Page 67 of A Murder in Mayfair
Dodson’s mouth pulled taut. “The presence of foxglove?—”
“You don’t know that’s what it was. It takes an expert to identify a plant.” I’d learned that much from Cosmos. “This is not justice. It’s spectacle. If you drag Lady Julia from this house without proper cause, you will answer for it.”
A new voice cut through the air, cool and deliberate. “I believe the lady has a point.”
Steele stepped into the room like a shadow cast by judgment itself. He wore no hat, no coat, no gloves, only the implacable expression of a man who had heard enough and would tolerate no more. The air shifted around him, taut and breathless, as if even the house itself knew to fall silent in his presence.
His eyes swept the room, taking in the constables, the paper in Dodson’s hand. And, more than likely, the pallor in my face.
“What precisely is your business here, Inspector?” he asked, his voice low and cold. “Because unless you have something more than innuendo and intimidation, I suggest you remove your boots from Lady Rosalynd’s carpet.”
Dodson’s spine straightened, his chin lifting as though he could shield himself with protocol alone. “I am here on official business,” he said, voice taut. “To execute a lawful arrest warrant for Lady Julia Walsh, on suspicion of murder.”
Steele’s gaze didn’t waver. “Based on?”
“The victim—Lord Charles Walsh—was found dead in his study. A teacup in hand. The blend came from Lady Julia. Preliminary examination of the leaves suggests the presence of foxglove.”
Steele stepped closer, not looming, but somehow reducing the space between them to something razor-thin. “Suggests, Inspector?” he said, each syllable polished and exacting. “A suggestion is not evidence, especially when a coroner has yet to perform the post-mortem, and toxicological results are days away. So, what exactly do you have? A cook’s recollection? A leaf youbelievecame from foxglove? Come, Inspector, you are no expert on poisonous plants.”
“I have experience with such things,” Dodson declared.
“Experience isnotevidence.” Steele towered over Dodson, an intimidation tactic he excelled at. “You arrive at a noblewoman’s residence, flanked by constables, and attempt to arrest a grieving, pregnant widow on the strength of observation and experience?”
“We found the remaining tea in the packet Lady Julia sent?—”
“Allegedly sent,” Steele interrupted, his tone dangerous in its quiet precision. “You have motive and supposition. What you do not have is proof.”
Dodson’s jaw tightened. “This is not a matter of speculation, Your Grace. The warrant was properly reviewed and signed byMagistrate Harwood this morning.” With clipped formality, he held out the document in his hand to Steele. “You’ll find it in order.”
Steele took it without a word, unfolded the paper, and scanned its contents. His expression remained unreadable, though the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed the storm simmering just beneath.
“I see,” he said quietly, refolding the warrant with deliberate care. “A legal instrument hastily drawn, based on evidence not yet confirmed, naming a woman with no history of violence and no means to flee.” He handed it back to Dodson. “What you have, Inspector,” the duke bit out, “is an official document. What youlackis judgment.”
Dodson bristled. “I have the authority of the Crown.”
“And I,” Steele said coolly, “have the means to see that Lady Julia Walsh remains under protection, in a secure environment befitting her condition—not paraded through the streets for the satisfaction of gossip and spectacle.”
After a long, brittle pause, Dodson gave a stiff nod. “Very well. She may remain at Rosehaven House—under guard.” He turned to the constables. “Post yourselves at the front and rear entrances. Inside the house.” He directed a scornful gaze at Steele. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scandal.”
“Agreed,” Steele said, his voice like cut glass. “But let me be clear. If Lady Julia Walsh is harmed, distressed, or placed under any further public scrutiny before your evidence can hold up in court, you will answer for it.”
Dodson’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. With a jerk of his head, he signaled to the constables, then turned on his heel.
But the inspector had one more salvo to hurl before leaving. In dramatic fashion, he paused in the doorway as Steele and I both faced him.
“You’re wasting your influence, Your Grace,” he said, his tone cutting. “You’d be better served protecting your own family.”
Steele’s shoulders tensed. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Dodson gave a tight smile. “I have sufficient grounds to issue a warrant for Lord Nicholas. A witness from a low tavern in Spitalfields claims to have seen him speaking with a man well known to the Yard—one who’d slit a throat for sixpence and not lose a wink of sleep over it.”
My blood turned cold. The implication was clear. Lord Nicholas had hired a killer to murder Lord Walsh.
“That witness is being vetted, of course,” Dodson continued as he arranged his bowler hat on his head with deliberate precision. “We’re trying to locate Lord Nicholas. He appears to have disappeared.”
Steele’s voice was like flint striking stone. “If he has gone to ground, it may be because he’s being hunted by someone who wants this case closed before the truth comes to light.”
“Or it may be because he has something to hide.” Dodson adjusted the cuffs of his gloves with exaggerated calm. “If you happen to find him before we do, Your Grace, kindly let him know we’re coming.”
