Page 59 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Genie rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be. It was insufferable, wasn’t it? I’ll arrange for a donation and that will be good enough.”
Audrey murmured an agreement, but her mind had already turned back to the footman. There had been at least a half dozen in the dining room to serve them. Which of them had been the one to threaten Lady Wimbly with a table knife? She hadn’t bothered to truly look at their faces. That both Miss Lovejoy and Mr. Bernadetto had been killed by a knife concerned her, too.
The air seemed to steal out of her lungs as a revelation struck her.The knife.Had the weapon Mr. Bernadetto been killed with been recovered? And had it matched the one used against Miss Lovejoy? The energy either weapon possessed would be like a confession, one the murderer had no idea Audrey could hear or see.
As far as she knew, items from Miss Lovejoy’s crime scene were locked up at Bow Street, as evidence. If she could make her way into the closet that she’d seen Hugh Marsden closing and locking that first night when she’d been about to leave Bow Street, she could have a look through. Getting into the magistrate’s offices should be easy. Getting into that room unseen, however, would be precarious.
It was a good thing she knew how to pick a lock.
ChapterSixteen
It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon when Audrey set out for Bow Street. Genie had offered to have her over to Grosvenor Square for tea, but she’d declined with an excuse of indigestion—something she must have consumed at the luncheon. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She did feel a bit ill, especially when she thought about the unexpected vision the silver knife had given her.
Plans formulated and dissolved as Carrigan drove her to Bow Street, and with growing unease, she realized there was little chance she would succeed. The magistrate’s offices were a busy hub. A woman sneaking about would not go unnoticed.
As soon as she stepped inside, the crowd of men in the foyer confirmed it. She was immediately spotted.
“May I assist you, my lady?” a man with a copper beard and a crisp, black wool suit asked as he broke from the throng and approached her.
Audrey said the first thing that leaped to her tongue. “I’m here to see my husband, the Duke of Fournier.”
The change in the man was subtle, but noticeable. He stiffened, and the warm, almost concerned expression he’d worn before, chilled.
“His Grace is not taking any visitors, Your Grace.”
Audrey blinked, stymied. She couldn’t simply turn around and leave—she had to get into that closet and search for Philip’s things, and hopefully, the weapon. The earbob had not been enough; she should have come here days ago to read the energy of the other items within the box.
“I really must insist the duke be informed of my presence. It is urgent. Could someone go over to the tavern and alert him?”
The man’s stony reaction wasn’t a surprise, but it still bothered her. Using her rank to her benefit wasn’t something Audrey had enjoyed the last few years. As duchess, she was, as her mother had once gloated, “a shark in an ocean of minnows.”
Lady Edgerton had only been momentarily furious when Audrey broke the contract with Bainbury in order to accept Philip’s proposal. Seeing her daughter wed to a duke quickly placated her. Not that Lady Edgerton had stayed in touch or accessed any of the social benefits that being the mother of a duchess gave her. Once freed of her commitment of raising her youngest offspring, her mother had been all too happy to retreat from motherly life altogether.
At last, the patrolman shifted his jaw, bowed tersely, and asked her to remain there while hedid her bidding. The note of sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. The group of men he’d been a part of before her arrival were discussing something in low voices, and one of the men was holding something for the others to see. None of them even glanced in her direction. Her heart swelled with anticipation and a touch of fear. She waited until the patrolman helping her had disappeared through the front door before slowly slipping into the corridor, just ahead.
For the moment, the narrow stretch of hall was empty. Audrey hardly took a breath as she hurried toward the white painted door Hugh Marsden had locked that first night. Reaching into her hair, she drew out the pins she’d speared into her tresses before coming to Bow Street.
A man entered the hall ahead of her. Audrey pressed herself against the wall and held her breath. Only by providence did he turn in the opposite direction, keeping his back to her. He continued on, disappearing into another room. Air shuddered from her lungs. She closed the last few yards to the door with a burst of quick steps, and, forcing her hand to steady, inserted the pins into the lock.
The locks at Shadewell had been ancient things, the tumblers inside easy to roll and release. This lock was a bit trickier. The risk of discovery pressed her to hurry. Audrey exhaled and closed her eyes. She focused on the pins in the lock instead of everything else swirling around her. The lock gave, and just in time. Footsteps sounded as did a deep, male voice.
With a gasp, Audrey darted into the closet and pulled the door shut behind her. Darkness cloaked her. It only seemed to accentuate the rapid beating of her heart. She pocketed the hairpins and removed the next items she’d anticipated needing: the same short candle and palm-sized tinderbox she’d brought with her to Jewell House the other night. This time, however, she had nothing but a small strip of wan light coming from the seam under the door to guide her hand.
After a few awkward tries, the jute in the small steel box lit, and she held the candlewick over it. The flame brightened the closet, which was large enough for two bookcases set against each wall. There was hardly any open space on the shelves; boxes packed them, along with loose files and toggled folios. Audrey held the candle to the closest shelf, where Mr. Marsden had placed the large box containing the things taken from Philip’s rooms. She spotted it quickly and slid it free.
Crouching, she placed the box and the candle on the floor and wiggled off the lid. She didn’t touch it for any longer than necessary. Instantly, she knew it was the correct box. A blood-stained shirt had been folded into a messy square. A pair of gold cufflinks Audrey had gifted to Philip their first Christmas together, rolled freely in the box; there was his top hat, a cravat splashed in blood, a handkerchief embroidered with Philip’s initials. The items were not his alone, though. A horrible mess of ripped black lace, stocking garters, a short black, bone-and-steel corset, and a pair of black and red beaded slippers, were also inside. Miss Lovejoy’s belongings.
But there was no knife. It might have been removed, perhaps to be shown as evidence to the grand jury? It didn’t matter. There were other things here to hold. She looked to the cuff links again. Small, gold playing dice. Metal often held more energy than fabrics, and anyhow, what she needed was to see the apartment that night fromPhilip’spoint of view.
She quickly palmed them, knowing her time here, undetected, would be short. Closing her eyes, she breathed out, and let in the phantom like images.
The first few were sharp and clear: the boxing up of evidence, bloodied clothing being stuffed in, muffled voices of men. Pushing back further in time, Audrey saw Hugh Marsden crouching before her; he reached toward her face and snapped his fingers, his muffled voice asking, “What’s the woman’s name?”
Further, Audrey commanded, digging into the energy left clinging to the tiny playing dice.
The images churned up, weak and watery, like drowned silk. The glow of a fireplace, the polished mahogany of a chair leg. The angle of the vision was disorienting. Almost as if Philip was on the floor, on his side. Blurred figures darted into his line of sight—a man in dark trousers and a woman in a black silk dress. She was running from the man. She tripped. He reached for her arm and yanked her to him. Philip remained on the floor, unmoving. Unresponsive to the attack.
Audrey gripped the cuff links harder and forced herself to focus on the man in the trousers. His black jacket was bulky and ill-fitting. His face was still obscured, but he was tall and broad. The images were fading like mist. She needed more!
