Page 31 of The Highland Heist
The detective’s gaze lingered on her for a long moment. “And you’re certain of this?”
“Miss Steen was quite forthcoming,” Frederick pressed his fingers into his forehead, still suffering from the effects of his attack. “She also mentioned she made contact with several people during her morning walk, all of whom could verify her whereabouts.”
“Yet you still believe Mrs. Dixon is innocent?” Johnson asked, his tone even but probing.
Grace straightened. “Lillias may be hiding something—sheishiding something—but we don’t believe she killed Tony. Or at least, if she was part of it, she didn’t give the death blow.”
Detective Johnson’s brows flew upwards, but Grace couldn’t fathom why. The phrase “death blow” seemed perfectly accurate to her. Wasn’t that the sort of thing detectives were supposed to get excited about?
“Then why lie about her whereabouts?” the detective pressed. “If she wasn’t the main culprit, it’s possible she was a party to it—especially given the unhappy marriage.”
Grace couldn’t help but bite her lip in thought. “I’m sure there are many unhappy marriages that don’t end in murder,” she suggested, but the words hung in the air uncertainly. Of course, in her extensive reading—fictional as it was—there was usually a fair balance. But perhaps, in this case, it was best to err on the side of optimism.One can hope, at least.
“Yet there are some that do.” Detective Johnson’s gaze sharpened.
“Well, yes,” Grace conceded, refusing to relinquish her point in a grasp to save her sister. “But there are also plenty of mysteries where the murderer is someone entirely unexpected.”
“And there is still the quandary of the suspicious man who paraded himself about as Officer Clark.” This from Frederick. “It’s possible he murdered Mr. Dixon, dragged him back into the house for Mrs. Dixon to find, and then waited outside for the discovery—convenientlyin time to alert you and your officers. As you said earlier, it was all … very convenient.”
“Convenience,” Johnson mused, stroking his chin, “is the height of suspicion.”
“That’s what Detective Miracle says too.” Grace couldn’t resist the tiny grin that crept across her face. Their friend Jack seemed to have a habit of saying rather memorable things, most of them involving some obscure deduction about society or human nature. Johnson, however, did not seem to share her fondness for Jack’s sayings. The detective’s lips tightened, and a fleeting frown passed across his face.
“And where do you believe Mrs. Dixon was during the time of her husband’s murder?” This from Officer Todd, who’d remained poised against the wall during the entire conversation, his arms crossed in front of him, and eyes at a constant narrow.
Grace opened her mouth, paused, and then lifted her chin. “I don’t know yet. But I fully intend to find out. I only need another conversation with her. Our last one was”—Grace’s face grew hot at the memory of her sister’s barbed words—”Uneventful, well, except for the part where Lord Astley showed up with a head wound. That was quite eventful.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Johnson’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I admire your determination, Lady Astley, but I must caution you—this isn’t some sort of game. Real-life investigations require precision and restraint, not whimsy.”
“Whimsy?” Grace repeated. What a strange word to use as a description for a very thoughtful sleuthing approach. “I assure you, Detective, my approach is entirely methodical, if, at times, accidental. And I wouldn’t be surprised if whimsy didn’t help matters along a little bit too. I’m certain you must use creativity in your cases as well as method.”
Frederick pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose his lips twitching at one corner.
“You know that I could have you both questioned for injecting yourself into this investigation or interfering with—”
“We don’t mean to interfere, Detective.” Grace rushed ahead. No need to have the man thinking the wrong idea when help was quite literally in front of him. “We are assisting. Like the Baker Street Irregulars, only—”
“Only married to a peer and decidedly not a street urchin,” Frederick interrupted dryly.
“And with considerably more … propriety,” Grace added, her smile spread full at her husband.
Frederick shot her a raised-brow look.
Well, swinging on ropes and swimming in rivers likely didn’t meet the mark forpropriety.
“In truth, Detective Johnson.” Frederick continued. “We have no desire to interfere. Only assist, where we are able.”
“And this is exactly how all of our other cases started.” Grace added, hoping to help the bewildered-looking detective to understand. “We weren’tlookingfor them. They just happened.”
“Lady Astley,” Johnson said slowly, his expression unreadable, “I’m not exactly sure why, but I feel as though you have a certain magnetism toward mishap.”
Now, that wasn’t very nice. As if she didn’t have any sense to know her own mind. “That implies I’m drawn against my will, Detective, and I’m afraid to say that’s simply not true.”
A cough from Frederick drew Grace’s attention. The slight twist of his lips revealed one of his covert laughs. But what had she said to amuse him? She shrugged off the curiosity. If laughter was medicine, then let him find it wherever he could. Heaven knew he certainly needed a strong dose after such an attack.
Detective Johnson’s lips twitched, but he quickly smoothed his expression and pressed on. “And you believe the injury your husband sustained in the garden is connected to Miss Steen’s confession?”
“Not directly,” Frederick intervened. “However, it seems Mr. Dixon was dragged in from outside after a scuffle in the garden. The person who attacked him returned later to retrieve a missing pin.”
