Page 17 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
“Yes, Perkins,how. It’s one of those pesky pieces of evidence we need to prosecute a case—opportunity to do the deed. Yet Cromer is clear Quimby was knifedbetweenfive and six, and Mrs. Molyneaux was with his lordship the entire time.”
Izzy—and, she was sure, everyone else in the room—could see that the overeager Perkins quivered on the cusp of suggesting that she and Gray had conspired together to murder Quimby, but even Perkins seemed to understand that voicing such an accusation would be one step too far. Instead, he said, “Perhaps she had an accomplice? Yes—that’s it! She knew Quimby would be in the darkroom and that the back door would be open—well, she probably has a key to that herself, so could make sure it was—and she hired someone to come in and bump the man off.”
Baines sounded unimpressed. “Why?”
But Perkins believed he was on surer ground with that. “Plain as a pikestaff, sir. Quimby learned something about her she didn’t want to get around. A woman running a place like this? A femaleowninga business like this? I mean, there must be something havey-cavey going on, and if we look, we’ll find it, but meanwhile, we should take her in, or she might leg it.”
Perkins looked at the long-suffering Baines, transparently expecting the inspector to agree.
At that point, the notion of “legging it” rather appealed to Izzy.
While one part of her brain was panicking over the police uncovering all she was concealing—more than enough motive for her to kill anyone who found out and threatened her with exposure—on another level, she was starting to feel sufficiently distanced from the incredible events of the evening to find Perkins and his views oddly entertaining.
Sternly, she told herself laughing wouldn’t help.
She wasn’t the only one who jerked to attention when Gray, his aristocratic tones cutting and cold, said, “Inspector Baines, I feel I should remind you that Mrs. Molyneaux and I are—as we’ve mentioned—very old friends. I and others will take it very badly should her standing be in any way adversely affected by unwarranted speculation being bandied about by members of the police force.”
Fascinated, Izzy stared at Gray, who had leveled his gaze on Perkins, but as she watched, Gray shifted his gaze to Baines’s face and inquired, “I trust I make myself plain?”
Baines and Littlejohn had stiffened at Gray’s first words and swung to face him. Baines moistened his lips and bobbed his gray head. “Indeed, my lord.” He flung a sharp, warning glance at Perkins, then looked at Littlejohn and jerked his head toward the door.
The sergeant dipped his head, caught Perkins by the arm, and made for the foyer, forcibly taking the constable, hissing in protest, with him.
Meanwhile, Baines focused on Izzy. “My apologies once again, Mrs. Molyneaux. It’ll be me and the sergeant, both of us from the Yard, who’ll be pursuing this case. You won’t have to deal with Perkins again.”
She decided it behooved her to be gracious and inclined her head civilly. “Thank you, Inspector. That might be for the best.”
Baines cast a cautious glance at Gray, then returned his gaze to her. “As I said, ma’am, Littlejohn and I will return tomorrow to speak with your staff. I take it you’ll be open?”
“For the half day only. We close at midday.”
“Duly noted. We’ll be here around midmorning, I expect.”
After bowing to her and to Gray, Baines strode out of the office.
Izzy watched as the inspector and his sergeant collected Perkins and his compatriots and bundled them out of the front door.
When the door shut, she heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief.
Then worry and concern swamped her. She couldn’t afford to have the police scrutinizeThe Crierand its owner overmuch. She was safe from a cursory examination, but if they delved deeper…
She felt Gray’s gaze and glanced up to find him regarding her in a direct fashion she hadn’t previously encountered in him. Quite what he was seeing, she wasn’t at all sure, but his scrutiny reminded her that she really didn’t need him getting too close to Mrs. I. Molyneaux, either.
Smoothly, she rose, bringing him to his feet. “Finally, we can leave.” She rebuttoned her coat, picked up her bonnet, and settled it in place. After loosely tying the ribbons, she swiped up her reticule and turned off the twin desk lamps. As darkness engulfed the office, Gray led the way into the foyer, still well-lit by the lamp the police had returned to the counter.
She stepped into the light and shut the office door.
It seemed strange to be going through the same motions, the same small tasks she performed most evenings. Fishing in her reticule for her keys, she realized Gray still had them and halted. “My keys?”
He drew them from his pocket and handed them over. She took them and walked down the workshop to the rear door. As she’d expected, it was still unlocked. She found the key and locked it, then started back toward the foyer.
Gray had followed her as far as the darkroom. He stood in the doorway, scanning the interior in the light thrown by the lamp on the counter. She halted beside him and glanced inside. The red-shielded lamp had been turned off, and the pile of glass plates remained on the central table, more or less as they had been earlier.
“I know nothing about photographic processes.” Gray caught her eye. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “But our young printer’s devil—our lad-of-all-work—has been working as Quimby’s assistant for months. He’ll know more.” She studied the wrecked plates and grimaced. “Given the police brought unshielded lanterns in here, I doubt anything in that pile will be salvageable.”
Gray grunted and followed her to the counter. She doused the last lamp. Guided by the glow from the streetlights, they crossed to the door and, finally, stepped outside.
