Page 38 of A Murder in Mayfair
I hesitated a moment, then asked, “Was there anything else? Anything unusual you noticed in the last few weeks? Visitors, letters—anything out of place?”
She looked down at her hands, twisting the fabric of her sleeve. “There were men who came to the door. Not often, but enough for the butler to comment. Walsh never introduced them. He always met them in the study, behind closed doors.”
“Did you ever overhear their conversations?”
“No. He was careful.” A pause. “Too careful. But afterward, he’d be more irritable than usual. On edge.”
“Did he say who they were?”
She shook her head. “Never. And if I asked, he’d fly into a rage.” Her voice dropped. “Once, I found him in the library, tearing pages from a ledger and burning them in the grate.”
My stomach tightened. “Do you know what was written in them?”
“I only caught a glimpse—figures, names, something scrawled in the margins. He saw me looking and slammed the book shut. Told me to stay out of his affairs if I valued what comfort I had left.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
I leaned forward slightly. “Julia, did you keep any of what you found? The receipts, the papers—anything?”
Her fingers stilled. “A few.” Her eyes met mine. “I didn’t know what they meant. But now…”
“You’re starting to wonder what he was truly involved in.”
She gave the barest nod. “And whether his death was really so simple after all.”
“Did Walsh have any close acquaintances? Friends he confided in?”
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Walsh didn’t have friends, Rosalynd.”
“What about enemies?” I asked gently. “Disagreements? Threats?”
She hesitated, then looked away toward the window, where the gray light of London filtered through gauzy drapes. “There were plenty. More than I cared to count. He took chances, Rosalynd. Not just at cards—but in business, in reputation, in nearly every interaction. He thought himself untouchable. And perhaps he was, until now.”
I leaned forward slightly. “Did he ever receive threats? Anything written? Spoken?”
Her hands tightened in her lap. “One night—perhaps two months ago—a gentleman barged into the house. I was upstairs. I only came down because I heard shouting. He was young, enraged, and claimed that Walsh had cheated him at cards. He said—‘I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I do.’ I remember the exact words because Walsh just laughed and called for the footman to throw him out.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. He never gave his name, and Walsh wouldn’t speak of it afterward. Said he was no one of consequence.”
“And that didn’t strike you as odd?”
Julia’s voice dropped. “Everything struck me as odd. He could be charming when he wanted something. But behind closed doors, he was clever. Secretive. Always maneuvering. His income from the estate barely covered our expenses, or so I thought. But as I just discovered, that wasn’t true. The ball was meant to convince people we were flush with money.”
“But you aren’t.”
She nodded slowly. “The bills for the ball haven’t been paid. The florist, the musicians, even the caterer. He kept pushing off their demands for payment. Promised returns were coming. Always ‘just a few days more.’”
My stomach sank. “Where did he think the money would come from?”
Julia hesitated again, her voice thickening with discomfort. “He said there was an investment—a silver mine. In the American West. He convinced several gentlemen to put money into it. But I . . . I don’t think it was real.”
My breath caught. “How do you know?”
“I read a letter. I wasn’t supposed to, but it was left open on his desk. A man was demanding answers—he’d invested a considerable sum and had not seen a penny. Said Walsh hadn’t responded to his inquiries and threatened legal action. Walsh burned the letter in the fireplace.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
