Page 36 of Courier of Death
“Nothing was taken, or so we thought,” he went on. “Geraldine and I had brought the children to the park for the afternoon. When we returned, we found the back door to the mews lane open. A pane of glass in the door had been smashed.”
It was something a maid or cook would have noticed. “Was Betty present? Or any other servants?”
But Mr. Stewart shook his head and explained that it had been a Sunday, when their small staff all had the afternoon off.
“We searched the house but found no sign we’d been burgled. The safe in my study had not been touched, and none of Geraldine’s jewelry was missing.”
That was very odd indeed. Why would anyone break into their home but take nothing except the valise?
“Inspector Tomlin did not believe you, I presume,” she said.
“He did not,” Mr. Stewart said. He then seemed to startle. “I’m sorry, Miss Spencer. I didn’t ask why you’ve come.”
She extended Dita’s note to him. “From one of your wife’s supporters. I thought you might be able to pass it along to her…if you see her?”
He took the small envelope and gave a sad nod. “Of course. Thank you.”
As the crackling fire in the grate became the loudest sound in the room, Leo had the distinct feeling she had overstayed her tenuous welcome.
She placed her cup and saucer onto the table. “I’ll be going. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Bates.”
“I insist you call me Emma,” she said. Leo welcomed her to call her Leonora in return, as it was the polite thing to do.
As any gentleman would, Mr. Stewart shot to his feet to see her out. Standing so tall over her, Leo was struck by his handsome looks and graceful figure. A harmonious balance of polished masculinity. It was clear Mrs. Bates doted on him, and Leo thought she could see why.
“Thank you for your visit, Miss Spencer,” he said as he and Mrs. Bates walked her to the front door. “It’s heartening to know my wife still has friends.”
Leo nodded, understanding that no matter how things turned out with Geraldine, it would be difficult for them to regain any social standing in London now.
Betty took her plain black capelet from where it had been hung next to a decadent, wine-red, velvet cloak—surely belonging to Emma Bates—and as the maid helped her don it, Leo again peered at the rearranged items in the front hall. This time, she wondered if Mrs. Bates had directed the changes. There was no proof of it, but it was her first thought.
Once on the front step, she turned back as the maid closed the door behind her. Through the prismatic glass ofthe sidelight window, she made out Emma Bates putting her arm across her brother-in-law’s back as she walked him further into the foyer. He truly did seem unmoored with the upheaval surrounding his wife. Mrs. Bates, however, did not. She was entirely in her element, practically relishing the opportunity to run the household and play mother. A dark and wicked thought crept through Leo’s mind as she started back along Carlisle Street: Perhaps Mrs. Bates wouldn’t mind playing wife to Porter Stewart as well.
Chapter Thirteen
Jasper checked his watch. He’d been waiting underneath the small portico at the front entrance to the morgue for several minutes past the appointed hour. A steady pour of rain emptied over the arched roof, spraying inward whenever the wind gusted.
He’d woken up that morning to the sound of rain pinging off the window glass in his room, and though the day was now closing in on the noon hour, the blustery weather and low-lying mist still made things look and feel like early morning. He could have waited inside after arranging with Claude for Oliver Hayes to view Niles Foster’s body. However, he wasn’t in the mood to endure more of Leo’s icy reception. As soon as Jasper had arrived, she’d turned into the back office and hadn’t reemerged.
He would have Oliver formally identify the body, and then Jasper would return to headquarters and the cramped desk where he and Lewis had spent the morning poring through Foster’s possessions.
The boxes had been delivered by PC Price and PC Drake the previous afternoon, and Jasper had taken aside Drake before he could dash off again.
“The time I saw you at Striker’s Wharf, you were with PC Lloyd,” Jasper reminded the constable. The two had been at the club with Miss Brooks and Leo in January; Drake had been there as Leo’s escort.
The constable nodded, nervously shifting his feet.
“Did you go there often with him?”
“No, sir,” the PC answered. “Not after that.”
“Why not?”
Drake had licked his lips, hesitating. Then checked around the department before lowering his voice. “I didn’t want any part of what he was doing. Who he was talking to.”
Nodding, Jasper thought he understood. “Bloom? Or someone else?”
“Not Bloom.” Looking acutely uncomfortable, he said, “Some tall bloke. A Swede.”
