Page 39 of A Murder in Mayfair
“He told me it was nothing.” Her voice cracked slightly. “But I think he was afraid. He never said so, but I saw it in the way he started locking his study door at night. Sleeping with a pistol in the drawer.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“And say what? That my husband might have swindled half of London? That our wealth was smoke and mirrors?” She looked at me with haunted eyes. “I couldn’t. I was too ashamed.”
“You need to inform Dodson. So he can look elsewhere for the murderer.” At the very least, it would keep suspicion from falling squarely on Julia.
“Mister Hanover made the same suggestion.”
“You’ve seen him?”
She nodded. “Last night. He apologized for the lateness of the hour. Given the circumstances, he felt it best to see me as soon as possible. He said—” she swallowed hard “—there was no concrete proof, indeed no proof at all to tie me to Walsh’s murder. Still, I can’t help but worry.”
She was right to do so. The rumors alone not only accused her but could lead to cold, hard facts. And Dodson was not one to ignore them. He would follow the gossip to where it might lead. But there was another avenue to explore. “Did you know about his mistress?”
Her shoulders slumped in resignation. “He visited her every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork. It was something we no longer discussed. I’d learned long ago that confronting him only led to cruelty.”
I reached across and took her hand again. “I’m so sorry.”
She looked at me, eyes shining with unshed tears, and opened her mouth to respond. But the sound of a door crashing open shattered the moment.
Voices rose in the corridor.
Julia’s grip tightened on my hand as a footman attempted to announce, too late, “Mr. Charles Walsh and Mrs. Lucretia Walsh?—”
“That will be Lord and Lady Walsh,” Lucretia Walsh declared as she entered the room.
They’d burst into the room like a gust of cold wind. Lucretia stood with all the hauteur of a woman who believed the house was already hers. “I thought it best we come in person.”
Julia stood, spine stiffening. “Why?”
Lucretia’s eyes swept the room, taking in the tea tray, the elegant furnishings, and finally settling on me. “Because it’s time to discuss the future. This house?—”
“Is still mine,” Julia interrupted sharply. “At least for now.”
Lucretia’s mouth thinned. “Charles is the heir. He should occupy the family residence.”
“Forgive me,” I said, rising to stand beside Julia. “But now is not the time to hold this discussion.”
“On the contrary,” Lucretia snapped. “The sooner we make arrangements, the better. There are certain expectations?—”
“Expectations can wait,” said another voice.
Edwin Heller had followed his cousin and his wife into the room. “Forgive the intrusion. I’d hoped to arrive before they did.” He entered with an apologetic look.
Lucretia sniffed. “You always were too soft-hearted, Edwin.”
He ignored her and spoke directly to Julia. “Charles doesn’t expect you to leave this very moment. Not before the funeral. Not while you’re still grieving. Proper arrangements can be discussed afterwards.”
“Thank you,” Julia whispered, voice trembling.
Charles finally spoke, his voice low. “Of course. We don’t wish to rush you, Julia.”
Lucretia opened her mouth again, but I cut in before she could strike. “Julia will need time. And support. Your father’s will needs to be read. He had to have made arrangements for Julia. For all you know, he wished her to remain here until the birth of the babe.”
Lucretia’s head spun toward her husband. “He can’t do that, can he, Charles? After all, he’s dead.”
Charles flinched. “For the love of God, Lucretia. If that is what Father desired, of course, I will honor his wishes. I would never go against them. Let us wait and see what the will says.”
