helpless."
"She was certainly helpless against whoever
killed her."
Lady Breckenridge lost her smile. I expected
a sharp or sardonic retort from her, but she turned to look out of
the window. I knew she could see only her reflection in the dark
glass, because I saw it too, a gaze pensive under drawn brows.
"Did you attend the gathering at
Inglethorpe's on Monday?" I asked her.
"I did." She turned from the window again,
her expression composed. "If you mean to ask me whether Mrs.
Chapman attended as well, the answer is yes, she did."
"With Lord Barbury?"
"Not in the least. She arrived alone and went
away alone."
"Do you remember what time she left?"
"Not much past four. She seemed in a
hurry."
Peaches must have gone straight from
Inglethorpe’s to meet her killer. "Did she leave by hackney or
private coach?"
"I am afraid I did not notice. I was not much
interested in Mrs. Chapman. I was just pleased she'd departed."
"A bit early."
Lady Breckenridge shrugged. "She had her take
of the gas, and off she went."
"Does Inglethorpe's gatherings always begin
at four?"
"Always. A man of regular habits, is Mr.
Inglethorpe."
Regular habits and unnatural appetites. I
wondered whether Inglethorpe himself had played a part in Mrs.
Chapman's death. A woman who liked danger, a man who provided it
for her in the form of his magical gas.
We had been rolling through Mayfair as I
asked questions and listened to her answers. "Your coachman can let
me down anywhere," I said. "I did not mean to take advantage of
you."
"Nonsense, this is a nasty rain. I will take
you where you like."
"Grenville's then," I said. "In Grosvenor
Street. It is not far."
Lady Breckenridge tapped on the roof and gave
the direction to her coachman. We rode the rest of the way in
silence, she watching me with frank curiosity. We did not exchange
the small pleasantries that I might with any other lady--Mrs.
Danbury, for example. Lady Breckenridge had made it known the first
time we'd met what she thought of small pleasantries.
She did not speak until the landau was
drawing to a halt before Grenville's house. "I have a box at Covent
Garden," she said. "Quite a fine one." She drew a silver card case
from her reticule and extracted a cream-colored card. "Giving this
to a footman at the theatre door will allow you up to it, any time
you please."
I studied the card held between her slim,
gloved fingers. "I do not go much to the theatre," I said.
"But you might. And you might want to ask me
another time about a murder."
She smiled, but the lines about her eyes were
tense. I realized, in some surprise, that if I refused to take the
card, I would hurt her feelings.
I reached for it, glanced once at the name
inscribed on it, and tucked it into my pocket. Lady Breckenridge’s
expression did not change.
I bade her goodnight and descended before
Grenville’s plain-faced mansion. As the landau rolled away, I saw
Lady Breckenridge looking out of its window at me. She caught my
eye, looked languidly away, and the landau moved on.
*** *** ***
Grenville was home, in his dressing room.
Matthias let me in, but neither Grenville nor his man Gautier
offered greeting while they went through the very important process
of tying Grenville's cravat.
Matthias brought me a glass of brandy while I
waited. Grenville's toilette was always elaborate and could take an
hour or more if he were preparing for a sufficiently important
occasion.
As I sipped the brandy I felt a sudden chill.
I rubbed my arms and took another drink of brandy, feeling the
beginnings of nausea.
Another thing I felt was pain. The concoction
was wearing off, and my leg began to throb with a vengeance. I
gritted my teeth and drank deeply of brandy.
When Grenville finished, I rose to leave with
him, and realized the height of my folly. My leg hurt like fire,
and I had left my walking stick behind at Inglethorpe's.
Matthias offered to run and fetch it for me.
Grenville forestalled him, somewhat crossly, and