Who's Sorry Now? Page 17

  He unlocked double doors that once must have opened to a rather majestic dining room. The high ceiling was elaborately decorated, and two floor to ceiling windows looked out onto the street. A massive carved marble fireplace contained ashes and, disgustingly, dozens of cigarette butts.

  Addie could still smell burnt toast, although the small tables crowded together had been cleared and were set for the next meal. A hamper of soiled linen stood in a corner, and a tray of dirty coffee cups and eggy plates was on the sideboard awaiting attention.

  “Let me get rid of these dishes. May I get you a cup of tea? I believe the cook is still in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, no thank you! The Albert serves breakfast only?”

  “Yes, my lady. We find our guests shift very well for themselves the rest of the day. Should you have any friends interested in staying with us, breakfast is six to eight on weekdays, eight to ten on weekends. Sunday mornings are usually lightly attended, as you can imagine. We cater to a creative crowd that doesn’t necessarily keep track of time. Please take a seat anywhere.” He heaved up the tray and pushed through a baize door at the rear of the room.

  The room was relatively cheerful, with movie and play posters as a nod to the hotel’s clientele on the flocked walls. Beckett would approve. Addie sat down at a table, careful not to disturb anything. Rupert poked about the sideboard, dusting it with his handkerchief. Then he climbed atop it, resuming his favorite swami-snake charmer position.

  He’d always been flexible, Addie recalled, climbing in and out of planes and cars and beds with impunity.

  Addie reapplied the pink lipstick that matched the feather on her veil and tried to be patient. Trix seemed like a reasonable sort of person, and Addie was confident she could make headway with her in ways that Scotland Yard couldn’t.

  For example, Addie had several five pound notes in her handbag.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The couple entered, Ollie Johnson gripping Trix’s hand. She wore a brown twinset and tweed skirt, a far cry from her usual evening attire, looking almost like an innocent school girl. Addie attempted a reassuring smile.

  “What’s this about then?” the trumpeter asked, sounding none too friendly.

  “Good morning, Trix, Mr. Johnson. Thank you so much for seeing me. Won’t you both sit down?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if you sit, sir, I’ll tell you,” Addie replied. Actually, she hadn’t thought through exactly what she was going to say. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Trix shook her head. “I have nothing to tell you, Lady Adelaide, except this. Oliver and me, we’re leaving tomorrow on the night train to Paris. We’re getting married, and we’ll be done with the Thieves’ Den for good.”

  “And the Dollies too?”

  Trix opened her mouth, then shut it.

  “She has nothin’ to do with them,” Mr. Johnson said. “Nothin’ to do with the murders, either.”

  “I believe you.” The expression on both their faces was almost comical. “I heard your cousin threaten you the other night. Mr. Johnson, too.”

  “What? You never told me that!” He was thunderous.

  Trix gave Addie a look. “She’s all talk, Oliver.”

  “Tell that to Freddy and his ribs.” Mr. Johnson tucked Trix against him. “The sooner we get outta here, the better. Tell the lady what she wants to know.”

  “I agree,” Addie replied. “I think you’re a very intelligent young woman to jump at your chance for happiness. Unfortunately, Penelope Hardinge, Tommy Bickley, and Roy Dean will never have that chance. My sister was almost a victim as well, but thanks to God’s grace and excellent medical care, she survived.”

  “I might have had something to do with it too,” Rupert said, preening from the sideboard.

  “I don’t know who killed them, and that’s a fact!” Trix cried.

  “But I imagine you do know where the Dollies keep their ill-gotten goods. It’s somewhere in your old neighborhood, isn’t it? And you know your attendance records at the club have been used to break in to empty houses while members are enjoying themselves on a night out. I don’t believe you meant to help, but it only took a second for your cousin to read a list and dispatch her clever friends to rob silly young rich people. No real harm done, right? They’re all careless and a bit stupid. They deserve it, don’t they?”

  “Don’t say anything, honey. She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about.”

  “I don’t suppose I could get you to leave us alone, Mr. Johnson.”

