The Glass House

She stopped, thought. "No, I am afraid I did not. I- " She flushed again. "I am afraid not."

Her small hesitation disquieted me. Was she lying? And why? To protect someone? "Are you certain? You must realize that the person who took it could very well have returned today and killed Inglethorpe."

Her eyes widened. "Good lord, why should they?"

"That is what my friend Pomeroy is trying to discover. Did you speak to Mr. Inglethorpe at all before you departed yesterday?"

"No. I took my leave quite quickly."

"Good."

"Why good?"

"Because I found Inglethorpe unsavory. It pleases me that your connection was not strong."

She stared at me. I had no right, of course, to lecture her about her connections. In her world, I was nobody. But I told the truth-I was pleased that she had not known Inglethorpe well. He was not the sort of man I wanted nieces of my acquaintance to know.

"Do you remember which gentlemen remained when you departed?" I went on. "One of them could have taken the walking stick."

She shook her head, the ribbon moving on her neck. "I couldn't be certain. I do believe Mr. Yardley and Mr. Price-Davies were there, but I really do not remember."

"Do you know either of those gentlemen well?"

"Not well, no. I saw a bit of Mr. Yardley before I married Mr. Danbury, but I've spoken to him little since."

I rolled the shaft of the walking stick between my fingers. "Either of those men could have taken it. And returned with it the next day."

"Good heavens, Captain. You cannot seriously believe that Mr. Yardley or Mr. Price-Davies would murder Inglethorpe. Why on earth should they?"

Her vehemence surprised me. "Someone did, Mrs. Danbury."

"Well, yes, but it must have been the work of a tramp or a madman. Gentlemen of Mayfair do not stab one another with sword-sticks."

"They fight duels," I pointed out.

"That is entirely different, and not all gentlemen condone duels."

She gave me an admonishing stare, as though I ought to be above accusing other gentlemen of so sordid a crime as murder.

Her answers made me conscious of another difference between Mrs. Danbury and Lady Breckenridge. Lady Breckenridge, with her outlook on life nearly as cynical as my own, would have agreed with me. Mrs. Danbury, connected with the unworldly Derwents, refused to believe it.

"I know it is unpleasant," I said. "But it might have happened."

"I am sorry you believe so," she returned, angry. "I can assure you, Captain, I saw neither gentleman take the walking stick, nor do I believe that either of them returned and killed Mr. Inglethorpe. A housebreaker surprised Mr. Inglethorpe, that is all. That must have been what happened."

She'd been hesitant a few minutes ago; she was adamant now. If Mrs. Danbury were hiding something from me, she took refuge in her anger.

I decided it time to change the subject. "I would like to speak to Jean, if I may," I said. "I need to ask her a few more questions about Mrs. Chapman."

Mrs. Danbury's color remained high, but she seemed relieved that I'd stopped speculating on Inglethorpe's murder. "I suppose it can do no harm," she said. "Jean seems a resilient child, not hysterical, but please do not upset her."

She glared at me to remind me that I'd already upset her. I promised to not tire the girl, and Mrs. Danbury summoned the footman and bade him fetch Jean from below stairs.

When Jean joined us, she was dressed in a sensible garment. With the kohl and rouge gone from her face, she looked like what she was, a child. She was a working-class girl, with stubby fingers and a child's flyaway hair barely contained in a tail tied with a ribbon.

She did not curtsey, but gave a little bow to me and Mrs. Danbury. Jean regarded me warily, perhaps wondering whether I'd come to snatch her away again, but she answered my request to tell me more about Peaches readily enough.

"She wasn't a bad sort," Jean said. "She let me sleep in her room sometimes. I could lock the door. Only she had the key."

I regarded her in surprise. "Mr. Kensington did not have one?"

"No. He never came in there. She'd never let him have a key."

"Mr. Kensington opened that door for me the night I rescued you," I said. "He had a key then." Which he could have stolen from Peaches if he'd murdered her, or found it left behind after her death.

"Oh, he had the key to the chamber on the first floor," Jean said, as though she thought me a simpleton. "But not to her room in the attics."

"In the attics?"

Bloody hell. No wonder the chamber Kensington had let us into had been impersonal. No wonder he'd not been worried that we'd searched it. He'd known there would be nothing for us to find, I chafed that I'd so readily believed him, damn the man. He must have laughed to himself about how easily he'd tricked us.

"Yes," Jean said. "She kept all her things up there, things she didn’t want Mr. Kensington to see. He and Peaches shouted at each other a great deal about it. And other things."

Kensington had implied he'd allowed Peaches to take refuge at The Glass House out of sympathy and old friendship. "What other things would they shout about?" I asked.

"He would say that he knew her before she became high and mighty, and she would say she'd always been beyond his reach. She laughed at him."

"Did he ever try to hurt her, or threaten to?"

"No. He seemed almost afraid of her, sometimes."

I thought of Kensington's mean, dark eyes and his oily smile. It pleased me that he had not held Peaches in thrall.

"Can you remember anything that happened on Monday, anything at all before Peaches went away, that might be a little out of the ordinary?"

Jean thought, but she shook her head. "When Peaches came in that day I heard Mr. Kensington start to shout at her, but she went on upstairs and slammed the door. Later, I saw her go down through the kitchen. She was smiling."

"Mr. Kensington did not go with her?"

"I didn't see him."

So I was back to Peaches disappearing from The Glass House and turning up later in the Thames.

"Did she speak to anyone else? Perhaps tell them where she was going?"

Jean shook her head. "I didn't see."

Not her fault. I gave her a nod. "Thank you," I said. "You have been very helpful."

"Yes, sir," she said. She'd answered without hesitation but without much enthusiasm either. No anger, sorrow, fear. She was like a mongrel dog eating the food given it without gratitude toward the feeder.

I wanted to reassure her. "You're safe here, Jean. The Derwents will look after you."

"Yes, sir." She sounded doubtful.

I had nothing else to add. She would have to learn trust; it could not be forced, well I knew.

Mrs. Danbury announced she'd take Jean up to bed, effectively cutting short the interview and indicating she wanted me to go. I issued my goodnights to her and the little girl and again expressed my best wishes for Lady Derwent.

Mrs. Danbury condescended to give me a half-smile as I departed. Perhaps my gentle treatment of and concern for Jean had redeemed me in her eyes a small amount, at least.

I returned home and spent a restless night. This day I had enraged Louisa, upset Mrs. Danbury, discovered I'd been duped by Kensington, and nearly been accused of murder by Pomeroy. Not the best day of my life, by any means.

I woke with a headache and received a note from Pomeroy that the inquest for Inglethorpe would be held that morning, in Dover Street, at eleven o'clock.

Before I departed for it, I penned Louisa an apology for my behavior at her house the night before. I knew I should not have let Brandon provoke me. I seemed to forever cause pain to the one woman I least wished to.

I sent the letter in care of Lady Aline Carrington, Louisa's dearest friend. I disliked delivering it in this roundabout fashion, but I did not want Brandon to put the note on the fire the moment he recognized my handwriting. Louisa would at least do me the courtesy of reading it, even if she too burnt it afterward.