“I had allowed myself to be distracted? I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Marcus leaned back against a workbench. “You can’t blame us for worrying about you, Tony. You’re obsessed with this business of proving that Hastings murdered Fiona. It’s a dangerous business you’re pursuing. If you had been caught prowling through Hastings’s house—”
“I found Fiona’s necklace last night,” Anthony said quietly.
Marcus stared at him. “Bloody hell. Where?”
“It was in Hastings’s safe.”
Marcus exhaled heavily. Then his eyes narrowed. “Are you certain it’s the Risby necklace?”
“Yes. He must have taken it off her after he killed her.”
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “So you were right, after all.”
“It certainly looks that way.”
Marcus folded his arms, thinking. “But it makes no sense. Why would he do such a thing?” He squinted a little. “You don’t think it’s possible that he seduced her, do you? A lover’s quarrel, perhaps?”
“No,” Anthony said.
“You sound very certain. I know you were fond of Fiona, Tony—we all were—but don’t let your old affection blind you to certain possibilities.”
“Fiona was not intimately involved with Hastings.”
Marcus did not look entirely satisfied, but he nodded, not arguing further.
“Very well, then,” he said. “What of a motive? What possible reason could he have had for murdering an innocent young woman?”
“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I intend to find out.”
“Give it up, Tony. Too much time has passed. You won’t be able to prove anything now.”
Anthony went to stand at one of the workbenches. He looked down at the array of tools arranged on the wooden surface. “Hastings has been blackmailing several wealthy old ladies for over two years.”
“You’re joking. Hastings? An extortionist?”
“I found the proof in the safe, along with the necklace. Unfortunately, like the necklace, it was useless. I will make arrangements to return the extortion evidence to the various victims anonymously, but for obvious reasons none of them can be expected to testify against him. In fact, I very much doubt that they even knew the identity of their blackmailer.”
“Good Lord.” Marcus grimaced in disgust. “The man’s a villain, all right. But if you can’t prove anything, what do you hope to do?”
“First things first.” Anthony looked up from the tools. “My main objective at the moment is to discover why he murdered Fiona. That question has plagued me from the start of this affair.”
“And just how in blazes will you manage that?”
“I’m certain there was no intimate connection between them. That leaves the possibility that Fiona somehow learned too much about his business affairs. Perhaps she discovered that he was a blackmailer.”
Marcus thought about that. “You think he killed her to keep his secrets?”
“It would be a strong motive.”
“Perhaps. But, again, how will you prove it after all this time?”
“I don’t know.” Anthony went to the steel safe that stood on one side of the room. He put a hand on the gleaming green surface and traced the decorative gold design with one finger. “Hastings’s safe was, indeed, an Apollo, as you said. He had it installed in the floor of his bedroom, just as Carruthers told you. Thank you for getting the information for me.”
Will Carruthers of the Carruthers Lock and Safe Company was an old friend of the family. He was the exclusive purveyor of the Apollo Patented Safe in London. Carruthers had sold the safe to Hastings. He had also overseen its installation.
Marcus’s brows arched. “I take it you haven’t lost any of your safecracking skills?”
“I was a bit rusty, but I had it open inside of thirty seconds.”
“Would have been fifteen in the old days.” Marcus smiled reminiscently. “I’ll never forget the many happy hours you spent picking locks in this workshop, testing out new devices for me.” His white brows snapped together again. “Which reminds me, it’s about time you provided me with some grandchildren. I need new assistants. You’re never around anymore, and Clarice is always busy with her plays.”
“Someday,” Anthony promised. “When this other affair is concluded.”
“Promises, promises.” Marcus’s expression sharpened. “What of Mrs. Bryce? Where does she fit into this?”
“It’s complicated. Last night I encountered her just as she emerged from Hastings’s bedroom.”
Marcus’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “His bedroom? Are you joking? What in blazes was she doing in there?”
“The same thing I had intended to do. She went there to search his private possessions.”
“Why?”
“She was looking for proof that Hastings invested funds in a brothel.”
“She cracked the Apollo?”
“No. But after she made my acquaintance in the hallway outside the bedroom she hired me to do the job for her.”
“She hired you?” Marcus was practically sputtering now.
“She mistook me for a jewel thief. As I said, it’s somewhat complicated.”
“Good Lord.” Marcus scowled. “Who the devil is this Mrs. Bryce?”
“I am still working on the answer to that question. However, I have discovered that, among other things, she is a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer.”
“I don’t believe it. She writes for the sensation press?”
“Yes.”
“But you despise the press because of how it handled Fiona’s tragic death. I find it difficult to believe that you have formed an association with a journalist.”
“It comes as something of a surprise to me, as well, sir. But, then, I have discovered that Mrs. Bryce has a way of keeping one off balance. While we’re on the subject, I would appreciate it if you would keep Mrs. Bryce’s career a deep, dark family secret. She goes to great lengths to conceal her identity.”
Marcus’s brows shot skyward. “Because she’s a female?”
“In part, no doubt. But the primary reason she uses a pen name is because she conducts her journalistic investigations in the Polite World. Her career would come to an end rather quickly if her identity were to be revealed to Society.”
“That’s a fact.” Marcus snorted. “Her name would be dropped from every guest list in town if word got out. She would never receive another invitation.”
“Precisely.”
Marcus stroked his chin thoughtfully. “This is astonishing. Absolutely astonishing.”
“Do you recall the Bromley scandal?”
“I should think so. Talk about a sensation. Who would have imagined that pretentious, self-righteous prig, Lord Bromley, was making money off a ring of opium dens. When the news appeared in the Flying Intelligencer, Bromley was forced to leave the country on an extended tour of America. He hasn’t dared return.”
“Mrs. Bryce is the one who first reported that story and presented evidence to the public. She writes under the name I. M. Phantom.”
“So she’s Phantom.” Marcus paused, frowning. “And now she’s after Hastings. Well, well, well.”
“I tried to talk her out of conducting the investigation, but she won’t hear of it. I feel responsible for seeing to it that she doesn’t come to any harm, so I have agreed to work with her on this venture. For the foreseeable future it will appear to the world that she and I have formed an intimate liaison.”
“I see.” Marcus looked shrewd. “And have you?”
“I assure you, our association is based entirely on business.”
“According to your grandmother, everyone is saying that you have formed an intimate liaison with Mrs. Bryce.”
“That is the point, sir. With luck, the gossip will serve as camouflage. If people, including Hastings, believe that Mrs. Bryce and I are involved in a liaison, they are less likely to guess what we are really about.”
“An interesting theory,” Marcus said without inflection.
“Unfortunately, it is the only one I’ve got. Good day, sir.”