02 Blue Murder (16 page)

Kate stared at Hetheridge. “I see. And did
you advise Henry on what do when the teacher hauls him off for
punishment?”

“
I did. Take it like a man
and have done with it.”

“
But suppose he follows your
advice and gets expelled?”

“
Then when he’s permitted to
return, he won’t have as many bullies waiting for him.”

Kate, who’d survived her middle school years
by repelling her tormenters with her fists, gave a little laugh.
“Well, Tony, I must say I’m surprised at you. I wouldn’t expect a
high-ranking Scotland Yard official to recommend breaking dozens of
rules to settle a score violently. As opposed to the proper
nonviolent channels.”

“
Henry raised the very same
objection. He just used smaller words,” Hetheridge grinned. “I told
him there’s a time in your life for following the rules.
Ninety-five percent of the time, truth be told. But when the price
of following the rules is being afraid to go to class, or to even
use the boys’ restroom, then it’s time for a cost-benefit analysis.
Sometimes improving your lot in life means breaking a rule and
accepting the punishment. The key is, don’t whine about the
consequences. Just take them and move on.”

Kate recalled something Hetheridge had once
told her about his childhood. “I suppose this method worked well
for you?”

“
It did.”

“
You’re such a dinosaur. You
do realize that, don’t you?” A fond note crept into her
voice.

“
Dinosaurs ruled this planet
for well over a hundred million years.” Hetheridge sounded pleased
with himself. “Many are still running the Met. I consider myself in
good company.”

After that, they traveled in companionable
silence. And despite Kate’s declaration that the evening would be
purely business, she liked it when Hetheridge took her hand,
holding it as they drove the rest of the way to Mayfair.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he
home of Lady Isabel Bartlow, half-sister of Sir Duncan Godington,
came as a minor disappointment to Kate Wakefield, who had expected
something akin to Kensington Palace in scope and grandeur. But the
exterior of Lady Isabel’s home was exactly what the name Mayfair
brought to mind: stuccoed, terraced and five stories tall. Its
brilliant floodlights shone across the façade at various angles,
creating odd pockets of gloom. All in all, the house hunched over
the street, less a gracious Georgian lady than a craggy-faced earl,
squinting at visitors he neither knew nor trusted.

The line for valet parking was long and
slow. When it was finally their turn, Hetheridge handed his keys to
the uniformed man at the podium. As he made for the passenger door,
Kate—not realizing he intended to open it for her—opened it
herself, smacking him right in the midsection.

Someone laughed. Startled by her gaffe, Kate
stumbled out of the bucket seat, hobbled by her tight-fitting gown.
As she rocked on her heels, turning an ankle, Hetheridge caught her
with both hands. With his help Kate managed to keep from falling,
but her black clutch purse flew into the street.

The valet drivers were watching. The guests
milling about near the entrance were watching. The doormen,
top-hatted and tailed, watched. Kate froze.

“
Allow me.” Hetheridge bent
to retrieve the clutch before Kate could thoughtlessly lunge for it
herself, probably ripping her gown in the process. As he handed it
back to her, his eyes gleamed with amusement.

“
They think I don’t belong
here,” she whispered.

“
Nonsense,” Hetheridge said
soothingly. “They think you’re drunk.”

He offered his arm, which
Kate hooked onto gratefully. She wanted to dart inside and search
for place to hide, but Hetheridge set a measured pace toward the
grand, gaslit entrance. Everyone was still watching, silent,
unsmiling. Kate decided to pretend all those pairs of eyes were
overcome with envy. She
was
on the arm of the Peerage’s most eligible
bachelor, after all.

Lady Isabel’s foyer reminded Kate of a posh
hotel with its gilt-edged mirrors, exotic flower arrangements and
glittering crystal chandeliers. But even the best hotels permitted
anonymous entry, a quick dash to the ladies’ or the bar. This party
had a receiving line.

“
Oh, Lord,” Kate whispered.
“You never mentioned I’d have to run the gauntlet.”

“
Courage,” Hetheridge said
in her ear. “The first woman on the left is Lady
Isabel.”

Lady Isabel was tall, willowy brunette with
bobbed hair and a square jaw line. Her cream-colored gown had a
high neck, no sleeves and a drop waist. Most females, including
Kate, would have looked better in a flour sack. But Lady Isabel
looked elegant and timeless, like a throwback to the age of
jazz.

