Page 39 of Cloaked in Deception
Stanley had been an arrogant prig in Sir Eamon’s office the day before, and his opinion of Jasper had been clear. However, the revelation that either his wife or his daughter had been seen emerging from Martha Seabright’s home needed to be addressed. Jasper required answers, and though that lead ballast shifted down to his feet now that he was climbing the front steps, he had a duty to perform.
He lifted the shiny, brass Hand of Fatima knocker and brought it down twice. He released it quickly; he’d never likedthe door knocker style of a small hand clutching an orb. To his mind, it had the appearance of someone reaching through the door, despite its alleged ability to ward off evil and bring good luck to the household. He considered, too, that the heat was making him more irritable than usual. The day’s humidity had turned the air in London into a Turkish bath, heavy and still. He found himself wishing for another rainstorm, if only to clear away the rising stink of horse dung, rotting food, sweat, and sewage.
When the door opened, he was met by a short man in footman’s livery. His hair had been curled purposefully at the nape to give the appearance of a justice’s powdered wig.
“The servant’s entrance is directly below.” He sniffed, then began to close the door.
“Detective Inspector Reid from Scotland Yard,” Jasper said, simultaneously holding up his warrant card and stopping the front door with his foot. The servant glared in offense but pulled the door open again. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hayes.”
“Mr. Hayes is out,” he snapped.
“Then I would like to speak to Mrs. Hayes. This is a matter of some importance.”
“Jasper?”
His attention diverted from the servant’s stern disapproval to where Constance was descending the staircase into the foyer. Jasper drew in a bracing breath and tucked his warrant card away. He hadn’t known if he would see her, but he’d come prepared for the possibility.
“It is all right, Gerard; let the detective inspector inside,” Constance commanded in the smooth, cultured voice of someone who was accustomed to giving orders to servants.
Jasper entered the bright and spacious entrance hall.
“Thank you, Gerard,” she said, and after a sharp nod, the servant left them.
“Why have you come here?” she asked Jasper once they stood alone. She didn’t invite him into the front sitting room like any other guest would be, but he didn’t take offense. He wasn’t technically a guest of the family’s and had, after all, thrown her over. By her cool expression, she hadn’t yet forgiven him.
“I’d like to speak to your mother. It’s regarding an inquiry. Is she in?”
Constance clasped her hands before her, and her brow formed a haughty arch. She was quite beautiful, with blonde hair fashioned in an elegant, upswept twist, blue eyes fringed by dark lashes, and a figure that had, on occasion, set his pulse racing. However now, his heartbeat remained steady. Seeing her again had not inspired more than a twinge of guilt for his having waited so long to end their courtship.
“My mother?” Constance asked. “How can she possibly be of interest to you in one of your inquiries?”
“That is a discussion I’d like to have with her.” Jasper was aware that he sounded rude, and yet he was unable to avoid it. “Is she in?” he inquired again.
“No,” Constance bit off. “She is not.”
He swept a look up the staircase. “Are you staying here now?”
The question was meant to tip her off balance, and it seemed to work. Her expression softened. “I’m only paying a call. I still have rooms at the ladies’ boardinghouse.”
Jasper had wondered how her parents handled the news that their daughter was working as a typist forThe Times—women of their ilk did not work, and they certainly did not live in boardinghouses. But it seemed Constance had stood up to her parents and maintained her independence. He found that admirable.
“When do you expect your mother to return?”
She folded her arms. “I don’t expect her at all. She has left London.”
Alarm sharpened its claws in his back. “When was this?”
“An hour ago, or so.”
Somehow, he managed to suppress a frustrated groan. So, Mrs. Hayes had snooped in Martha’s home and then fled town right away? She’d found something, perhaps.
“Your father left with her?”
At her open glare, he guessed the barrage of questions was not welcome. “He and my brother left yesterday morning. Why are you so rabid to speak to them?”
“What was their destination?” he asked rather than answer. She wasn’t pleased. Her lips pressed thin, and her blue eyes flared.
“How is that any of your business?”
