Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (29 page)

"You?" Sir Duncan shook his head. "You'd accept your fate without a sound. Take it like a man. Very boring. But
Kate
…."

"Listen to me now. And listen closely," Tony said. "When I was at Scotland Yard, I owed that institution certain things. Qualities like integrity. Honor. Decency. Not any longer. I don't have to wait for you to commit a crime, Sir Duncan. If you threaten my wife, if you give me the slightest indication she's in danger, I'll kill you."

Sir Duncan's smile widened, but Tony knew it was pure theater. He saw the true response in the other man's eyes.

"Why, Lord Hetheridge. Making idle threats here, in the middle of the street." He turned to smile at Fiona Leeds as she passed, also on her way home from the meeting. "This man just threatened to kill me!"

"Really? That's awkward!" Giggling, she kept on her way.

Tony ignored the attempt at distraction. "I have an advantage over you, you know."

"What? Senility? The inability to discuss murder obliquely, like a gentleman, instead of making ham-handed threats?"

"I'm not a serial killer. I'll take no vile pleasure in the act. Therefore, I won't be compelled to do it myself," Tony continued quietly. "When you kill, Sir Duncan, you're driven to commit the act personally. You need to hear your victims' pleas. Spill their blood. Watch the light go out of their eyes. That sort of thing is difficult to pull off without getting caught, no matter how clever you are.

"But me? I'm a retired policeman. I've looked into the abyss. And let me assure you, the abyss looks back. I know precisely how to arrange for someone with a gun or a knife to end your worthless life. I can pay the sort of man who'll not only do it, he'll let himself be caught red-handed so the Met never looks my way. Someone who'll serve twenty to life in Wandsworth just so my money can send his kids to uni. All I need do is make a phone call. One phone call, and you'll be dead in a matter of hours."

Sir Duncan studied Tony for what felt like eons. Then his smile returned, though his eyes were hooded. "Well said."

Tony waited, pulse beating in his ears.

"Lovely talking to you." Sir Duncan pivoted, guiding Kaiser in the opposite direction. Over his shoulder, he called, "And Kate was never in danger, you must know that. I adore her.
Ciao
!"

* * *

Tony returned to Wellegrave House only a few minutes before Kate arrived from Scotland Yard. He was in his study, pouring himself a large scotch, when she found him.

"Oh! What's the occasion?" She laughed. "Was an afternoon with our neighbors that brutal?"

"As I walked home, I ran into Sir Duncan."

She groaned. "This is getting out of hand. What did you say to him?"

"I threatened to kill him."

Kate seemed to absorb that. "Were you bluffing?"

"No."

"Then you'd better tell me."

"Yes. One other thing, though, before it escapes me." He closed the study door. "The night Hardwick died. You took pictures at the crime scene, didn't you?"

Kate nodded.

He put out his hand for her mobile. "Let me see them."

Chapter Nineteen

Kate put on her best professional smile when Patsy East opened her front door. As it was eleven o'clock at night, she wasn't surprised to find the woman in robe and carpet slippers.

"Good evening, Mrs. East. My name is Detective Sergeant Hetheridge." She held up her warrant card. "And this is my commander, Detective Chief Inspector Jackson."

"Oh. What's this? Is it about Granville Hardwick?" Patsy asked in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder. "You'll want to come back tomorrow. My husband's about to go to bed. He won't like being disturbed so late."

"Do you know what hour this is?" Declan's shrewish voice issued from the electronic call box beside the doorbell. Following the wire, Kate looked up into a corner mounted CCTV camera, from which Declan surely viewed her. "Patsy, I've told you not to open the door after seven o'clock. See who's calling on the security monitors. That's what they're for. Now shut the door in their faces. And as for you, Lady Hetheridge," Declan continued through the call box, "you should be ashamed of yourself, intruding on tax-paying citizens. Tomorrow I'll place a formal complaint to your superiors. I'll be citing your husband, too, who clearly abused his neighbors' trust under false pretenses."

