Page 48 of Murder at the Seven Dials
At the coroner’s inquest, Mr. Newton, who visited his brother at Jewell House often, had claimed to have heard hollering, an argument. No women’s voices, he’d said, but men’s voices. An argument between men.
Men.
The interior of the carriage brightened as it pulled into Violet House’s drive, lamplight shedding over the duchess’s figure. She held her chin high, her throat working at some knot that had no doubt formed. Hugh gritted his molars. What a fool he’d been. A damn fool! Blind as a mole. The carriage shook as her gargantuan driver hopped down.
“At the inquest, Mr. Bernadetto fled before he could be questioned,” Hugh said. Her hard shell cracked, and she turned to him with parted lips.
“Fled?”
“He seemed to take ill after seeing Miss Lovejoy’s corpse.” He shrugged as Carrigan opened the door. “Or perhaps there was another reason he didn’t wish to stay.”
The sconces flanking the front doors to Violet House flickered, casting shifting light over her glossy blonde hair and the delicate curve of her neck.
“Could he have known about her wish to go to the Continent?” she mused.
“I’m sure you intend to ask him,” Hugh said. She lifted a brow. “Can you wait until tomorrow? I can meet you at the theatre at noon.”
He had no doubt that he would regret this. However, it was a better alternative to her rushing off to the theatre right now to badger the man. Hugh had his own questions for Bernadetto, and perhaps the pair of them could achieve more together rather than individually.
The duchess took Carrigan’s proffered hand, and he helped her to the ground. She then turned back to Hugh. “I’ll be at the theatre at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, if you wish to join me.”
“Nine?” Hugh hopped out of the carriage and straightened his jacket.
“Mr. Bernadetto’s office looked as if it doubled as his sleeping quarters, if you’ll recall.”
“I do,” Hugh said, reluctantly impressed she had observed the same. “He will likely still be asleep.”
“The early bird gets the worm,” she replied.
“You are used to getting your way, aren’t you?” He tipped his hat. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
He started for the gated entrance.
“Carrigan can drive you,” she called after him.
“No need,” he replied. He’d rather hail a cab. He’d also rather Carrigan stay close to her. The man didn’t seem particularly sharp, but he was clearly protective of the duchess.
If the murderer was still loose—and Hugh was beginning to accept the fact that he was—her snooping about had likely already drawn his attention. Hugh kept a keen eye as he turned out of the drive and down Curzon Street. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, watching Violet House. Except for one particular imp.
“Good work tonight,” Hugh said as the scrawny lad peeled off a stone hitching post to fall into step next to him.
Sir stuck out his hand and whistled appreciatively when Hugh slapped the earned shilling into his waiting palm. It disappeared into his pocket.
“Want me to keep my blinkers on the lady’s place the rest of the night?”
“No, go home. Get some rest.” Hugh didn’t like the boy being out on the streets alone so late at night. Sir was a scrappy thing and smart as a whip, but there were men much larger and smarter than him.
“Ain’t no resting there,” he mumbled. Hugh didn’t know where Sir resided, or if any of his stories about his large family, all of whom he’d claimed at one point or another were sick and in dire need of money for medical attention, were even half true.
He’d have offered a cot in his own kitchen if he didn’t know for certain that Sir would reject it out of pride—and that Basil would complain like a bitter old woman.
“I’ve got a job for you tomorrow,” Hugh said. The boy practically hopped onto his toes. “Got any friends that lurk about the Jewell House?”
“You mean before or after the murder was done?”
“Before.”
“A few. What d’you want to know?”