Beside Lady Isabel stood two women of
mid-to-late middle age, well coiffed and stylishly attired. One
wore beige; the other, dove gray. They were Lady Isabel’s
relatives, Kate decided, enlisted to help greet the guests and
ensure everyone received equal attention. And at the end of the
receiving line hovered a fourth woman, an almost-empty whiskey
glass in hand. If this woman was meant to help issue compliments
and air-kisses, she was falling down on the job. The most any guest
got from her was a curt nod.

“
Lady Margaret!” Kate cried,
so relieved to see that androgynous, rather bad-tempered face, she
tried to steer Hetheridge in Lady Margaret’s direction. He
tightened his grip, holding her back.

“
Our hostess first,” he
chided, propelling Kate toward Lady Isabel instead. The young woman
turned such a warm, winning smile on them that for a moment, Kate
believed Lady Isabel and Hetheridge were actually friends. Then
Hetheridge cleared his throat in his usual highbrow manner and
said, “We last spoke so long ago, my dear, I can’t expect you to
remember. It’s Tony Hetheridge. Leo and Patricia’s son.”

“
My goodness! It is you,”
Lady Isabel cried with such sincerity, Kate had no idea whether she
truly recognized Hetheridge or not.

“
Lord Hetheridge, Baron of
Wellegrave,” the lady in beige intoned.

“
Thank you, Aunt Fiona, but
I quite remember.” Lady Isabel air-kissed Hetheridge on both
cheeks. “He’s the one with the extraordinary career! Oh, Fee, wait
till Duncan sees I’ve invited a policeman! Won’t he just
choke?

“
Of
course,” Lady Isabel continued, still with that winning smile, “you
mustn’t worry, Tony. Duncan isn’t really frightened by the police.
It’s only that he had
such
famous troubles with Scotland Yard—that’s your
branch, is it not?—that you may find yourself the center of
attention. Thank you so very much, Margaret, for remembering Tony
to us!”

“
I render such small
services as I may,” Lady Margaret said. Unlike the ladies in brown
and gray, Lady Margaret wore metallic sapphire, a color that
emphasized her blue eyes and close-cropped gray hair. Her
ensemble—slacks, tank and billowing overshirt—looked jarring among
a sea of gowns. Kate thought it was marvelous.

“
And who might this be?”
Lady Isabel turned the same wide-eyed friendliness on Kate, who
found herself suddenly mute. To her relief, Hetheridge answered for
her.

“
Lady Isabel Bartlow, may I
present my good friend, Kate Wakefield.” The note of pride in his
voice made Kate’s face grow even warmer.

“
Hallo, Kate.” Isabel gave
her a brief, limp handshake. “I hope we manage to entertain you.
The halls are decked for All Hallows’ Eve. Though I can’t help but
wonder if Duncan and I shouldn’t have gone for costumes instead of
fancy dress.”

“
For some of us, fancy dress
is costume enough,” Lady Margaret said. Hooking her arm through
Kate’s, she began steering her toward a wide archway.

“
Don’t worry, Izzie, I’ll
make these two comfortable,” Lady Margaret called over her
shoulder. “Come along, Tony. Try and keep up.”

***

B
eyond the archway was a ballroom larger than any Kate had ever
seen. The walls were draped in black velvet except for a row of
tall, floor-to-ceiling windows. Before those windows stood a
nine-foot wicker man. Dozens of glass spheres and votive holders
were embedded among his bound willow strips. The flickering candles
inside that multitude of glass made the wicker man seemed
perpetually alight, burning for the pleasure of Sir Duncan and Lady
Isabel’s guests.

“
So the party’s theme is
human sacrifice?” Kate asked Lady Margaret.

“
My dear
child, the
family’s
theme is human sacrifice. Society as a whole continues to
embrace those two because the vast majority of its members cannot
discern a terrier from a wolverine. And someday one of them will
pay the price.”

Kate must have seemed overeager, because
Lady Margaret glanced about suspiciously, as if they might be under
surveillance. “Do try and stop looking like a copper. What’s wanted
next is a drink to occupy those nervous hands of yours. Then I’ll
tell you all I know.”

