The Brooke Street Affair
A Gaslight short story by Nene Adams ©2012
Lady Evangeline St. Claire took the envelope from the tray and dismissed her butler absently, already absorbed in what she might glean from the unexpected communication.
“What is it?” asked Rhiannon Moore, her partner in all things.
“A message addressed to me. I do not recognize the handwriting,” Lina reported. She took a letter opener from her desk and used the blade to slit open the envelope flap. Inside, she found three sheets of heavy, expensive paper folded in thirds.
“A female hand,” she said, surveying the writing without reading the message. That would come later. “Neatly done, no splatters of ink, or marks of hesitation or haste. Writ large, as you can see. An indication of extravagance.” She held the paper up to the light. “Ah, a French watermark. Fine quality paper, my dear. Heavy stock. No less than a shilling a sheet if I am any judge, therefore we must conclude our correspondent is a wealthy woman who does not economize, especially in her personal correspondence.”
She read the letter aloud:
“Lady St. Claire—
Forgive me that I dare write to you without an introduction. It was recommended that I do so by the Vicomte Cincebeaux, for whom you once provided a solution to a trifling little problem. An event most appalling has taken place. The scandal will destroy more than one reputation if the matter is not resolved quickly and discreetly. I beg you, help me, please. I will wait upon you at Claridge’s Hotel in Brooke Street as soon as possible.”
Ending the recitation, Lina snorted in irritation. The Vicomte’s “trifling little problem” had involved a Spanish spy, an inconvenient death, and a blackmail scheme reaching into the highest levels of the French government.
Rhiannon’s eyes widened. “A scandal? Who wrote the letter?”
“It is unsigned. Perhaps the authoress feared discovery should the message be apprehended.” Lina tapped the letter against her lower lip, considering her next move. Her work in the Vicomte’s case was known to very few people. “I am inclined to pay a call at Claridge’s and meet our mysterious lady,” she said after a moment. “Will you accompany me, my dear?”
“Of course!” Rhiannon sounded thrilled. “I’ll change my dress, if you don’t mind.”
Lina smiled, feeling fondly indulgent. She reached out and touched Rhiannon’s fiery hair, tugging on a soft curl that had escaped her pins. “The Parisian blue wool with the fawn, I think,” she said, leaning forward to brush her lips against Rhiannon’s. “The color suits you, my dear.”
Forty-five minutes later, Lina led Rhiannon into Claridge’s, the Mayfair establishment well known as the hotel par excellence for foreign nobility, ambassadors, and other Continental visitors with high social standing and deep pockets.
Upon entering, Lina swept her gaze around the foyer and lit on a very familiar and very unexpected gentleman: Mr. Millborough Pike, the immensely fat and immensely tall brother of that rogue, Sherrinford Pike, who believed himself an inquiry agent. Bah!
Millborough hurried to intercept her. “Lady St. Claire,” he said, giving her a faint bow. “And your amanuensis, of course. I trust the day finds you well, Miss Moore?”
“Very well, sir, if somewhat intrigued.” Rhiannon twinkled at him, making Lina scowl.
She had nothing against Millborough Pike per se. An important and powerful, if shadowy , figure in Her Majesty’s government, Millborough tended to remain within the confines of the Bagatelle Club. Seeing him in Claridge’s roused her suspicions.
“Let us dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Pike,” she said. “Why are you here?”
Rhiannon frowned at her rudeness. Lina ignored the disapproval, though she did take Rhiannon’s elbow, intending to steer her toward a corner of the foyer where she had spotted a nervous looking and very well dressed woman lurking.
“I have come to give you a warning, Lady St. Claire,” Millborough said, raising a beefy hand to forestall her immediate indignation. “The police have been put on the case by an assistant manager who failed to understand the magnitude of the situation. Fortunately, the general manager of the hotel has arrived. We will suffer no further setbacks, I hope.”
Lina swallowed her ire. “Very well. Tell me what has occurred.”
“The lady who wrote you at my suggestion is Madame Vigne, wife of a gentleman who holds a critical position in the French government.”
“It was you who told her to reference the Vicomte Cincebeaux.”
“I thought it would get your attention.” Millborough’s eyes almost disappeared when he smiled, but the expression did not last. “The gist of the problem is thus: Monsieur Vigne woke this morning to find his mistress dead in the bed beside him. Her throat had been cut.”
“Good Lord!” Rhiannon cried. Blushing, she raised a gloved hand to her mouth. “I apologize for interrupting you, Mr. Pike. Pray go on.”
Millborough waved away her apology and continued speaking to Lina. “The chambermaid alerted an assistant manager to the crime, and he, in turn, summoned the police. Madame Vigne sent an urgent message to a certain someone in our government which subsequently came to me. I have managed to delay the police this long, and am reasonably confident in my ability to delay them a further half-hour. After that, it is almost certain that Monsieur Vigne will be arrested, which will put a severe strain on our relations with France.”
“Why not ask your brother to tidy up the mess?”
“Because I do not entirely trust his discretion. My brother is a singular individual who does not take kindly to what he pleases to call my ‘infernal interference.’ While I cannot control the situation, it is my sincere desire to mitigate the damage if it can be done. Sherrinford has many good qualities, but I fear utter discretion is not one of them.”
Lina agreed. “But if Vigne is guilty of murder—” she began.
