Page 33 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Lack of scratch wounds wasn’t nearly enough to exonerate the duke, but it settled a heavy weight of doubt in Hugh’s mind. If he’d overlooked this, what else had he disregarded?
It wasn’t like him to be so careless. Then again, he’d never taken a peer into custody before. Fournier was in no way tied to Viscount Neatham or to the debacle that had left Hugh loathed by the ton. But if he were being honest, taking a peer into custody had felt inexplicably vengeful. And yes, it had felt damn good too.
Mr. Newton volunteered to fetch the stage manager, but a few moments later, stepped back inside with an apology. “He’s gone, sirs. Though, he’s left his hat behind in the grate.”
Perhaps it had only been humiliation that had convinced Mr. Bernadetto that he could not reenter the antechamber for the rest of the inquest, but Hugh still thought it odd. He’d bothered to come in first place. Why leave?
Though vexed, the coroner moved on, asking if there were any further questions or statements the jury or witnesses wished to make. When no one spoke, Dr. Oppler pronounced the death as a murder, much to everyone’s expectation, and that he would send the inquest documents to the grand jury. From there, Hugh had every reason to expect the case to be sent to the House of Lords for a trial by peers. There was no telling how long it could take, but since Parliament was currently occupied with the new king’s attempt to divorce Queen Caroline, there very well could be a delay in proceedings.
“Dr. Oppler is a fine physician,” Thornton murmured as they left the antechamber a few minutes later, “but he has the tendency to presume and conclude more than scrutinize. I take it that is why you asked me to juror?”
Hugh cast a look toward the grate as they walked through the vestry, and indeed saw the stage manager’s felt green hat atop the ashes and charred logs.
“Not exactly,” he replied. “Though your question ended up proving that I am guilty of the same shortcoming.”
They stepped outside, into a chilling rainfall.
“One failure does not equal a shortcoming, Marsden. You arrested the man most likely to have killed that opera singer.”
“Most likely is not the qualifier I had in my mind when I placed him in custody.” Hugh searched the street for a hack.
“I have my carriage, come on,” Thornton said above a cracking bash of thunder. His landau waited around the corner, the driver huddled in his oilskins. A tiger leaped from the back rail and opened the door for them. Once inside, Hugh welcomed the heat of a brazier near his shins. He took off his hat and threw it onto the bench beside him.
“I was positive he’d done the murder,” he went on.
“And now?”
The driver peeled from the curb, and Hugh leaned back against the cushioned wall. “I’m less certain. There are some questions and inconsistencies I’ve uncovered.”
Thanks to Audrey Sinclair.He was reluctant, however, to mention the duchess’s name to his friend.
“What sort of inconsistencies?”
“The duke wasn’t her patron. Miss Lovejoy had an arrangement with Wimbly, and it was official enough for him to have ensconced her in a staffed townhouse on Yarrow Street.”
Thornton’s eyes narrowed with the new information. “Wimbly? It doesn’t shock me; the man probably has several mistresses ensconced in such townhouses. Perhaps she was stepping out on him then, with Fournier?”
“I don’t know Wimbly well. Is he the jealous sort?”
“We move in different circles, but his reputation is cemented. Loose morals, gambling, women, vice.”
Rain knocked on the cloth roof of the landau as they turned down another avenue. Hugh suspected they were heading back to Thornton’s home in St. James’s Square, though he also kept an office in Wapping, near Whitechapel. Only Hugh and a handful of his trusted servants knew of it. Thornton visited a few times a week to see patients in that destitute area and offer free services. Hardly any of them left without giving Thornton something in payment though, whether it be a chicken for slaughter, a few ha’pennies, or a half-bottle of cheap whisky.
“Would you like Merryton to drop you off at Wimbly Manor?” he asked Hugh with a knowing grin.
Hugh needed to determine the marquess’s role—if he held one at all. It wasn’t something he looked forward to, though. In fact, the palms of his hands were fairly sweating with the idea. Hugh groaned, and his friend laughed.
“Come now, maybe the man won’t remember you.”
“Piss off, Thornton.”
Wimbly had been friends with the late Viscount Neatham and was likely well acquainted with the current title holder.Bartholomew. Hugh’s fingers curled into his hat at the thought of his half-brother.
Thornton chuckled and sat back. “You’re a principal officer at Bow Street investigating the death of his mistress. Wimbly must expect someone to come knocking on his door soon. Just be sure to use the rear door, would you?”
“Wouldn’t want to blacken the man’s doorstep,” Hugh replied, playing along with his friend’s goading.
It was easier than admitting that his low social status would prevent him from being admitted through the front door to all high society homes. Not that he’d gone knocking on any lord or lady’s home in the last many years.
