A Useful Woman (17 page)

“Yes? Go on. I assure you I am not in the least bit faint.”

“No, I can see that.” He also nodded his approval. The gesture irritated her. What business had this man approving or disapproving of her?

Stop that, Rosalind. You're turning missish!

“It is just barely conceivable that a fall from the relatively short height of that gallery would do for a man, if he was extraordinarily unlucky. It's a funny thing, though, but when it's a short, sharp fall that kills, it doesn't produce that much blood. No doubt one of our clever medical fellows could tell us why this is, but the fact remains. It would take a concentrated pounding, or some deep and penetrating wound to let out the amount of blood you saw. If I'd come across such a scene in the street rather than the ballroom, my first conclusion would be that an enemy had come at Mr. Aimesworth with a weapon in hand, and a determination to see him dead.”

Rosalind was silent for a long moment. She was still forgetting something, something that had bothered her before. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there was not quite so much blood.”

“I doubt that, Miss Thorne,” replied Mr. Harkness. “You don't strike me as the sort who would exaggerate in that way.” He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye. “You're trying to find a reason not to believe it. I understand that. It's an ugly thing.”

But that wasn't it. She was trying to find that memory, that thing which did not fit. Then, she had it, and her hand flew to
her mouth. “The draperies,” she said. “Oh, heavens. The draperies
and
the carpet!”

Mr. Harkness waited. There it was, that stillness she had only glimpsed before. It was striking, because it was also an attitude of absolute concentration.

“When I arrived the other day, Mr. Willis was in the gallery directing some workmen to take down the draperies. He said . . . he said he needed to get them cleaned, or they would have to be replaced.”

“I see,” said Mr. Harkness slowly.

“I didn't.” It was unreasonable for her to be annoyed, but she was all the same. “If . . . if Jasper died because he fell from the gallery, then the blood should all be on the floor. But if he were battered before he died . . .”

“There would be blood on the draperies and the carpet in the gallery, which would need to be cleaned up immediately before the stains set,” Mr. Harkness finished.

“They also found Jasper's keys, dropped up there, and some coins.” That significance had also escaped her. If he'd fallen, they should have been on the floor beside him, or in his pockets. The only reason things from Jasper's pockets would have fallen out in the gallery was if there'd been some sort of struggle there.

“How do you know the keys were Aimesworth's?” asked Mr. Harkness.

“I showed them to his sister, and she recognized the fob and seal.”

“It would have been good to have those keys.”

“But I do have them.”

“You do?” Now she had shocked him, and she was rather strangely pleased about the fact. “The family left them with you?”

“The family did not. Mr. Aimesworth's sister, Honoria, did.”

“Why would she do that?

“That is between myself and Miss Aimesworth.” She paused. “And now I've disappointed you.”

“It shows? Well, that's my own fault. I'd gotten my hopes up.”

“I don't understand.”

“You, Miss Thorne, are one of my very few potential windows into Mr. Aimesworth's life. Without your help, I'm afraid my inquiries can go no farther.”

“And you do not collect your bounty,” she murmured. She wasn't sure why.

He shrugged. “If I had my way, Miss Thorne, the city would pay a salary to trained and qualified men to do this work. The discovery and punishment of criminals should be treated as a public good, rather than a private affair.”

“I take it you've read Sir Robert Peel's writing on policing?”

“I have, and I agree with his thinking. Violence and theft affect everyone, Miss Thorne. They cannot be banished by the hiring of yet more constables to clear those we are pleased to call riffraff from the streets. The proof is in front of us in the form of Mr. Aimesworth.”

“Thus you bring me neatly back to the point.”

“Conversation is an art, Miss Thorne, even for a man from Bow Street.”

“I expect especially for a man from Bow Street.” Rosalind fell silent, and Mr. Harkness let her. He'd gone still again, waiting and watching. It was not comfortable, especially not when she needed to think.

“Have you spoken with Mr. Whelks?” she asked. “He was there also.”

“Yes, and he has imitated his namesake and clung stubbornly to his silence.”

“You should have a word with Lady Jersey. Mr. Whelks is her secretary, and won't say anything until she gives permission.”

“And so I would, if Lady Jersey would agree to speak with me,” he replied blandly. “Her response to my note requesting an interview was to suggest, firmly, that I cease to bother persons of the highest rank and respectability and get about the business of apprehending those hooligans rendering the streets unsafe for respectable persons.”

Which sounded very like Lady Jersey. There was, however, another response to ascertain, and she found herself extremely reluctant to ask about it. “Then I must assume you have also approached Lord Casselmain?”

“I have, but thus far, he has not condescended to answer.”

“I see.”