Jackson made an angry noise. Kate shot him a warning look. She'd told him on the way to the Easts' that in the end, it always seemed to come down to this: a doorstep and a rude reception. If he wanted to take charge of the Toff Squad, even temporarily, his first task would be learning to take highhanded insults on the chin.

"Declan East, we're here to arrest you for the murder of Granville Hardwick," Kate announced into the camera. "If you think we've come in error, invite us inside and make your case. Otherwise, we'll pull you into the street and make a right royal show for all of Euston Place."

"Arrest Declan?" Patsy clutched her robe to her throat. "No, that can't be right. Someone else was arrested. Another man. Your husband told us he confessed."

"Haven't you ever heard of a false confession?" Jackson asked. "He was drunk. Confused. But forensic evidence and eyewitness testimony pointed us here."

"Patsy, shut the door in their face," Declan ordered via the call box.

"Arrest Declan?" Patsy repeated dully. She stepped aside to let Kate and Jackson over the threshold.

They followed her through the formal front parlor and into the living room. Seconds later, Declan marched in, bristling with anger. He wore a red silk smoking jacket over striped pajamas. On the breast of the jacket was a big, black D.

"I demand to know what evidence justifies this intrusion. And please be specific. London will be reading about it in tomorrow's newspapers."

"Shall we sit down?" Kate asked.

"No, we shall not. Go on. Present your evidence. Astonish me," he sneered.

Patsy backed out of the room, creeping toward the hall. Jackson moved to intercept her.

"Sorry, Mrs. East, this concerns you, too," Kate said. "You knew Granville Hardwick quite well, didn't you? In fact, you were having an affair with him."

"Yes," she said, eyeing Jackson warily. "But that was weeks ago. After it ended, my husband was generous enough to forgive me."

Kate turned to Declan. "Did your wife's affair end naturally? Or did you put a stop to it? We have footage of you on Hardwick's porch, sabotaging his security camera with a can of spray paint. Why? Were you about to say something outrageous? Threaten to murder him?"

"If I did, do you think I'd tell you? I believe in something called privacy," Declan said. "What I said and did is none of your business. And since Mr. Hardwick never reported the matter to the police, he clearly felt safe and secure thereafter."

"True," Kate said, smiling sweetly at Declan just to watch him tremble with rage. "And from what we gather, Mrs. East was a brief stepping stone between Hardwick's affairs with Fiona Leeds and Sunny Wainwright. No offense, Mrs. East, but you're a bit outside Hardwick's usual type. Only one of his ex-lovers reminds me of you, and her name is Georgette Sevrin."

"Proof! I said proof!" Declan cried. "So my wife is weak. Pathetic. She's still my wife, and I know my duty, heaven help us both."

"Georgette's good at playing weak and pathetic," Kate continued. "And you know what? It worked on Hardwick, at least for a time. He felt sorry for her. Is that how your affair with him started, Mrs. East? He was your neighbor. Did he see what you dealt with, day in and day out," Kate's eyes flicked to Declan, "and decide you needed a bit of fun?"

"Probably," Patsy mumbled, looking at the floor.

"But you loved him, didn't you?" Jackson asked. "Wanted to make a go of it, I'll bet, and who can blame you? Maybe you had a few things in common. He was an art dealer. You're a shutterbug. Is this yours?" He pointed at the framed photo of a magnified orchid petal.

"Yes."

"Give him any of your photos as gifts?"

"No. Couldn't be sure he'd like it," Patsy said. "Didn't want him to laugh. He could be good to me, but Granville had a mean streak. Just like every other man in my life."

"God knows you drive us to it." Declan sounded bitter.

"As for the murder weapon," Kate continued. "It was a statuette. A replica of a sculpture by Giambologna called
Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus
. We happen to know you own such a piece, Mr. East. Given to you by one of your publishers in recognition for your writing. Can you show us where it is?"

"Got rid of it." Declan lifted his chin. "Passed it on to the church for a jumble."

"Have a receipt?"