  “You suppose right.”

  Addie sighed. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, Trix. Truly. I wish you nothing but joy, and I’d be glad to give you a substantial wedding present to help get you both settled in Paris. Ah, Paris in the spring. I envy you.”

  “How substantial?”

  Addie wondered if Ollie Johnson knew just how tough his pretty young fiancée was. “Five pounds?”

  “Ten.”

  “Done.” Addie opened her purse. “But first, we need to deal with Mary Frances. What hold does she have over Nadia Sanborn?”

  “Drugs,” Trix said promptly. “Cocaine. Nadia was dabbling, and Mary Frances sold it to her. She’s stopped now, but afraid her father will find out. The prince, too.”

  “So Mary Frances is blackmailing her?”

  Trix nodded. “She’s not very nice, my cousin.”

  An understatement. “Do you think she sold poison to someone who used it on Penelope Hardinge and Tommy Bickley?”

  The girl shrugged. “She might have. With no questions asked. As long as she got her money, she wouldn’t have cared who got what at first. And maybe she didn’t know how it would be used, or the end result. But I know she’s nervous as a cat now. She thinks the police will pin it all on her. And who knows? Maybe she did kill them all for kicks—I wouldn’t put anything past her. She wants to get away too and needs some quick money.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  Rupert materialized at her elbow. “Oh, no. Oh, hell no. You are not going to some slum to beard the lioness in her den. What does that mean, anyway? Lions don’t even have beards. Your Inspector Hunter would have a conniption. He’ll kill you if you’re not dead already. I can only do so much to protect you, Addie. Don’t test my resources.”

  Trix frowned. “You can’t go there alone, Lady Adelaide. You’d stick out like a sore thumb, and I wouldn’t vouch for your safety.”

  “Ah! A voice of reason! Listen to the child, Addie.”

  “Can you two leave for Paris today instead?” Addie counted out three five pound notes. “No one will know that you told me the address.” She slid a coral bracelet from her wrist, unclipped the matching earrings, and placed them atop her bribe. Trix turned to Mr. Johnson. After what felt like an hour, he nodded.

  “Freddy will be pis—put out, but he’ll have one last night with the rest of the band. My boys can follow tomorrow as planned. We’ll just have to get married in Paris.”

  Addie thought that might be easier said than done—as American and British citizens, there might be more red tape than anyone bargained for—the French were known for their croissants and convoluted paperwork. With a sigh, she withdrew another five pound note.

  “Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil? I’ll write down where Mary Frances stays most of the time. The Dollies move around some and split up their stash, but there’s a lot at her flat right now—jewelry, furs, the odd silver tea set before it goes to the fence.”

  Addie found the receipt from Lyons Corner House—that benighted tea seemed like a lifetime ago. She watched as Trix printed the address on the back. “Thank you! You’ve been very helpful. I wish you both a long and happy marriage.”

  “You’re not going there now, are you?” Trix stuffed the money and jewelry in the pocket of her skirt.

  “Sh
e certainly isn’t,” Rupert said firmly.

  Addie knew when to throw in the towel. “I’ll leave that to the police. And don’t worry—I’ll never tell where I got the information.” Or how. Addie had a feeling Mr. Hunter would not be impressed with her cavalier attitude towards bribery.

  If the Metropolitan Police Force had access to funds to pay off informants, that would change everything, wouldn’t it? Life would be way easier for them.

  The young lovers went upstairs to pack. Addie sat back, thinking she should feel more triumphant. She was about to break up a robbery ring—and possibly identify a murderer.

  “I should call Lucas.”

  “Whatever for? My God, you’re not going to enlist him in hunting down Mary Frances Harmon, are you?”

  “Of course not. As I told the future Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, the police can handle all that. I should tell him about Roy Dean.”

  Rupert sniffed. “He won’t care.”

  “He might care for Pip’s sake. He unwound some as the evening wore on and was rather kind to her the other night.”

  “Waring kind? I think you’re addled, Addie.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny. Let’s go see if we can persuade that dancing desk clerk if we may borrow his phone.”

