A Murder in Time(90)
“His family is from Manchester,” the Duke told him.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll send someone up north ter make inquiries.” Sam rubbed his nose. “I can return ter London Town ter continue my inquiries at the brothels, but I’d just as soon stay here ter help with the investigation. If you’re interviewing the gents, I can talk ter the servants and like.”
“You might want to start at the King’s Head,” Alec said abruptly.
Kendra stared at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to volunteer that information.
His gaze was cool as he met hers. “I don’t believe my brother committed these atrocities, Miss Donovan, and I intend to prove it by having his alibi confirmed. I won’t have his reputation besmirched by the vile suspicion that he is a killer.”
Aldridge leaned forward, looking at both of them. “Gabriel? What does he have to do with this business, pray tell?”
“He and Captain Harcourt left the castle after the dinner on Sunday evening to attend Hawkings’s cockfight,” Alec told his uncle. “If you recall, the publican has a cockpit behind his tavern.”
“Yes. I had not realized they left the castle that night. But surely you don’t think Gabriel—”
Kendra cut him off sharply. “No one can be ruled out unless they have a verifiable alibi.” She was afraid, she realized, very afraid that they’d let their personal bias dictate the investigation. She couldn’t let that happen.
Aldridge frowned at her. “It is entirely plausible that Gabriel is telling the truth, my dear. I am not an admirer of the blood sport of cockfighting. ’Tis gruesome business to watch an animal literally peck the eyes out of another. But I understand it is a lucrative venture for Hawkings. Many attend. There is no reason to think Gabriel did not.”
“I’m not thinking anything. That’s my point. We must approach this rationally rather than subjectively.”
“What about being presumed innocent until proven guilty, as Sir William Garrow so eloquently argued?” Rebecca asked. “Should we not give Lord Gabriel the benefit of the doubt?”
“He’s not on trial. We’re . . .” Kendra didn’t know what to say. Law enforcement? Only she and Sam Kelly belonged to that group. And she still wasn’t entirely sure about Sam Kelly’s position. He seemed to understand basic police procedure, but Bow Street Runners were paid by their clients, not the citizenry of the town they were sworn to serve and protect. At the moment, he was being paid by Aldridge. Because of that, he might not be entirely objective when he dealt with the Duke’s nephew.
“I’m feelin’ a might thirsty for a good English ale,” Sam declared suddenly, and stood up, effectively ending the argument. “I think I’ll go ter the King’s Head.”
“Very good, Mr. Kelly.” After the Runner left, Aldridge searched his desk until he found the list of names tucked in the ledger. “Now we must go over the names again. Mayhap Alec and Rebecca will have suggestions . . .” He spread the foolscap in front of him. “Then we will divide up the names between us, and conduct the interviews. Does that meet with your approval, Miss Donovan?”
It would have to.
32
The coach was luxurious. April Duprey had to admire that, her sharp eyes automatically calculating the cost of the plush, red-velvet interior, and the seat cushions and pillows that were gold trimmed, tufted, and tasseled. And she couldn’t help but appreciate the carriage’s excellent springs. She’d noticed the smoothness of the ride in London, automatically comparing it to the cheaper hackneys and carriages that she used. No doubt about it, she was dealing with Quality.
After nearly four hours of traveling, however, she was no longer impressed. Even the coach’s excellent springs couldn’t disguise the roughness of the country roads, and the swaying and jolting of the coach left her feeling slightly queasy. She pressed a gloved hand to her stomach, and prayed that it wouldn’t be much longer before she reached her destination.
As though in answer to her prayer, the coach began to slow, then turn. She stifled a groan when the coach lurched forward again, the ride increasingly bumpy as the wheels hit rocks and ruts, forcing her to grip one of the brass handrails near the door.
Her patience worn thin, she silently cursed the gentry, who issued orders with no thought to the comfort of the likes of her. Initially, she’d been delighted when she’d received such a prompt response to her letter, and had obeyed the contents of that letter without argument. He’d send for her, he said. A private carriage, he said, to take her into the country, where they could meet.
He’d asked that she keep the drapes closed during the journey. It was an odd request, but she’d shrugged it off. After all, she’d made a career out of servicing the odd requests from gentlemen. Still, she’d disliked staying in the gloomy carriage when they’d made their one stop at the mail-coach inn to feed and water the horses, and she’d resented the silent coachman as he went about his business without once opening the door to see about her needs or to acknowledge her company. It was one thing to be ignored by Quality; it was another to be ignored by her own class.
After that, her mood had turned sour. Once, she’d defiantly flipped open the heavy velvet drapes to look outside. Not that there was much to look at: forests and rolling green hills dotted by the occasional thatched house. She’d eyed the open countryside with the discomfort only a born and bred Londoner could feel, preferring the congested streets and familiar grime-coated buildings of Town.