He made a contemptuous sound. "So that's your evidence? I once owned something similar to the murder weapon, and now that I can't prove I gave it away, I'm done? Ridiculous! Where's the forensic evidence he mentioned? Fingerprints? Hair strands? You don't have any, do you? You have nothing, nothing but a story
Bright Star
wouldn't take seriously."

"You're right, it started with a scenario," Kate said, wishing the man would become incensed enough to take a swing at her. Few things would have given her more pleasure in that moment than flattening Declan's pug nose. "In that scenario, Hardwick is seeing Sunny Wainwright, but he's not quite done with Mrs. East. Either that, or Mrs. East isn't quite done with him. Maybe she's stopping by that house you hate so much. Sending him letters. Bringing him gifts. That statuette, maybe? To some people, it would have seemed like the epitome of bad taste. To others, it would have looked perfect—a piece of serious art for a serious art lover.

"Then last Thursday," Kate told Declan, "Buck Wainwright sees Hardwick around three in the afternoon. He's pissed, loud, making a scene. At least one witness observes Buck leaving East Asia House, and Hardwick shouting at him from the front step. You see it, too, so you go over. Words are exchanged, tempers flare, and
bam
! Hardwick gets bashed over the head. You come home and rejoice when Buck returns to the scene, still more drunk than sober, and gets himself nicked for the murder you committed."

"I told you, utterly ridiculous. What about that nutter he lived with? Georgette?" Declan countered. "She never leaves the house. Wouldn't she have seen or heard all this?"

"As a matter of fact, she wouldn't have," Jackson said. "Her character, Georgette the Nutter, stays home all day, but the real Miss Sevrin goes where she pleases. That's the point behind the wig, the big glasses, and those poplin housedresses. When she looks like herself—short hair, no specs, nice clothes—she's an entirely different person. One who has no intention of remaining under house arrest while she waits for her ship to come in. Yesterday, when we rechecked all the neighborhood camera footage, we confirmed the real Georgette is out most days from noon till dark. And when my forensic team reexamined East Asia House, they found a window unlocked. Her fingerprints are all over it, inside and out. It's how she comes and goes when she's not in character."

"So Georgette wasn't home when Buck turned up," Kate said. "Or when the murder happened. She probably climbed back in through her window just minutes before Buck returned. She found Hardwick dead and panicked when Buck entered. So she put on her costume and got in the wardrobe. But she noticed some of her things were gone. She didn't have time to take inventory, but I think she was missing a wig, some specs, and a housedress. And when DCI Jackson's crew searches this house, they'll find those items hidden away, won't they?"

"You're babbling," Declan insisted. "I would never!"

Kate nodded. "You know what? I believe you. It
is
starting to sound like rubbish. Because in our scenario, you would have worn your wife's scarf and lavender coat to go to Hardwick's house, and you would have worn Georgette's wig and housedress to get home again. And a man so in love with his fantasy masculine ideal wouldn't do that, would he? You'd let yourself be arrested for murder before you'd spend five minutes in a dress."

Declan stared at Kate. Then slowly, with loathing, he looked at his wife. "What have you done?"

"He laughed at me," Patsy said, clutching the neck of her robe even tighter.

"Hardwick, you mean," Jackson said. "Why did he laugh? Because you used his row with Buck as an excuse to come over, see if he was all right? Or because you wouldn't accept he'd moved on to Sunny?"

"Both. He said he was tired of me calling. Writing. Trying to catch his eye on the street. He said I should bugger off and take that monstrosity with me. That's what he called the statuette. A monstrosity," Patsy quavered. "He said I wouldn't know art if it bit me on the arse. So I picked it up, and I hit him with it. Just once. But with everything I had."

"I don't believe it," Declan said.

"Blood was all over my coat," Patsy continued, still in that whispery voice, not looking at her husband. "I took it off and stuffed it up a chimney."

"We know. My boys found it this afternoon," Jackson said. "The blood matches Hardwick's. The hairs on the collar will match yours. And some of those unknown fingerprints on the murder weapon will be yours, no doubt."