The man took him at his word. They rattled through the streets, taking corners at speed; grim-faced and silent, the three of them braced themselves, each absorbed, thinking ahead.
Christian told himself that Barton was there, watching from outside—but that wouldn’t stop Swithin going in. He’d told Letitia that Swithin was a suspect, but none of them had seriously thought him the murderer—not until today.
As they raced into Mayfair, leaving curses in their wake, he prayed they’d be in time.
They arrived at South Audley Street. Leaving Dalziel to deal with the jarvey, Christian strode up the front steps, threw open the door—and stepped into outright uproar.
A cacophany of myriad feminine voices all raised, all exclaiming—all at once—assailed him. Behind him, he heard Justin mutter, “Good Lord! They’re all here.”
“Christian!” Letitia’s aunt Amarantha spotted him as he stood rooted just inside the door. “Just the man—Letitia’s disappeared.”
They came at him from all sides, more pouring from the parlor to add their voices to the din. It appeared to be an assembly of all the Vaux females, close and distant; all Letitia’s aunts and female cousins seemed to be there.
He tried to make sense of what they were telling him, but there was so much dross camouflaging the facts it was hopeless. Eventually he spotted Agnes in the parlor doorway, Hermione beside her, but he couldn’t reach them short of mowing through the crowd.
Grim-faced, he held up his hands. “Quiet!”
A sudden sile
nce fell, if anything even more painful than the preceding cacophany. Stunned, they all looked at him with wide eyes.
Stepping farther into the hall so Dalziel could come in and close the door, he focused on Agnes. “I need one of you—only one—to tell me what’s happened. Agnes?”
She nodded. “Letitia was here—she stayed in this morning. Hermione and I went to a morning tea.” Her voice wavered but she dragged in a breath—glowered at Constance, who had opened her mouth—and went on, “She’s obviously had visitors—there’s a tea tray.” She waved into the parlor. “But when we came home, she wasn’t in there. We thought perhaps she’d gone up to her room, but then the others arrived and Hermione went up to fetch her—but she wasn’t there either. She’s not in the house. And she hasn’t left any message, which she would have if she’d been called away, or gone to Bond Street, or…”
Letitia had said she’d be waiting for him to come back to her; while he wasn’t insensible to the echoes of their past, Christian knew absolutely that this time she wouldn’t have gone anywhere—not willingly.
While Agnes had talked, he’d made his way through the crowd to her. Justin had followed; Hermione grabbed his hand.
Looking past Agnes, Christian saw the tea tray set on a low table between the sofas. Only two cups. He’d hoped…
He turned back to the hovering horde. “Where’s Mellon?”
The butler was nowhere in sight. One bright cousin slipped into the parlor and tugged the bellpull.
A moment later the baize door at the rear of the hall swung open and Mellon marched through.
Over the heads of the ladies, Christian beckoned; the ladies parted, allowing Mellon to make his way to him.
Which he did with a supercilious air. “Yes, my lord?”
Christian looked down at him. “Who called on your mistress?”
Mellon arched his brows. “A good friend of the master’s called to offer his condolences, as was proper.”
Justin made a frustrated sound. He stepped around Christian, grabbed Mellon by the throat, lifted him off his feet and slammed him up against the hall wall; the pictures hanging on it bounced. “Who called on my sister?”
Mellon goggled, hands ineffectually scrabbling at Justin’s.
Far from fainting or being scandalized by the violence, all the Vaux ladies looked on eagerly. Even encouragingly. When Mellon didn’t immediately divulge the name, Agnes pointed imperiously to the tea tray. “Who did she have tea with?”
“Come on, man—spit it out,” Constance said. “Dearne hasn’t got all day.”
“It was a Mr. Swithin,” Mellon gasped. “From what I heard, he was the master’s great friend.”
Justin’s lip curled. “Mr. Swithin—your master’s murderer.”
Mellon’s face turned ashen. “He killed Mr. Randall?”