Page 13 of Ashes To Ashes
"I don't goad."
Her lips flattened. "I'm sure the dancer is merely a passing infatuation for Andrew, but please, ask him yourself. I'm sure he would love to answer your questions."
Unlikely.
"Do you know how long the circus is in London?" she asked.
"Until February, I believe."
"That long?" She turned her back to him and held her hands out to the fire. A few deep breaths later, she turned once again and plastered a smile on her face. "I'm holding a Christmas ball soon. I'd like you to come."
"I'm too busy."
"I haven't told you which night. Besides, everyone will be there."
She'd said something similar when she wanted him to attend another ball three months prior. In that instance, she'd used the carrot of the Prince or Wales's presence. Lincoln had gone only to see the man who'd fathered him. It was the first time he had been in the same room as the prince, and it would hopefully be the last. He wanted nothing more to do with him.
Julia approached and took his hands in hers. "I'll send you an invitation. Now, what does a woman need to do to get an invitation to dinner at Lichfield?"
"I rarely dine at an appropriate hour for company."
"You're home now. We could pass the time in here or…elsewhere until the gong."
"I have work to do."
She pouted. "Don't be difficult, Lincoln." She stroked his jaw, and once again he had to catch her hand.
"Good day, Julia." He tugged the bell pull beside the door. Doyle must have been hovering nearby, because he appeared mere seconds later. "See Lady Harcourt out," Lincoln said.
Julia swept past him. He didn't need anyone to interpret her facial expression for him this time. The set of her jaw and diamond-hard stare gave him enough clues. That and her silence.
* * *
Patrick O'Neill must have beena valued member of Barnum and Bailey's troupe to get his own private room in Mrs. Mather's lodging house. Other bedrooms housed two, three or four lodgers, sometimes sharing the same bed. Lincoln had peered into each room to ascertain the layout of the house before returning to O'Neill's to begin his search.
Although he hadn't been inside the house the day before, he had been close enough to overhear the detective inspector speaking with Mrs. Mather, and he had seen their faces as they both gazed up at the third window from the right on the second story. It had been easy to use window ledges and shutter corners to scale the wall, but he would have found another way in if the relevant window had been closed. Fortunately it was open, most likely to let fresh air into a room where the scent of death still lingered beneath the equally pungent smell of carbolic soap.
The room itself was little wider than the bed. A small table had been wedged between the bed and wall, a candle burned almost to a stub on the surface. There were no lamps or other lighting. Not that Lincoln would use them if they were available. The moonlight filtering through the window was enough. That and instinct.
The mattress had been removed, along with the linen, but dark patches of what he supposed were bloodstains could still be seen splattered over the floral wallpaper behind the bed.
Lincoln worked quickly, first checking the two drawers in the dressing table. They held O'Neill's personal items—comb and hair oil, beard trimmer, a bible, rosary, ink, pen, blotter and paper. Four letters written on thin paper were tucked into the corner, all dated after the troupe's arrival in London, and all from family members still living in Ireland. Lincoln recognized their names from the ministry archives. He skimmed the contents as best as he could, given the poor light, and skimmed his fingertips over the blank papers, feeling for indentations made from the pen on the sheet that had been above it. Nothing of use. He flipped through the pages of the bible, but nothing fell out.
He moved to the traveling trunk stored at the foot of the bed. The lock had been forced open, most likely by the police looking for clues. Moonlight glinted off the gold paint of a wide belt attached to a costume that would have covered very little of O'Neill's body. The idea was probably to show off the man's musculature, and perhaps to titillate the female audience. There were other costumes too, one Arabic in nature with pantaloons, and a loincloth made of animal hide. The trunk also contained a shirt, heavy woolen coat, a pair of trousers and old boots. His best suit and shoes must be with the body for burial. If he'd been wearing a nightshirt at the time of death, it had probably found its way to the scrap heap. Aside from a book of Irish ballads, the trunk was empty.
Lincoln searched through pockets. He flipped through the pages of the book. He searched everywhere and found exactly what he expected to find—nothing. No evidence of an argument or an enemy, gambling debts, jealous lover or grudges held. It appeared as if O'Neill's death had been a random attack.
Someone in the next room—Ira Irwin, most likely—snored. Lincoln had time to go through everything again. He searched the walls and floorboards, stepping on a creaking one near the door. He silently cursed himself for the foolish mistake then listened. All seemed quiet. Too quiet. Irwin had stopped snoring.
Lincoln hurriedly re-checked the letters, books and papers, then moved back to the clothing. Outside in the corridor, a light footstep made him pause. Someone was there. He should leave.
But he also needed to be sure he hadn't missed anything. He quickly searched through the pockets again, but they were indeed empty, and the linings contained nothing sewn into them.
He glanced at the door as another footstep sounded, so light that he questioned whether he'd heard it or imagined it. A wise man would escape now. Lincoln was in no mood to be wise tonight, or any of these last few nights. Besides, there were only O'Neill's boots remaining. He needed mere seconds.
He loosened the bootlaces and thrust his hand inside, stretching his fingers down into the toes of one boot, then the other.
Paper crinkled. He pulled it out, stood and dove for the open window, just as the door crashed back on its hinges.
