Page 8 of Murder at the Seven Dials
However, a tremor of unease slipped up her spine at all the things the officer had said. Philip’s secret rooms, the dead singer, the blood, and the weapon…her husband’s clear shock and uncooperative manner…none of it made him appear innocent. But he simply could not have killed the woman. He simply couldnothave been having an affair with her. Of this, more than anything else, Audrey was absolutely certain, because her husband and dearest friend, the Duke of Fournier, was not, and had never been, in the least bit attracted to women.
Mr. Marsden huffed a laugh as he crossed Bow Street and made his way toward the magistrate’s offices. “I am in little danger of looking the fool.”
“Prove it,” she said as a hasty idea formed in her mind.
He stopped in the middle of the street and peered at her. “Excuse me?”
“Prove what you know, sir. Show me the murder weapon.”
He had to have it somewhere. If Audrey could only touch it, even just for a few seconds, she would be able to glean images of knowledge.
The officer shuffled the box in his arms, his patience clearly beginning to wane. “The murder weapon has its place as evidence, but it will hardly prove everything I know.”
She eyed the box in his arms again and guessed at the contents.
“Yes, butIwill know whether or not the knife belongs to my husband, you see.”
Her point was about as dull as a spoon and Mr. Marsden rolled his eyes before continuing toward the front steps. She followed, ignoring her driver, Carrigan, as he started to open the carriage door.
“I find that doubtful, Your Grace,” he said, entering the offices. “You didn’t even know he kept rooms.”
His rooms.Yes, of course!
Mr. Marsden had let the door shut behind him, but she pushed it open and followed. He kept his back to her, turning down a long corridor.
“I wish to speak to the establishment’s owner, if you would be so kind as to give me the address,” she said.
At this, Mr. Marsden flashed her a smile, followed by a burst of laughter. “Establishment is too kind a word for that scum hole.”
He scuffled with a small ring of keys taken from his pocket and unlocked a door. It was a closet of some sort, its shelves cluttered with other boxes. He slid his box into an empty spot and slammed the door, locking it again. There was no chance she’d be able to get into that closet without being seen. But maybe she could find something else to touch in Philip’s secret rooms.
“The address,sir,” she persisted.
A certain misgiving creeped into the crook of his smile. “I’ll give it to His Grace’s solicitor, once the fellow arrives.”
His impertinent, high-handed dismissal set her blood back to boiling.
“Iam asking you for itnow.”
“I would advise you not to travel to the Dials alone.” Not a shred of humor remained on his tone, and Audrey was happy to hear it. There was nothing amusing about this situation, and the man’s smile had unsettled her.
She remained quiet, simply waiting for him to speak. She would not leave until she had the address and well he knew it. Finally, he shifted his square jaw and relented.
“Mercer Street. A collection of rooms called Jewell House.”
Shock that he had granted her the address nearly tied her tongue. She’d expected more of an argument, in fact. A belated moment later, she was able to speak. “Goodbye, Mr. Marsden.”
With a tight nod, she turned and made her way from Bow Street headquarters.
ChapterThree
The hackney drew to a stop along Mercer Street. Audrey, seated on the edge of the tattered bench inside the hired carriage, felt ill. What she was doing was absurdly dangerous.
As she’d waited all day at Violet House for Michael to call on her or send some word about what had happened, she’d held out hope that a visit to Seven Dials would not be necessary. Surely, the magistrate would allow Philip to return home. Surely, Mr. Potridge would have figured some way to free her husband from suspicion. He was a gentleman. Aduke.
In all the years Audrey had known him, never once had Philip shown any propensity toward violence. Why, even when they had been children on their neighboring estates in Hertfordshire, Philip would groan when Michael and Tobias, their youngest brother, would whittle sticks and play at fencing. He’d always been much more interested digging for beetles and ants in the grass with Audrey and little Cassandra, Philip’s baby sister.
Whatever Mr. Marsden had found in those leased rooms at Jewell House, whatever he believed he’d pieced together, was just plain wrong. And for the several hours she spent pacing first the morning room, then the study, and then the library, Audrey had clung to the hope that the powers that be would agree with her.
