Who's Sorry Now? Read online

  Addie poured her own cup of coffee from the pot and added too much sugar and cream. She needed a jolt after the sleepless night she’d had, although one cup of coffee was not apt to be enough. She grabbed a paper and skimmed the front page. The Dollies had made such an impression on the British populace that the reporters were having a field day.

  A mug shot of Mary Frances from a few years ago had been printed. Instead of looking contrite, she smiled hugely at the camera. She hadn’t been convicted, though—some technicality had prevented her from seeing the inside of a prison.

  Addie left the paper on the kitchen table and went back to the drawing room. Nadia was glum, chewing her toast with little enthusiasm. “My father is going to Scotland Yard this afternoon with his solicitor. He says heads will roll if they don’t release Andrei.”

  Poor Mr. Hunter’s fears were being confirmed. Addie opened the credenza drawer and raided her pound note stash. “Here’s cab fare, Nadia. Please go straight home and don’t talk to anyone. So far, the press has not caught wind of Andrei’s arrest, or at least it didn’t make the morning papers. Chin up—it will be all right.”

  “Maybe. I can’t see how unless Andrei comes to his senses.” She brushed some crumbs from her skirt and rose.

  Addie walked her to the door and then jumped into the shower. She dressed and primped in record time, choosing a sober long-sleeved navy wool dress and twisting her damp hair up under a matching broad-brimmed hat. It was mild enough outside to forgo a coat, but she took a fur scarf.

  The building’s porter waved a taxi down for her, and Addie was soon creeping through early morning traffic between horse carts and omnibuses. Time might have been of the essence, but one couldn’t rush Monday in London.

  She gave her name at reception desk at Scotland Yard, then cooled her heels waiting to be allowed up. The waxed linoleum floor was so shiny, one could probably see her knickers as she paced, so she sat down on a hard oak bench. Addie was sure the inspector was at his desk even at this hour—he probably had not gone home for very long. Her suspicions were confirmed as he walked toward her, in the same suit he wore yesterday.

  “You need to go on vacation,” Addie whispered.

  He shook his head. “Not anytime soon. Why are you here, Lady Adelaide?” To her surprise, he steered her out of the lobby onto the street, keeping a hand on her elbow until they came to a tiny café, its windows steamy. He opened the door for her, and the scent of cooking bacon made her mouth water. The waitress pointed to an empty booth, and they slid in across from each other.

  She appeared immediately with a pot of coffee. “G’mornin’, Mr. Hunter,” she said. “What’s yours and the lady’s pleasure?”

  “Two coffees,” he ordered, and the waitress obligingly filled the thick white mugs on the table. “Have you had breakfast?”

  Addie realized she hadn’t.

  “Two full English. Thanks, Susie. Now, I’ll repeat—why are you here?”

  Addie picked up a spoon and briefly examined her reflection. She was not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “I’m sorry. I should have called first. I meant to, but Nadia was desperate, and I didn’t know if you would talk to me after you telling me to leave everything alone.” Addie rather enjoyed the dig. “She dragged me out of bed at seven-thirty, she’s so worried about Prince Andrei.”

  “Is she going to confess too?”

  “No, and she swears Andrei is innocent. Her father is in a state and is about to come after you. I thought I should warn you.”

  “Very kind. Already taken care of.” He poured a dollop of milk into his cup and drank half of it in one go.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The prince is on his way home. I made sure of it, since I sent Bob with him. There should really be a law regarding false confessions. Wasting our time. Then I could lock him up all over again.”

  “You sent him home? Why?”

  “Because the young moron couldn’t tell me where he’d murdered Mary Frances, how he’d done it, or what she was wearing when he killed her. ‘At her flat,’ ‘the usual way,’ and ‘clothes’ were a bit vague for us. Your description of her dress was most helpful, by the way.”

  “Oh!”

  “Once we established he didn’t kill Mary Frances, he withdrew his assertion that he was the St. Petersburg Poisoner. And yes, he called himself that. The fellow is unstable. He actually kissed my hands when I released him. Almost slobbered. Said he was sorry for the bother, but he wanted to save Nadia, whom he knew to be innocent, but he didn’t trust us to see that for ourselves because, apparently, we are British. Ah! Breakfast! Thank you, Susie.”