Mr. Harkness leaned forward again. Although there was still a good two feet between them, he felt unsettlingly close. Rosalind forced herself to keep her breath regular. There was neither room nor time for the unaccountable and ridiculous vagaries of attraction in this moment, especially with a man who was so clearly aware of his personal charm.

“I am going to suggest some facts to you, Miss Thorne,” said Mr. Harkness quietly. “You found the body of a young man of your acquaintance, who was the victim of violence. You have already presented me with information that makes accident or chance robbery unlikely. Therefore, we must consider that this thing has been done by someone who knew Mr. Aimesworth.”

Rosalind nodded in slow and thoroughly reluctant agreement. “Honoria—that is Mr. Aimesworth's sister—shares your opinion.”

Rosalind rather wished Honoria were there to see the way Mr. Harkness straightened up, and how the look of surprise on his face swiftly melted into one of respect, and eagerness. “Has she said who?”

Rosalind shook her head. “She asked me to help her find out.”

“That's why she left you the keys,” he murmured. “You or she thought they'd come in handy.” A muscle twitched high in Mr. Harkness's cheek.

“Is that a laugh you are suppressing, sir?” demanded Rosalind. His disappointment she could bear, just about, but not mockery.

“No. I promise it isn't. What I'm suppressing is the very strong hope that you told Miss Aimesworth that you would help.”

“You're not going to tell me not to interfere or suggest that such inquiries are completely hopeless?”

“I've told you, Miss Thorne, ‘society' has so far decided not to talk to me. If they will talk to you, it could be much to the benefit of my inquiries.”

“But surely your warrant compels people to talk with you.”

“No. My warrant allows me to ask questions and to make an arrest. It doesn't compel anyone to answer those questions so that I am able to make that arrest.” He smiled grimly. “I'm afraid the popular press exaggerates our powers as much as it does our vices.”

“You'd rely on an aging spinster? Surely I cannot be depended upon to divulge accurate information or make pertinent inquiry.”

“And now, Miss Thorne, you are attempting to discover if I'm a fool.” His tone was as close to anger as she'd heard it yet. “Well, I'm not and neither are you. With your help, I stand a chance of actually doing my job, not just what's wanted of me.”

He was right, of course. Everyone—from Lady Jersey to Mrs. Willis herself—wanted Jasper's death tidied neatly and finally away, whatever the cost. She needed to make up her mind. Could she trust this man? Was she prepared to risk the consequences if she was caught assisting his official inquiries? If Jasper was killed by someone in society, and should that person's name be made
known, there would be consequences. One of them might very well be that Rosalind herself, despite all her work and patient humility, might finally be fully ostracized. No one would tolerate her presence if they thought she would speak out of turn with someone beyond accepted circles.

But the alternative was to let the secret remain, and to live every day with the knowledge she had done so.

“Very well, Mr. Harkness. I am with you. How can I help?”

Where the Evidence Might Lead

In these murders . . . the hand which inflicts the fatal blow is not more deeply imbued in blood than his who passively looks on . . .

—Thomas De Quincy,
On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

Harkness held himself still and watched Rosalind Thorne make up her mind. It was a sight worth paying attention to. But then, there was a great deal about Miss Thorne to make a man wish to pay very close attention indeed.

So far, their conversation had confirmed everything Littlefield told him about this woman. That she had been gently bred was obvious. It could be seen in each graceful, trained movement, and heard in her polished accents. That she and her family had fallen on hard times was equally obvious. What Littlefield had failed to mention was Miss Thorne's lively intelligence, and an unexpected amount of pure nerve. And when she turned to him, determination clear on her expressive features, he couldn't help thinking that here was a sight he would have been sorry to miss.

Thank heavens old Townsend wasn't here to see the look that was surely in his eye. He'd only chaff Harkness about his susceptibility to a pretty face. Again.

“Very well, Mr. Harkness,” she said. “I am with you. How can I help?”

Triumph, unexpected and strong, roared through him, and it took every ounce of control Harkness possessed to keep his voice calm. “Thank you, Miss Thorne. What I need most is to know what your acquaintances, and Mr. Aimesworth's acquaintances, are saying about his death.”

She paused. She'd say nothing in haste. She'd want what she told him to be correct, and scrupulously accurate. How could he be so sure so soon? Well, he was accustomed to observing hard cases with hidden lives. Who hid their lives so thoroughly as the women of the
haut ton
?

He realized he wanted to tell her this, and suspected she'd laugh at the comparison.

“Mr. Harkness, you know that Lady Blanchard, who is one of Almack's patronesses, was also there when Jasper's body was discovered.”