  The young man fell all over himself to assist her. Mr. Hunter’s card between her fingers was well-thumbed, the writing in pencil on the back a little smudged.

  In her most “daughter of a marquess” voice, she asked to be put through to him, and got Bob on the line first. After identifying herself in a much warmer tone, she waited for Mr. Hunter to pick up.

  Which he didn’t. Bob came back, his embarrassment obvious by a slight stutter. Addie was sure the man was blushing as he said he’d relay her information to his boss.

  Fine. Let Hunter be sorry later. She’d make him grovel. But after a brief war with herself, justice won out. She gave Mary Frances’s address to Sergeant Wells, enjoying his little gasp of surprise, then hung the receiver back in its cradle.

  It was time to go home to Mount Street.

  Both Fitz and Beckett were pleased to see her, Fitz more demonstrably as he ran around her feet in circles. Addie had lost Rupert somewhere on South Audley Street, which was perfectly all right with her. She changed from her suit to a pair of Japanese lounging pajamas, removing the diamond and sapphire wedding and engagement rings she still had on. The coral set wasn’t all that valuable, and would look good with Trix’s peachy complexion. If Addie wanted another, she had the funds to buy one.

  After a light lunch, she phoned Lucas at his club. He wasn’t in, but she left a message inviting him round for cocktails later. She really had ignored him since she came back from the States. He’d been enormously patient with her about his marriage proposal—other men would have given up by now. Called her fickle or a tease. She was none of those things, just indecisive. Marriage was not for everyone, contrary to what most people believed. Addie had tried it once, with negative results.

  If, Heaven forfend, she was widowed again, would she have two dead husbands haunting her? It didn’t bode well for future matrimonial plans, did it?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Addie kissed Lucas’s cheek once Beckett ushered him into her drawing room. The sun’s brightness was waning at this hour of the day, but Addie had positioned herself in a lingering ray. “Sorry I haven’t called—” they both said at the exact same time.

  “Ladies first,” Lucas said, with a smile. It really was a lovely smile, causing deep creases in his perennially-tanned cheeks. No one could say that Lord Lucas Waring was not a handsome man.

  Of course, handsome men were dangerous to one’s heart, if one still had one.

  “It’s only been since Thursday, but quite a lot has happened. Come. Sit down. Beckett, I think martinis are in order.”

  Beckett bobbed and left for the kitchen. She’d already prepared a tray of nibbles, and soon the sound of the cocktail shaker was heard.

  “Martinis, eh? Sounds serious. So, what’s up?”

  “You know the young people you met the other night—Philippa and Roy Dean?”

  “Yes. The hotel siblings. Brighton, wasn’t it? The boy’s a bit of a dolt, but the sister was quite charming.”

  Addie nodded. “Poor doltish Roy was murdered Friday night. His drink was poisoned.”

  “What?”

  Anything else he might have said was stopped as Beckett came in bearing their refreshments. Lucas was old-fashioned, never speaking anything of consequence in front of servants. He’d be horrified to know that Beckett was one of Addie’s closest confidantes.

  The maid withdrew, and Lucas took a large gulp of his drink. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Now, don’t say you told me so, but it happened at the Thieves’ Den. The police believe he ingested nicotine.”

  “That’s it! I forbid you from going there again!”

  Addie took a sip of her martini to calm herself before she tore Lucas’s head off. He was not entitled to forbid her anything, nor was any man. Never, ever again.

  “You needn’t worry. I’m thinking about going to Compton Chase soon.” Since Inspector Hunter seemed unwilling to accept her assistance or advice, or even her phone calls, there was no point in staying in Town.

  “I’m glad to hear it. We can go down on the train together tomorrow. I planned to leave—I have some estate matters that can’t wait while I kick up my heels here.”

  The implication was that he’d been waiting for Addie to say yes to his proposal.

  That was not going to happen today.

  “I’m not quite ready—there are few loose ends I need to take care of. Shopping, you know,” Addie lied.