  Addie looked at the plate overflowing with an ungodly amount of greasy goodness. “Do you come here often?”

  “It’s close. The food is fast and cheap and plentiful. Everything a poor, tired copper could ask for.” Mr. Hunter tucked in.

  Addie could manage eggs and toast and bacon in the morning. The tomatoes and mushrooms were somewhat acceptable, but she was wary of the sausage, black pudding, and beans. She asked Mr. Hunter if he’d like her portions, to which he readily agreed.

  She carefully spooned the excess onto his plate. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “For about an hour. We have a bunk room, but the cots are left over from the war and are just as comfortable as you can imagine. At least there were no incoming bombs or flooding. I wanted young Andropov to get the full Scotland Yard experience, you know, the harsh hanging lightbulb, the ghastly coffee, endless cigarette smoke blown in his face, me barking questions at him for hours. He’ll think twice before he decides to be chivalrous again.”

  “You seem awfully cheerful.” And hungry.

  “Why not? I’m having breakfast with a beautiful woman, even if I’m making no headway on this bloo—uh, blasted case.

  Beautiful, eh? Addie knew she was blushing, and hid behind her hat brim. “I’m sure it will be over soon.”

  “I hope so. Are you going to eat your fried bread?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tuesday

  Addie woke up, for once, at a delightfully decadent hour. Ten o’clock. She’d slept a solid twelve hours. No one had arrived desperate at her doorstep. Better yet, no one had died.

  That she knew of.

  She stretched, washed up, and padded out into the flat. Fitz was snoozing on the white couch and didn’t even snuffle in greeting. So much for loyalty. “Beckett?”

  “In here, Lady A.”

  Addie entered the kitchen to find her maid arranging pink roses in a shiny silver vase. “Oh, my. Do you have an admirer?”

  “You do, Lady A.” She passed over the accompanying card. “Two of ’em. Three if you want to be technical.”

  “‘With all thanks, Nadia and Andrei.’ But I really didn’t do anything.”

  “You would have, if Mr. Hunter hadn’t done it first. And there’s more flowers in the dining room from Lord Waring. White lilies. Here’s his card.”

  Thinking of you at this difficult time. Waring.

  How very odd. Lucas knew nothing of her recent police escapades. And they weren’t difficult so much as frustrating.

  “Where did Lord Waring’s flowers come from?”

  “I threw the box down the chute, but I remember. Mayfair Posies. This lot came from Florals by Frederick.”

  Addie flipped through the directory tucked under the phone on the credenza and dialed the number for Mayfair Posies. After several rings, a breathless voice answered.

  “Good morning. This is Lady Adelaide Compton on Mount Street. I received a delivery from you earlier today. White lilies from Lord Waring.”

  “Yes, of course, Lady Adelaide. But there’s some mistake. I remember pink roses were ordered. I answered the phone myself. The lilies were meant for—oh dear! We’re understaffed this morning and the addresses must have gotten mixed up. I would
be happy to send someone to make an exchange.”

  “That won’t be necessary. But perhaps you should resend some lilies to Miss Dean in Curzon Street.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence on the line. The poor florist probably thought Lucas was a two-timing Casanova, which might actually do something for his sterling reputation. Sterling reputations were somewhat overrated, weren’t they?

  “Just out of curiosity, what did he intend to say on my card?”

  “One minute. I’ll look it up in the order book.” Addie heard the phone clunk onto the counter, as well as some muffled curses. After a short while, the woman came back. “I do apologize, my lady. Yours was to read, Miss you already. See you soon! Lucas. That’s with an exclamation point at the end of the second sentence. As I said, I’d be happy to correct the deliveries immediately.”

  “On second thought, never mind about the lilies. Leave everything as it is. I sense the hand of God.” Or was Rupert playing matchmaker? Addie supposed he could enter a flower shop as easily as anybody and shuffle order slips around. Who knew where he was most of the day? “Thank you for your help. Good-bye.”

