Detective Marsh looked down at his notes. “One of our detectives went to your gardener’s flat yesterday to see if the man had returned from wherever he had gone, or in the alternative, to search his rooms with the landlady’s permission.”
Amy refused to look in William’s direction, afraid their break-in would be obvious to the detective. Instead, she raised her chin. “Yes?”
Detective Carson rubbed his index finger alongside his nose and looked up at her with a fake confused expression that would never have fooled anyone beyond three years of age. “What our man didn’t understand was that the lock on Mr. Albright’s door had been broken. It looked as though someone had thrust something, possibly himself”—he stopped and looked up at William—“and entered the rooms.”
Amy refused to comment, since no question had been asked. William also remained silent.
“What is it you wish to say, Detective? Is there a question there? Because if so, I did not hear it.” Aunt Margaret, ignorant of Amy and William’s foray to Albright’s apartment, was the perfect person to question the detectives. No guilt there.
Carson leaned forward and glared at Amy. “Did you and your cohort here”—he jerked his thumb in William’s direction—“break into Mr. Albright’s rooms?”
Amy drew herself up. “Of course not.” Hopefully the flush on her face would appear to be indignation and not guilt. From Detective Carson’s raised eyebrows, it seemed he chose guilt.
“I would like to ask you, Detective,” William said from where he stood at the fireplace, “what has the police department done in the way of finding Mr. St. Vincent’s killer? Since the murder is almost a week old, and you are just now considering searching Mr. Albright’s rooms, it seems to me the investigation is not as thorough as I believe it should be.”
Now it was Detective Marsh’s turn to flush red. “We are doing a thorough investigation, Lord Wethington, I can assure you. However, these things take time.”
“Would you care to share with us what you have uncovered so far?”
“No. That is police information and business.”
William was not to be thwarted. “Seeing that you all but accused Lady Amy of the deed the night the body was discovered, I think it is her business to know exactly what it is you are doing.”
“That is not how the police work, my lord. Lady Amy is still the only person who had opportunity and reason. While we are not in a position to actually charge her with murder, no one else has been discovered who might be involved.”
Since Amy and William had added two more people to their list, along with Mr. Albright, the police were clearly not doing their job. She’d been right all along. They were focused on her and would spend their time trying to prove she was guilty rather than looking for the actual killer.
“If that is all, Detectives, I bid you good day.” Aunt Margaret stood and smoothed out her skirts. “My niece has refuted your claim that she broke into Mr. Albright’s rooms. If that is all you have to ask after interrupting our day, then Stevens will show you out.”
The detectives rose to their feet. “That is all we have right now, but I will say this.” Marsh looked back and forth between Amy and William. “Interfering in a police investigation is a crime. If someone—and I’m not making an accusation here—did break into the flat of an individual under consideration for murder, and took anything they found out of those rooms, that person, or persons, would be breaking the law and subject to criminal charges.”
“Good day, Detectives.” Aunt Margaret walked to the drawing room door. “Stevens, please see the detectives out.”
Both men lumbered from the room.
Amy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Once the sound of the front door closing reached them, Aunt Margaret placed her hands on her hips and glared at her and William. “Whatever were you two thinking, breaking into that man’s flat?”
* * *
Tuesday morning, Amy tapped lightly on Eloise’s bedroom door. Eloise’s maid had answered the front door and, knowing Amy as well as she did, just allowed her to find her own way to Eloise’s room.
“Come in.” The scratchy, deep voice did not sound like Eloise.
Amy opened the door. Eloise was in bed, her eyes red and a handkerchief crushed in her hands. She took one look at Amy and sneezed.
“Oh, dear. I guess you are still unwell.” Amy settled herself in the chair next to Eloise’s bed.
“Yes, and getting caught in the rain the other night on the way home from the book club meeting did not help. Is there any news on St. Vincent’s murder?” Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze. Blow nose. “Sorry.”
Amy waved her off. “It is my opinion that the police are so focused on me that they are spending their time trying to find proof of my guilt rather than looking for other suspects.”
Eloise laughed, then coughed for a full minute. “Sorry,” she murmured.
“That’s all right, Eloise. I know you’re ill. You don’t have to continue to apologize.” It did occur to Amy, though, that she had best make this visit short, since she didn’t want to catch Eloise’s cold.
“What I came to tell you is William—Lord Wethington—and I are conducting our own investigation of the murder.” She grinned at Eloise’s surprised expression.
“In truth?”