“I do.” Biddy Caulder, a charwoman brought in to clean the floors, had told him that tale, with gusto. She hadn't seen it herself, but she'd heard Mr. and Mrs. Willis exclaiming over the fact.

“Lord Blanchard believes that Jasper Aimesworth had made a wager with someone. He went to check the betting book at White's to see if anything had been recorded there.”

“And what was the result?”

She shook her head regretfully. “I have not yet heard.”

“That would certainly serve to explain Mr. Aimesworth's presence,” said Mr. Harkness. “But it would do nothing at all to explain his death.”

“It might point toward who was there with him.”

“It might, or it might not.” She frowned, but did not interrupt. She'd hear his reasons first. That was something else to like about Miss Thorne. “It all depends on whether that betting book
could be opened and read by all members of the club, and also the staff,” he said.

Rosalind was silent for a moment. “I think I see what you are saying. Anyone in White's perusing the book could have seen the record of the bet . . .”

“If there is one.”

She accepted his correction with only a mild glint of annoyance in her eye. “If there is one. They could then use that to formulate the opportunity to commit the murder.”

“That's it. Still, it would be a useful thing to know.” Mr. Harkness pulled out a memorandum book of his own and made a note with the stub of a pencil he habitually carried. The mention of White's tickled something in him. Ah, yes. That was where “Tiny” Toby Fergus had fetched up, wasn't it?

“I can write to Lord Blanchard,” said Miss Thorne. “Or if you can wait a day or two, I'll be able to ask him directly. I am going to stay with the Blanchards for a little.”

“That would be very helpful, Miss Thorne. But I think I will still try to get a look at the book for myself.”

“Why?”

“Men lie, Miss Thorne.”

For a minute, Harkness thought she would protest Viscount Blanchard's innocence and honesty. In the end though, all she said was, “Yes, of course.”

That was interesting, too, because she was thinking of something specific as she said it.

Not for the first time since he rang her bell did Harkness wonder exactly what Miss Thorne's relationship with Mr. Aimesworth had been. He'd had a chance to talk with the Aimesworths' coachman, and a couple of the grooms were more than willing to swap household gossip for a cup of hot punch on
a cold night. Jasper Aimesworth wasn't often at the house these days, they said. Had his own rooms. Came around once a week to dine with his father and do the dutiful. But he had reason to keep to his own digs. Liked a nice bit of female companionship, did young Mr. Aimesworth, and he didn't have any trouble convincing them to like him neither.

Harkness didn't want to believe Miss Thorne would lose her heart, or her head, over a common womanizer, but then he'd known strong, sensible men, never mind women, to fall and fall hard without explanation.

Still, it didn't sit right. He told himself that it was his experienced judgment, and not his sentimentality, that made him think so.

“You won't be allowed in White's club room,” Miss Thorne was saying. “There are a host of rules about it, and of course, none of the gentlemen will want to talk to a runner . . .”

He opened his mouth to tell her there were ways, but she'd already gotten up and moved to her writing desk. “I'm going to give you a letter for Mr. Sanderson Faulks in Bayswater Street. He's a member of White's, and he'll be willing to help you.”

“Because you ask it?” What the devil made him say that out loud? It was outrageous. He steeled himself should she take offense, but she didn't even look up from her writing.

“Mr. Faulks delights in the unusual. He'll be able to tell the story of helping Bow Street at dinners every night for a month.” That did make her pause. “Although you might not care to find you're the topic of dinner table conversation.”

“Miss Thorne, if it helps me discover the truth in this matter, I am perfectly willing to become a nine days' wonder.”

“Excellent.” She blotted and sealed the letter. “I've written the direction.” She handed it to him.

“Thank you, Miss Thorne. This will be most useful.”
Although maybe not in the way you expect.
He tucked the letter into his coat. “You said you were allowed to keep Mr. Aimesworth's keys?”

“Yes.” She unlocked the desk's central drawer and brought out a small reticule. She pulled a ring of keys from this and handed them across. “This one, Honoria said, was the key to Tamwell House. This she thought might be to Jasper's rooms. These two she didn't know.”

Her fingers grazed his palm, ever so lightly, and Harkness much to his regret, had to draw his hand away.

“Where were his rooms?”

She shook her head. “Honoria didn't know. He'd moved recently, she thought.”

Well, the grooms would know, or the footmen. Lady Aimesworth had a reputation for being a Tartar where talking was concerned, but Harkness had yet to find a house where that kind of threat shut people's mouths. It was only the ones who believed the master was loyal to them that actually kept quiet.

“I could find out, though,” she went on. “I meant to inquire for myself.”