  “Honestly, Addie. Next you’ll accuse me of having a heart.”

  Rupert stood before her, pale and somewhat perplexed, as if he’d been interrupted from something more important. Addie wished she could discover where Rupert went when he was not bothering her, as long as it did not require a visit to any intemperate region.

  “Did you do it?”

  He held up a hand. “You can’t blame me for everything! I did not! I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “Your mother isn’t dead, only in Cornwall.”

  Rupert tapped his chin in contemplation. “Isn’t Waring a dark horse, stringing along the Dean girl.”

  “He’s not stringing her along. He does have a heart, and feels sympathy for her loss. He sent her flowers, which was very nice of him.” Lucas was always nice.

  “Bah. Aren’t you jealous?”

  Addie thought for a moment. “Not in the least. Lucas routinely does the appropriate thing.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Honestly, Rupert, you keep hinting darkly about Lucas’ faults, but you never specify. I think you’re the one who’s jealous.”

  “Maybe,” he said, surprising her.

  “Too late. I’m going to visit Nadia and Andrei, and I’d appreciate it if you stayed home.”

  “Oh, all right. I suppose I could do some reading on the psychology of the criminal mind. If there is such a thing. I’ll probably be fobbed off with Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  Exactly what library was he going to visit? She hoped he wouldn’t tamper with the card catalog and mis-shelve books. “That sounds most worthy. I’m going to have breakfast now. Enjoy your day.”

  “Bah,” Rupert repeated as he faded away.

  “Who were you talking to?” Beckett asked when Addie went back into the kitchen.

  “The florist. There was a mistake with the lilies, but it’s cleared up now.”

  What if Lucas married Pip? She was bright, young, pretty, and probably biddable, just the sort of wife he should have. She’d be so grateful to be a viscountess, she’d probably never put a foot wrong. The more Addie thought about it, the happier she was that the flowers had been misdelivered. Now all she had to do was steer Lucas toward Pip.

  But men were, by and large, unsteerable. Addie would have to make him think courting Pip was all his idea. Lucas was so proper, he’d probably go through with a marriage to Addie even if he was wildly in love with Pip. He wouldn’t want to go back on his word. So Addie must—

  Yes. She really must put him out of his not-very-miserable misery. She’d stalled long enough. Her mother would be broken-hearted, but Addie’s mother was bound to be annoyed by much of what this decade promised.

  She made her own coffee and her own toast, even though Beckett was right there at the kitchen table working on a crossword puzzle. She fixed a cup for the maid, too, and they discussed the day ahead. Addie planned to visit the Deans first, who would be leaving London any day.

  She’d pass the baton to Pip.

  Addie bathed and dressed. A light rain was falling, so she chose a flowered silk print dress to cheer herself up. Armed with a plain canvas hat, raincoat, and umbrella, she taxied to Curzon Street, after calling first to see if her presence was welcome.

  Pip was alone in the flat. Her parents were having lunch with old friends, and Pip confided that she was relieved to have the place to herself. A huge bouquet of sweetly-scented pink roses rested on the mantel, Lucas’ card leaning against the glass vase.

  “I’m so tired of it all, Lady Adelaide. My parents mean well, but they’re after me now that I’m their only chick. My father decides when I should go to bed, as if I’m a little girl all over again. My mother wants to know if I had enough to eat at breakfast. They’re both full of suggestions. Perhaps I’d be more comfortable in other shoes. Maybe I should put on lip rouge. I don’t know how I’m going to bear it when I go back to Brighton and go under the microscope.”

  Pip wasn’t wearing any lip rouge at all. In a black dress that sucked the life right out of her, she appeared unhappier today than she did on Saturday. Her glorious auburn hair was in need of a good shampoo, too.

  “I’m so sorry, Pip. My offer of the guest room still stands.”

  “If only I could come to stay with you! But there’s the funeral on Friday. My father has been arranging everything by phone. We’re leaving tomorrow. I don’t suppose you can come.”

  Addie avoided funerals when she could. “I’m afraid not. But suppose I ask Lord Waring to go in my place. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a trip to Brighton.” She wasn’t sure of any such thing, but would do her best to convince him it was his duty to support Pip “at this difficult time.”