At the ballroom’s far end, a life-sized
triple tableau had been erected. On the left Kate saw a gallows.
From its rope a male mannequin hung head-down, arms tied behind his
back and one foot in the noose. In the tableau’s center stood a
perfectly realistic guillotine. The executioner, a female
mannequin, seemed ready to release the blade; a naked baby doll lay
on the block, awaiting the blow that would chop it in two. And on
the tableau’s right, Kate saw a tall wooden stake surrounded by
stacked cords of wood. A male mannequin with silver hair was tied
to the stake. Like the party’s male guests, it was attired in
standard evening dress—black coat, white shirt, black tie. But even
from several meters away, Kate recognized the oversized faux
warrant card pinned to its lapel.

“
They knew you were coming,”
she whispered to Hetheridge, shocked by the insult’s sheer
audacity.

“
When it comes to these
people, assume they know all.” Lady Margaret led Kate and
Hetheridge toward one of three open bars. “Glenfiddich,” she barked
at the bartender, a short black man with a face so carefully blank,
Kate doubted any demand could have fazed him.

Silently the bartender opened a bottle of
Scotch as the woman unloaded a tray of premade martinis. Each had a
slice of red apple on the rim and a piece of candy floating
inside.

“
Toffee appletini?” the
woman asked, smiling at Hetheridge.

“
Good God, no. Scotch and
soda, please.” He glanced at Kate.

“
Nothing for me.” She could
hardly tear her eyes away from that detective effigy. Would Sir
Duncan and Lady Isabel actually contrive to burn it before the
evening was out?

“
Prosecco for the lady,”
Hetheridge told the bartender. “With a strawberry.”

Within moments they all had their drinks.
Hetheridge passed the bartender a folded note. Kate, glimpsing the
denomination, almost dropped her glass.

“
Oi!” She poked Hetheridge
in the arm. “Did you mean to tip him that much?”

He winked. “Drink up.”

As a trio, they worked their way through the
crowd, Hetheridge nodding and greeting guests by name until they
found a suitable place to hover—one of the many chairless round
tables dotting the ballroom. As Kate tasted the sparkling Italian
wine, Lady Margaret appraised through slitted eyes.

“
Very nice. That serpent
choker looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

“
I like what you’re wearing,
too,” Kate said.

Lady Margaret’s smile was impish. “Take
note: there’s an upside to being the rich old bat everyone fears.
Wearing what I choose, when I choose, is just the tip of the
iceberg. Now, you wanted to know about our guest of honor and his
half-sister.” Lady Margaret’s sharp gaze raked the room once more.
“I haven’t seen him yet, and Izzie’s probably still up front,
receiving. Here’s what I can tell you.

“
Duncan’s father, Raleigh,
was a bit of a bastard. Used to be a rumor going round that he beat
his wife, Opal—Duncan and Eldon’s mother.” Lady Margaret shrugged.
“I never did see any bruises on her, but who knows what happens
behind closed doors. I will say, she was always a timid little
thing. Loved her boys and talked about nothing else. Then one day
she was dead. Raleigh said it was brain aneurysm. He made the most
of his situation, playing it for all the sympathy he could get,
nattering on about his poor, motherless boys. Eldon was about
twelve then, I think. Which would have made Duncan about
ten.

“
Next I heard of the family,
the boys’ nanny was found dead. Smothered in her bed, right inside
the Godington house. Of course there was a police inquiry and
requests for anyone with information to come forward, but nothing
came of it. Eventually the case was closed. But you know gossip.”
Lady Margaret smiled, but her sharp eyes remained humorless.
“People began to talk of Raleigh as if he were Bluebeard. The nanny
had been young and pretty. Rumor had it, he killed his wife, had it
on with the nanny for a time and killed her, too.

“
Eventually, it died down,
or some better scandal took its place.” Lady Margaret took a sip of
Glenfiddich. “Raleigh remarried Helen Parry. You saw her in the
foyer. The lady in gray. Helen had two girls, Izzie and …” Lady
Margaret paused. “Oh, I can’t believe it, I’ve forgotten that
second child’s name. She died before she was a year old. In those
days we called it cot death. Not too long after that, Raleigh and
Helen separated. They never actually divorced—technically, she’s
his widow, though he left her nothing.”