She had changed. When she came into this room, she was entirely the society woman, aloof, careful in her motions and sparing with her words. Now that she had made up her mind to her course, she came fully alive. Miss Thorne was made for action, not passive acceptance.

“Miss Thorne, how did Miss Aimesworth decide you were the one to help her find out about her brother's death?”

Possible answers chased themselves behind her eyes. He found himself holding his breath, wondering if he'd pushed too quickly, and if she might lie. But she didn't. She said, “There's something I think you should see, Mr. Harkness.”

Miss Thorne reached into her bag again, and brought out a
letter sealed in red wax. She unfolded it, and handed it to him. “This reached me shortly after Jasper died.”

Harkness scanned the lines, noting how they'd been written in a hurry, and none too neatly. The correspondent, Jasper Aimesworth, had stopped and started several different times, and considering what it said, that was no surprise.

He read the dismissal of formalities, and he read the plea that Miss Thorne keep away from Almack's business, and from Lady Edmund, and from the Aimesworth family, for her own good.

It was a shocking letter, and it didn't answer any of the hundred questions filling Harkness's mind, not to mention his notebook. Except, perhaps, the one. If Aimesworth and Miss Thorne were on what polite society called “terms of intimacy,” this note would have had a far different tone.

He lifted his eyes from the page and what he saw made his breath catch for a moment in his throat. Miss Thorne was staring at him. She'd been watching him as he read, absorbing the details of his face and now she was blushing furiously, aware she'd been caught out.

He turned away and scrubbed at his face so she wouldn't see how he smiled.

“This would make it seem Jasper Aimesworth knew something detrimental connected with the assembly rooms,” he said.

“Yes. But if this whole matter sprang from a wager between gentlemen, why would he write me such a letter?”

“That is the exact question I am asking myself,” Harkness told her. “Has his sister seen this?”

“She has, but she could offer no explanation.”

“Do you think Miss Aimesworth would consent to grant me an interview?”

Miss Thorne smiled. “I am sure something can be arranged, although it may be on short notice.”

Harkness brought his case out from his coat pocket and extracted a card. “A note sent to the magistrate's court will always find me.”

“Very well. I will do what I can.”

He should stand up now, and he should leave. He had all that he came for, and more. There was no reason for him to stay any longer, except there was. One more answer he wanted to hear, one more moment during which he wanted to watch and see what Miss Thorne might do.

“I have a last question, Miss Thorne, if I may.”

“Please, Mr. Harkness.” She gestured to indicate his perfect freedom.

“I'm afraid it's personal.”

She considered this, but was not shocked or affronted. She was intrigued. “Very well. I am forewarned.”

“How was it your parents decided on Rose Thorne as a name?”

She smiled and for once that smile was a little shy. “It's Rosalind,” she corrected him.

He should stop. He should get out of here. He was entering into very, very dangerous territory with this lovely, lively Miss Thorne. “And no one calls you Rose? No one's made the connection?”

That was a mistake. Her eyes clouded over with some old hurt. “I'm sorry,” he said swiftly. “I've overstepped.” He had. She should dismiss him. He should take himself away.

But she didn't, and neither did he. “No, no. Of course I am Rose and Rosey and all such things. Especially when we were younger. But the name . . . well, therein hangs a very old tale, sir.”

“I'd be delighted to hear it.”

She looked at him for a moment, and evidently decided he meant what he said. “My mother's family name was Broadhurst,” she said. “It's a very old and distinguished family, tracing
its lineage back to the Domesday Book. However, there was a time when they were simple dairy farmers.”

He nodded, encouraging.

“During the reign of Bloody Mary Tudor, the queen had her sister—then Princess Elizabeth—arrested and taken to the tower, supposedly for refusing to convert to Catholicism. According to the story, Elizabeth was taken away so early that the only persons awake were the dairy maids milking the cows. One little maid saw the princess with her escort of soldiers. She thought the princess looked very ill, and, not knowing what was afoot, ran to her with a cup of milk to help revive her. The soldiers were amused, and allowed the princess to drink the milk. Elizabeth inquired after the child's name. Later, when she ascended the throne, she sent the Broadhursts a purse of twenty pounds in gold, six cows, and the note of gratitude to Little Rosalind of the Dairies.” She was still smiling and it looked well on her. Not that he had any business looking. “Since then, every generation of Broadhursts has named at least one girl Rosalind, for luck. Since my mother was the first of her family to have a daughter, she gave the name to me, despite the Thornes.”

Harkness laughed and now he did stand. “Well, Miss Thorne, I will leave you with that. I deeply appreciate your help, and hope to hear from you again very soon.”

“As soon as I have something to tell.” She rose and rang for her housekeeper to show him to the door.