  Pip blushed, a welcome adjustment to her pale face. “He sent me roses. That was very kind of him.”

  “He’s a kind man,” Addie agreed. “Did your parents like him? He did come here Sunday evening, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. For a little while. He invited us out to supper, but my mother didn’t think going out was decent.”

  “But they’re out now!”

  “Not in public. Their friends have a house in Marylebone and they’re having lunch there. But we did order some food to be sent up from the building’s restaurant. I don’t think it was up to Lord Waring’s standards, but he was very nice about it.”

  “He would be—he’s very nice on almost all occasions. I have a confession to make, but please don’t tell anyone, not even your parents. Lord Waring asked me to marry him last year.”

  “Oh!” There was a lot of regret in that one syllable.

  “But I’m not going to. I don’t want to marry anyone, not even a man as nice as Lucas. I’ve known him all my life, you see. It would be like marrying my brother. Um, that was tactless—I’m sure Roy would laugh about it, though. He was so jolly, wasn’t he? Anyhow, I wanted to tell you the field is clear. If you like him—and I think you do—I’ll do everything in my power to help you make a match of it.”

  The girl’s face had transformed with careful joy. “Lady Adelaide! Are you sure?”

  “Quite. Lucas deserves someone as nice as he is. I think I told you he’s a little stiff, somewhat old-fashioned. You are just the girl to liven him up. I watched you two dance last week and I could tell he liked you.”

  “I thought he did, even after you told me it was hopeless. And then he sent me flowers with this message. Here—read it!”

  Addie knew what the card said, but took it anyway. “‘Miss you already. See you soon!’ Well, that certainly sounds encouraging.” Maybe she would be joining Rupert in hell after this good intention.

  “He’s frightfully handsome, don’t you think?”

  He was, but he did not make Addie’s
heart go pitter-pat anymore. That ship had sailed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Sanborns’ house in Grosvenor Square reminded Addie of a museum. The front hall ceiling was tall and gilded, and large portraits of what Addie presumed were Sanborn ancestors stared down in disapproval from the walls. She was told by an extremely dignified butler that the family was at lunch, but if she wished to wait, he would escort her into the Blue Room.

  Which was very blue, walls covered in blue damask, furniture upholstered in blue velvet. Russian triptychs of a religious nature hung on the walls, and a thick floral carpet was at her feet. Silver and enameled objets littered every surface. It must be a chore to dust—Beckett would have boxed up half of it in protest.

  Addie picked up a leather-bound volume, but found it was printed in Russian. The alphabet was interesting in itself, so she studied it, trying to make sense of anything that looked familiar. She spoke schoolgirl French, though she was very rusty, not having gone abroad in quite a while. Languages were not really her forte.

  She sometimes wondered what was.

  She didn’t have too long to wait. The door opened, and Nadia, Andrei and a distinguished-looking gentleman entered, all wreathed in smiles.

  “Lady Adelaide! We planned to visit you!” Nadia said, her smile broadening even more. “Thank you so much!” Nadia kissed her on both cheeks, Continental-style, and Andrei followed suit.

  “Really,” Addie said, speaking directly to Nadia’s father, “I didn’t do anything. By the time I got to Scotland Yard, Prince Andrei had already been released. Detective Inspector Hunter is an excellent judge of character, you know. It would be unusual to be able to fool him.” Addie hoped this praise might somehow go from Sanborn’s ears to someone else’s, like the commissioner’s.

  “Oh! Where are my manners? Lady Adelaide, may I present my father, Sir Digby Sanborn. Papa, this is the wonderful Lady Adelaide Compton.”

  “Wonderful indeed. The children have been singing your praises, Lady Adelaide. Thank you for taking the trouble to aid them. Young people are so rackety nowadays, aren’t they? That place they like to go dancing? The Fox Den or whatever it’s called? I can’t approve of it, I’m afraid. Full of unsavory characters. Even the Prince of Wales has been warned to stay away, not that he always obeys his elders. My little girl and my nephew need a steady guiding hand in their circle, someone mature enough to recognize life’s pitfalls.”