Page 10 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
By “no one,” Perkins meant Izzy. Gray wondered how difficult the man was going to be.
Gray picked up the lamp on the end of the counter and, raising it, carried it with him, dispelling the shadows as he led Perkins and his remaining junior to the darkroom door.
Nearing the door, he pointed to the Occupied sign. “That was what attracted our attention as we were about to leave for the day. It indicated that Mr. Quimby, the photographer, was inside. We knocked and called, and when we couldn’t raise him, we went in and found him dead.”
Gray halted before the darkroom door. “The only light in there is from a special red-shielded lamp. If you like, I’ll hold this lamp in the doorway so you can more easily see.”
Perkins nodded agreement, and Gray stepped to the side. Perkins opened the door and stared into the room.
Gray held the lamp high and waited.
He’d expected both constables to go inside and look around, but after staring at the dead man for a full minute, Perkins huffed and backed away. “He looks dead as dead.”
“He is,” Gray confirmed. “I checked. He’s definitely dead.”
“Well, then.” Perkins retreated another step. Distinctly pale, he gave a jerky nod and turned away. “Nothing we can do until the inspector gets here. Best leave the scene undisturbed.”
Relieved, Gray closed the darkroom door and trailed the two constables back to the foyer.
“Right, then.” Perkins tugged his belt higher on his paunch. He’d recovered his color along with his attitude. “Until Scotland Yard get here, I’m in charge. So”—he turned his beady eyes on Gray—“if you would, sir—my lord—who was it found the body?”
“Mrs. Molyneaux and myself. We were about to leave when Mrs. Molyneaux noticed the Occupied sign on the darkroom door, and we went to check on Quimby.”
“Well, then, sir—my lord.” Perkins looked toward the office. “Perhaps we’d better join the lady and get the formalities out of the way.”
Gray inclined his head in acquiescence and led the way.
Izzy had returned to the armchair, and he sat in the chair alongside her.
Instead of fetching a chair for himself, with his feet planted wide, Perkins took up an aggressive stance before them and dragged a dog-eared notebook from his pocket. He licked his finger and turned several pages, then pulled out a pencil and fixed his gimlet gaze on Gray. “Right, then, my lord. And you are?”
It seemed that, knowing he would be relegated to less exciting duties the instant the Scotland Yard inspector arrived, Perkins was intent on stealing whatever limelight was to be had before his more exalted colleague arrived.
Unimpressed, Gray replied, “My name is Lord Grayson Child. My father is the Duke of Ancaster.”
Perkins’s pencil stalled on the second piece of information, but then he scribbled something down and, eyes narrowing, shifted his gaze to Izzy.
“And this,” Gray smoothly continued, “is Mrs. I. Molyneaux, proprietor ofThe London Crier.”
“Heh?” Perkins looked confused. “You…own this place, ma’am?”
Izzy nodded. “I do.”
Perkins’s gaze darted between Gray and Izzy; Gray suspected the man was leaping to unwarranted if predictable conclusions. Faced with Gray’s impassive stare, Perkins cleared his throat and consulted his notebook. “And when did you arrive here, my lord?”
“At a minute or so after five o’clock. I heard the bells tolling as I approached and saw a group of staff leaving. I arrived and met with Mrs. Molyneaux in this office.”
Gray felt Izzy’s gaze on the side of his face. She’d picked up his selective retelling and was wondering at his reasons.
“So”—Perkins continued scribbling—“you came in at five. Was anyone else here?”
Gray replayed what he remembered of those moments in the foyer, but his attention had been locked exclusively on Izzy. “I honestly can’t say if anyone was lingering in the workshop. The lamp out there was turned low. I turned it up later, while we were waiting for the police to arrive. Mrs. Molyneaux came to the office doorway, greeted me, and we came in here and sat.” Gray waved at the desk. “We had business to discuss.”
From the corner of his eye, Gray saw Izzy glance at the papers on her desk. She still appeared dazed, very far from her usual, rapier-witted self. Protectiveness welled, too definite and determined for him to quell.
Perkins directed a piggy-eyed, almost-malevolent look Izzy’s way. “Right, then, Mrs. Molyneaux.” Perkins stumbled over the pronunciation. “Your husband about?”
Izzy raised her gaze to Perkins’s face and baldly stated, “I’m a widow.”
