A sudden thought hit her. Had he already retrieved the package? If so, he wouldn’t tell her. He’d let her flail around and then produce it triumphantly. Reginald Pratt, Viscount Brotherton, here to save the day. She felt physically sick.
The kitchens were hopeless, as was the staff drawing room. The kitchens were fiercely occupied by the cook, Mrs. Blake, and her army of maids and automatic servants. There was nowhere to hide a package that wouldn’t be spotted before the day was out, and Mrs. Blake insisted the kitchens were never left unattended. The drawing room was small and quickly searched.
The murderer had to have been one of the people without alibis. Harriet could rule out the Edgewares’ little children, and probably Mrs. Edgeware, too. That left Mr. Edgeware; Colonel and Mrs. Fitzpatrick; the student, Sebastian Davies; the Comte d’Arcy; Reverend and Mrs. Asheville; the hotel manager, Mr. Ellis; and of course, Reginald. One of them, at least, was a murderer and an agent of the smuggling ring. But which one? She had too many suspects.
Bertrand wasn’t in the dining room, but he was in his bedroom, sitting at the desk, piles of newspapers scattered around him.
“Harriet! There you are!” He sat back in the chair and ran his hand through his hair. “Tell me you found out who the murderer was and I can stop reading these blasted newspapers.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah, well. Didn’t think I would be so lucky.” He gestured to a smaller pile of newspapers on the bed. “These are the ones that mentioned our suspects. There’s one or two things you might find interesting. I’ve marked the places.”
Harriet settled on the bed and opened the first of the newspapers. “Anything else interesting?”
“Oh. Yes. There was something.”
“Well?”
“Reverend and Mrs. Ashville went to the opera. They told me.”
“Um… That’s wonderful for them. How exactly does it help us?”
Bertrand’s brow furrowed. “They saw Emily perform. You know, before she came here to be a maid.”
Harriet suppressed a sigh. “I thought you were going to find out about the Edgewares.”
“I did, and you were right. They have been to Lunae City. Mr. Edgeware took the family to visit the ruins on the Martian Nile. They’ve been all over the place. And they’re not the only ones. That student is an archaeologist. And Colonel Fitzpatrick once led an expedition searching for an undiscovered dragon tomb, although he didn’t find it, so I guess it’s still undiscovered.”
Which would place all three of them in the Lunae Planum at one point to another. The same place that Strachan had come from. It didn’t prove anything, of course, and it certainly didn’t prove no one else had been to Lunae City, but it was somewhere to start.
“You don’t happen to have the twelfth of April edition of the Tharsis Times, do you?”
Bertrand shifted through the piles. “Why? Here you are.”
“It’s the paper our victim was carrying when he died.”
She had taken a look at the paper after she had pulled it from under Strachan’s body, in case there was anything hidden inside, but now she read it more closely. Why had Strachan chosen this issue in particular? Just because it was old so no one else would be carrying it? There was nothing in it about any of their suspects or any other guests. But then Strachan could hardly know he would be murdered. She was missing something, she knew she was. It itched at her.
“Must have brought his own copy,” Bertrand said. “Bit strange. It’s over a month old. Anything about him in it, maybe?”
Harriet shook her head. “Just Mrs. Parker and her blasted birthday ball scandal.”
“Who?”
“No one.” She tossed it onto the bed.
“Voi Che Sapete.”
“What?” Harriet wondered if her brother-in-law had finally gone mad.
“Cherubino. You know, in The Marriage of Figaro. That’s the part Emily sang. That was her aria. Dee dum dee-dee-dee-dee. You must know it. Reverend Asheville said she was very good. Quite convincing in trousers.”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about, Bertrand,” Harriet said, turning back to the newspapers.
But when she finished them, she looked up, smiling. “This is very interesting. You know, Bertrand, I think it’s time we had another word with our suspects.”
Half an hour later, the suspects were gathered in the large drawing room, along with the maid, Emily, and the elderly couple who had all seen Strachan fall to his death.
“Well?” Sir William demanded, as an automatic servant moved around in a whirr of cogs, serving tea. “Found out who did it, Simpson?”
Bertrand grimaced. “Just have to ask some questions, sir.”
Sir William shook his head. “How hard can this be? Fellow was pushed. Not many suspects. I expect my policemen to be able to solve cases like this. I will not have you interfere with people’s preparations for the ball.”
“Maybe after…”
Sir William’s glare hardened. “After the ball, guests will be free to leave. There are important people here, Simpson. I’ll not damage the force’s reputation because of your incompetence, you hear me?”
“It’ll be all right,” Harriet whispered to Bertrand as Sir William turned away. She hoped so, anyway. She could feel the pressure squeezing down on her like the water above the hotel. One mistake, one crack, and everything would collapse: Bertrand’s career, her hopes of becoming a spy, and her soon-to-be niece’s or nephew’s future.
The door to the drawing room burst open with such vigor that Harriet almost expected to hear trumpets. In strode Sir Lancelot, blond hair swept back as though by a strong wind.
“I,” Sir Lancelot announced, “will be joining you.” He winked at Harriet. Harriet resisted the urge to punch him. See, Amy. I am growing up. Maybe later, when no one was watching.
“Ah…” Bertrand cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate. Police matters, you see…”
“Nonsense,” Sir William called from the back of the room, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let the fellow help. He, at least, might have a chance of actually solving the case.”
“Why don’t we start with Emily?” Harriet said, quickly.
The maid started. “Me?”
“If you don’t mind.”
The maid’s face turned as red as a sunset as everyone faced her. Strange, Harriet thought, for someone who had made her living as an opera singer. But then maybe it was different when you were on stage, lights blinding you to the audience. And Emily had given up her life as a star of the stage to work as a lowly maid. Maybe she didn’t like the attention.
“You said you saw Mr. Strachan fall from the balcony?”
The maid nodded mutely.
“But you didn’t see anyone up there.”
“No.” She bit her lip. “I… I didn’t think to look up at first. I was too… too shocked.” She seemed, Harriet thought, to be about to burst into tears, and if she did, that would be the end of the questioning. Bertrand was useless in front of a crying girl. To her shame, Harriet had tried it once when she’d been twelve. It had gotten her out of trouble, but she had never done it again. That wasn’t the kind of person she wanted to be.
“You knew him, though?”
Emily looked down at her hands. “A bit, if it please you. He’d only been here a week. The maids don’t fraternize with the footmen, of course. He seemed… pleasant enough. He never gave me cause to avoid him.”
“And you say you heard him whistling just before he fell?”
“Oh, really!” Mrs. Fitzpatrick pronounced, turning her gaze toward the hotel manager. “What disgraceful standards. I had been led to believe that the Louros was a respectable institution. Whistling, indeed!”