Free A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves by Suzann Ledbetter

though. After I saw Miss Belinda had gone to Jesus, I ran down the hall and pounded on the door, screamin’ for help.
    “Miss Avilla rushed out, and Mr. Abercrombie, fast as he’s able. Jules came, too, then he went back downstairs. He hailed a buggy passin’ by and tol’ ’em a murder had been done and to go for the police.”
    Crockery tinked together as Jules reentered the kitchen. “Shows how good you remember. The master stumbled and near fainted away when he saw Miss Belinda like that. Me and Miss Avilla took him back down the hall, ’fore he tol’ me to fetch the po-lice.”
    “The police,” I repeated. “Not a doctor.”
    Jules removed a stack of ironed napkins from a drawer. “If he’d asked for a doctor, that’s what I’d have sent those people to fetch.”
    “Did he check Mrs. Abercrombie’s pulse? Put a mirror under her nose? Did anyone?”
    Jules’s and Pansy’s eyes met. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, no. We didn’t, did we? I never…Oh, my Lord.”
    “No need for it,” he snapped back, “and I’ll thank you kindly not to upset my wife. Miss Belinda was dead where she laid. I can promise you that.”
    I sipped my coffee and entered a few notes to allow the tension to subside. Pansy was sniffling again. I was sorry for the doubt I’d planted, but the question wasn’t mean-spirited or frivolous.
    I listed the four people who’d entered the room at least once: Pansy, Avilla, Hubert Abercrombie, and Jules. In that instance, a physician would be remiss to declare death by sight alone. Besides, wasn’t it instinctive to check for life-signs?
    Could the shock of seeing his wife strangled with a string of her own pearls have unhinged Hubert Abercrombie that badly? Possibly, yet moments later, he had the presence of mind to send his manservant for help.
    A thought stilled my hand. What if Abercrombie didn’t check his wife’s pulse or respiration because he knew she was dead before he entered the room? Knew even before Pansy screamed? That would explain those lapses and why the authorities were summoned instead of a doctor.
    But not the burglary, dash it all.
    Without cognizance of it, Rendal LeBruton’s cruelty to his wife must be influencing my deductions in this case. And how tidy it would be to wangle the earlier robberies into decoys, albeit lucrative ones, for a LeBruton/Abercrombie conspiracy. Rendal murdered Belinda, Hubert will return the favor by killing Penelope a few days hence, thus each has disposed of a problematic wife and ensured himself against the other’s betrayal or blackmail.
    “You got any more questions, miss?” Pansy startled me from plotting what might be the perfect double-homicide.
    “Just a few,” I stammered. “What did you do after Avilla and Mr. Abercrombie returned to the guest room and Jules went downstairs?”
    “Sat myself down on the steps and bawled.” Pansy swiped the back of a hand under her eyes. “That’s what.”
    “Do you know where Sam Merck lives?”
    “Not perzackly.”
    Pansy’s demeanor had taken a hostile turn. She wanted me gone. I didn’t blame her.
    With reluctance, she said, “A boardinghouse on Blake Street’s all Gert ever tol’ me.” She glanced up. “I swear.”
    “Everything you’ve said has been the truth, to the best of your memory. I know that.”
    The dining room door, through which Jules had exited, cracked open a few inches. “Best you bring them sandwiches, woman. The po-licemen is coming down from Miss Belinda’s room.”
    I ripped a leaf from the notebook and wrote: As advised, I’ve hied for home. JBS
    To Pansy, I said, “Do you remember the constable that arrived a moment before I did? A tall man in a black frock coat?”
    “Yes’m.”
    “His name is Jack O’Shaughnessy. Will you please give him this message for me?”
    Pansy slipped the ragged paper in her pocket, then hefted the tray. Whether she heard my expression of thanks, I wasn’t sure.
    The mansion’s service entrance had a