and crystal glasses. He poured himself a liberal splash of amber liquid and tossed it back in one gulp.
“Mr. Stewart, we’re investigating the murder of Niles Foster,” Jasper began. “We have a credible witness who can place Mr. Foster in your office, in your presence, at Seale and Company Bank just days before his murder.”
The banker refilled his glass. “The name isn’t familiar. I deal with dozens of customers every day. How am I to remember this one man?”
Jasper showed him the photograph he’d kept in his pocket. Mr. Stewart swallowed his drink smoothly, without reaction. “I’ve no recollection of him.”
“He was a parliamentary aide to Sir Elliot Payne. You recallhim, don’t you? An MP, scheduled to speak at the Women’s Equality Alliance meeting on the night of your wife’s arrest?”
Mr. Stewart squared his shoulders at the mention of his wife. “What does this have to do with Geraldine?”
“That is what we’re trying to determine,” Jasper replied. He held up the photograph again for the banker to see. “You know him. There is no point in pretending otherwise. So, why don’t you tell me why Sir Elliot’s aide came to your bank and waited thirty minutes only to speak to you for less than five?”
Porter Stewart touched the corner of his mouth and a spot of blood on his lip. The woman’s strike had been fierce. Jasper had a good guess who she was.
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said without a shred of dexterity. “He wanted a loan. Without any collateral, however, I was forced to turn him down. He became rather hot over it, I’m afraid.”