  “You women and your shopping! So, what’s become of the Dean girl? Should I go and pay my respects?”

  “Her parents are taking her back to Brighton in a day or two—once the police finish whatever it is they do—but I’m sure she’d love a visit. They’re devastated, as you can imagine. I can give you the address.”

  “Poor kid. What the hell is happening lately? Cee gets poisoned, Dean dies. This sort of thing shouldn’t be happening out in the open.”

  “Is murder best a private affair then?” Addie asked with a raised eyebrow. Last summer, someone died very privately in her tithe barn.

  “You know what I mean. There’s obviously a crazy person on the loose in good society. What are the police saying?”

  “Not much. There’s a limited list of suspects, but an additional complication. There’s a women’s crime syndicate involved somehow, the Forty Dollies.”

  “Good heavens. Their reputation has even reached the Cotswolds. Don’t they go into stores and steal merchandise?”

  “Yes, that and a lot more. Their vile grip might be coming to an end, though.” If Mr. Hunter used her information. Addie hoped he wouldn’t ignore it, thinking she was just some foolish fantasist. For a moment she thought she might excuse herself to try to talk to him again. But that would be rude, with Lucas sitting across from her.

  Should she ask him to stay for dinner? Or maybe they could go out. Not to the Thieves’ Den. She hadn’t really given him a fair shake. Addie and Beckett had their usual signal ready—if Addie wanted to get rid of Lucas, Beckett would come in and announce she would be late to Lady Grimes’s party if she didn’t get dressed soon. There was no Lady Grimes as far as Addie knew, and she was grateful Lucas was too trusting to open up his Debrett’s.

  She crunched on a nut thoughtfully. What if she told Lucas that she was ready to accept his proposal? They could have a long engagement. Addie was in no hurry to marry again—or ever, really, if she was honest with herself. She had no interest in being forbidden or managed or hemmed in. And while she had known Lucas forever, she wasn’t certain they had all that much in common anymore.

  He wasn’t pressing her, which was a relief
. In fact, right now he was standing and asking for Pip’s address so he could drop in and deliver his condolences before it got too late.

  “Her parents are staying with her, I believe. Number 44, Curzon Street.”

  “Maybe I’ll take them all out to dinner if they’re up to it. Thanks for the drink, Addie. I’ll look forward to seeing you in the country soon.”

  Well. It seemed there was no need of Lady Grimes. Beckett poked her head in. “Did I hear the door close?”

  “You did. Lord Waring is gone.”

  “He didn’t even finish his martini! Aren’t they any good?”

  Addie expected Beckett had taken a taste for herself in the kitchen. “They’re delicious,” she said topping hers off. “Just right. You really have a knack.”

  “Thank you, Lady A.” Beckett grinned. “So, no wedding bells yet?”

  “Not for me.” Addie wondered what Lucas would make of Mr. Dean.

  The doorbell buzzed. “Maybe his lordship forgot something,” Beckett said, going to the front hall.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Beckett. Is your mistress in?”

  That voice. He was absolutely the last person Addie expected to darken her door. If he’d come to be grumpy, he could just go grump somewhere else.

  Beckett stepped into the drawing room. “Detective Inspector Hunter from Scotland Yard is here to see you, Lady A. Are you receiving?”

  The man was only a few feet away in the hall and had heard every word. Addie should say no. Mr. Hunter hadn’t even shown her the courtesy of answering his phone earlier.

  Had he come to apologize? She could endure that. Or had he come to quiz her about how she obtained Mary Frances’s address—maybe he’d arrest her until she confessed. She picked up her martini, fishing the olive out of it.

  Just as Bunny Dunford must have fished out his cherries to give to Roy Dean. Somehow the little green globe was no longer appealing. Addie plopped it back into the glass with a splash. “Of course I’m receiving, Beckett. Show him in.”

  In the hours since she had last seen him, he had become more crumpled and weary. Her first urge was to fix him a drink, but she kept her hands still. “What can I do for you, Inspector?” She did not invite him to sit.