“A point made by one of the neighbors who helped douse the flames,” Sylvia said. “They were not at all impressed that some miscreant had tried to set alight what is to be known as Lord Cavanaugh’s School.”
Peabody blinked. “Indeed...” His gaze flicked from Sylvia to Kit and back again, then Peabody straightened. “I assure you I had absolutely nothing to do with this fire—or with the miscreant who laid it.”
“We hadn’t imagined you did,” Kit stated. His matter-of-fact tone calmed Peabody. “However, the fact remains that someone attempted to set fire to the school, thereby threatening the entire neighborhood. Whoever it was demonstrably had no thought or care for the neighbors, either.”
Peabody nodded. “I agree. Although nothing terrible happened, the intention and the risk were there.”
“Quite,” Kit said. “Which is why we feel we need to get to the bottom of this, even though no lasting damage was done. To that end, we wondered which of your constituents had complained about the school—it’s possible they may have some idea of who was responsible for setting the
fire.”
Peabody frowned.
Kit caught Sylvia’s gaze and willed her to patience; he was rather surprised she’d left so much of the talking to him.
Eventually, Peabody conceded, “I take your point, but I can’t see how it could be so.” He met their gazes. “The complaint—and yes, it was only one—came from Mrs. Stenshaw, a widow of more than middle years who lives on Trinity Street.”
The image of the lady in black sprang to Sylvia’s mind. “A lady of average height who always dresses in black and lives in a house on the opposite side of the street to the school, several doors closer to the river?”
Peabody nodded. “That’s Mrs. Stenshaw, and if you’ve seen her, you’ll realize why I seriously doubt she could have had anything to do with the fire.”
“But it was she who complained?” Kit asked.
“Yes—vociferously. She was deeply put out over the school moving into her street and, as she put it, lowering the tone of the neighborhood. Well, you can imagine the sort of things she said, but that’s really all her complaint boiled down to.”
“Have you informed her that you won’t be taking the matter further?” Kit asked.
Peabody met his gaze, then slowly nodded. “Yes. I called on her later on Friday afternoon. I thought it best to get that unhappy task over with sooner rather than later.”
“And how did she take the news?”
Peabody wrinkled his nose. “She was furious. She accused me of... Well, again, I’m sure you can guess the sort of tirade she indulged in. She’s a most...difficult woman.”
Sylvia had no trouble believing him; she was actually starting to feel sympathy for the councilor.
Kit was still pondering. “A widow, so no husband, but what about some other male relative—a brother or a cousin, someone she might turn to?”
But Peabody was already shaking his head, then he stopped and frowned. “There’s no one of her generation, but she does have two layabout sons.” He paused, then more slowly added, “I’ve heard...less than edifying tales of her sons, yet I understand Mrs. Stenshaw believes they’re angels and springs like a lioness to their defense.”
Peabody met Kit’s gaze and arched a brow.
Kit held the councilor’s gaze for a moment, then nodded. “The sons are a possibility. If we learn anything definite, we’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.” Peabody rose as they did and solicitously ushered them out. On the doorstep, he met Kit’s gaze. “As I said before, if there’s anything I can do to ease your path, my lord, please feel free to call.”
Kit inclined his head, and they parted in significantly better accord than before.
* * *
Although the light had faded and evening was drawing in, Sylvia insisted on returning to Trinity Street with Kit.
When they arrived, he tried to convince her to take the hackney to her lodgings or at least remain in the carriage while he questioned the difficult Mrs. Stenshaw on the grounds the woman might turn nasty, but Sylvia was having none of it. Her blood was up, and she was determined to learn who had been responsible for such a thoughtless and cowardly act and, at the very least, give them a piece of her mind.
After she said as much in a distinctly incensed tone, Kit raised his hands in defeat, stepped back from the hackney, then offered his hand to assist her down.
Lips set, she gripped his fingers and descended. Courtesy of the unavoidable instances of contact the dramas of the day had forced on her, her senses were growing more accustomed to the riot his touch invariably caused.
Apparently, familiarity could breed acceptance instead of contempt.