Eloise studied her in stunned silence. “Tea. I need tea.” She walked to the bell pull and tugged. “Once we have tea, you must start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
* * *
Late that evening Amy sat at the desk in her office next to her bedchamber, where she scribbled away, three lamps arranged in a semicircle surrounding her pad of paper to provide enough light. She usually did not write at night and preferred the light of day to flood her office and keep her thoughts flowing.
But to engage her mind while she waited for William to arrive to embark on their assignation, she continued working on her current novel. However, being the main suspect in a murder herself took some of the fun out of her writing. It brought to mind Mr. Tolstoy’s book War and Peace.
One of the characters, whose name she could never remember since they had so many different variations of their names, played at the game of war. He had maps and strategies and movements during the Napoleonic wars. It had encompassed his entire world for weeks. Then he received an envelope with his name on it, ordering him to do his duty to his country. He promptly lost all interest in the pretend war. Now it had become real for him.
Her typewriter sat alongside her, but she only used it when she was certain which words she wanted on the paper. Once a letter or word was typed onto the paper, it was too difficult to remove it. No crossing out words like she did when handwriting her books.
The method she employed was to write the entire book by hand, then transfer it to her typewriter one chapter at a time when she was satisfied. Her publisher had bought the machine for her from a newspaper supplier, and she was still struggling to learn the contraption.
She tapped her fountain pen against her lips, considering what to write next. She was at the part where the murderer had kidnapped the daughter of her main character. Not knowing much about children, she was finding it hard to put on paper how a small child would behave if snatched away from her mother.
She sighed and threw down her pen, wincing as ink splattered the wall next to her desk. She rubbed her eyes, unable to concentrate.
“Lord Wethington has called.” Lacey tapped lightly on the door.
“Thank you, Lacey. I will be right down.” She quickly added, “The drawing room, please.”
She didn’t think she could ever enter the library
again. She shuddered just thinking about the room where she’d found a dead St. Vincent staring up at her.
With a quick glance in the mirror over her dressing table, she patted the sides of her head, smoothing her hair, and left the room.
“I did not think you meant it when you said you would clothe yourself like a man.” William’s brows rose as he regarded Amy in her attire as she entered the drawing room. She glanced down at the trousers hugging her legs, suspenders, shirt, vest, and jacket barely buttoned over her generous bosom.
“We debated this nigh on an hour already. If we are to break into Mr. Albright’s rooms, wearing trousers is the best option. We might have to climb through a window.”
William continued to study her, his concern clearly written on this face. “I know we’ve spoken of this already, but I must reiterate that if you are seen by anyone who knows you, out late at night, without a chaperone, dressed in trousers, your reputation would be ruined.”
She waved him off. “My reputation would hardly hold up if I am in prison or swinging from a rope.” She gulped and pushed that picture from her mind. “That is precisely why no one will recognize me. A young woman would not be out and about at night, unchaperoned, and dressed like this. Besides, due to my age, I am on the borderline with the necessity of a chaperone, anyway. When one is absolutely necessary, Aunt Margaret fills in.”
“Does she know about this?”
Amy looked aghast. “Aunt Margaret? Of course not!”
William pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m still not convinced that stealing into a man’s rooms at night is the best occupation for a young, gently reared woman. I should be doing this myself.”
Amy quelled the desire to stomp her foot like a child. “Please stop. I write murder mysteries, remember? In my research, I have done a great many things that would cause most young ladies of my station to swoon.”
“That is enough.” He held up his hand. “Those are things I do not wish to be privy to, I assure you.” He opened the door and waved her through. “I believe your father needs to take you in hand.”
She shook her head and picked up the derby hat sitting on the table by the front door and plopped it on her head. Excitement built as she considered actually doing something to help herself rather than waiting for the police to do their job. They thought she was guilty, she knew she wasn’t, so therefore she had the advantage. They could spend their time chasing after clues to prove her guilt, while she could uncover the real murderer.
They’d gone only a few steps when Amy came to a sudden stop. “Wait. I forgot Persephone.” Before he could comment on that, she turned and hurried back into the house, returning within a few minutes, the dog in her arms.
“Why are you bringing that thing with us?”
Amy sucked in a deep breath. “How dare you! Persephone is not a ‘thing.’ She is my beloved pet.” She ran her hands over the dog’s back. “She would be mad at me if I left her behind.”
“Is that right? How do you know if a dog is mad at you?”
“She won’t talk to me.”
He stared at her openmouthed for a minute and then pointed at the animal. “She has no tail.”