“Then he will be privately punished for his crime in his native France. Of that, I can assure you,” Millborough broke in smoothly. “And I have arranged a private room where you may be free to ask questions of anyone, including the hotel staff.
Despite his calm exterior, Lina noted the sweat on his broad forehead, the slightly askew tie, the way his hand clenched and unclenched at his side, and the spot of silvery bristle on his cheek where the barber had been in too great a hurry to ensure the cleanest shave.
“I promise nothing except to ascertain the truth if I can,” she said to make sure he understood her position. No matter how great Vigne’s importance to the British government, she would not falsify evidence of innocence if none existed.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“If possible, I would like to speak to Monsieur Vigne.”
“He is still in his suite.” At her incredulous look, he shrugged. “Not an act of cruelty, milady. It is the safest place. The, er, dead woman remains in the bedroom. I believe the monsieur has taken temporary residence in the drawing room. He is not alone. I have left my assistant to keep watch over him in the corridor outside, and if necessary, repel the advances of over eager policemen. When you are ready to question Vigne, he canl be produced.”
Lina accepted Millborough’s terms. She escorted Rhiannon to the corner where the accused man’s wife had now secreted herself behind a potted palm.
Madame Vigne was a a mousy yet dignified female, thin to the point of emaciation, her nose too prominent for the fairy-like delicacy of her face. Lina thought her immaculate blonde coiffure was almost certainly a wig; the color seemed too young and brassy for a woman whose face was scored with frown lines. Despite her physical shortcomings, the madame dressed exquisitely. Her ivory silk brocade dress with its ruffled bottom had been paired with a beaded, bottle green velvet jacket in the latest style. Both garments bore the unmistakable stamp of the celebrated French couturier, Pingat.
No lack of money in the family, Lina thought, eyeing Madame Vigne’s ostentatious emerald earrings and the long string of matched pearls around her neck.
Having introduced herself and Rhiannon, Lina persuaded the madame to join them in the private room arranged by Millborough. Once they had chosen their seats—Lina found the copies of French furniture rather vulgar—she started the first stage of her inquiry.
“The woman is your husband’s mistress, I understand. Did she travel from France with you?” Lina asked, not flinching when Rhiannon’s elbow made contact with her ribs. She was aware that her blunt manner did not spare the madame’s feelings, but she felt any woman who wrote such a letter, speaking not of saving her husband from the noose, but of scandal and the necessity of preserving her reputation, had no need to be treated delicately.
“Non,” Madame Vigne replied, dry-eyed and composed. “Not with our party. Mlle. Alvares – she is Brazilian – traveled alone. Two days ago, she met my husband here in England.”
“At the hotel?”
Madame Vigne nodded.
“Were you in the room when Miss Alvares’ death occurred?”
The impudence and impropriety of the question had Madame Vigne hissing like an affronted goose. “How dare you suggest such a disgusting thing?” she spat.
Lina remained unruffled. “Do you wish to know the truth or not? If not, I will be on my way.”
Madame Vigne took a moment to think over the threat. Finally, she inclined her head. “Very well, I will answer. My husband and I have always separate suites. I knew nothing of Mlle. Alvares until my maid told me that Mr. Gordon had distressing news.”
“When was this?”
“In the morning after my petit dejeuner.”
“Did you and Miss Alvares get along?”
“Well enough.” Madame Vigne made a Gallic shrug more expressive than her stony face. “In truth, Mlle. Alvares is but one of many young women who have fallen in love with my husband. I do not mind. I do not expect Emile to be faithful, you see. He is a man, not a capon. But in his own way, he loves me. He will never abandon me for a silly girl.”
Lina digested that piece of information while assessing Madame Vigne for any sign of a lie. The woman appeared sincere, leaving her without a motive unless the madame had a different grudge against Miss Alvares. That avenue could be explored later, she decided.
Taking her leave, she went upstairs, Rhiannon at her heels, to Monsieur Vigne’s suite, where after moving past Millborough’s assistant—a well muscled fellow she suspected of being a former prison warden—she found the gentleman in the drawing room nursing a snifter of brandy. Emile Vigne greeted her arrival with a morose salute, lifting the glass in her direction.
He was not as impeccably groomed as his wife. He wore no waistcoat. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his exquisite brown wool suit crumpled and soiled. His mop of wild, black curls gave him an almost piratical aspect. When he turned his black gaze on her, Lina understood why the ladies suffered a deadly fascination for him. The monsieur had the face of an angel and a soul stained with sin.
“Forgive me,” he said, “or rather, forgive my valet for my dishabille. You are Lady St. Claire, yes? Monsieur Pike told me you would come. I listen to him when he tells me you will help. Tout de même, I did not expect you to be so beautiful.”
Beside her, Rhiannon stiffened. Lina gave her wrist a reassuring squeeze. Surely Rhiannon did not believe her susceptible to the monsieur’s charms! The idea was ridiculous.
“Monsieur Vigne, you will tell me, please, what happened yesterday evening?” she asked.
“Will you not be seated, milady? And your lovely companion as well.” He paused. “It is supposed you are a woman of the world? You will not blush to hear of my wickedness?”
“Go on, monsieur, you will not offend my sensibilities. Nor those of Miss Moore.”
“Well, in that case, Alatea—Mlle. Alvares—and I retired to my suite at six o’clock, we dined here at eight…” He paused, glancing at Rhiannon. “and we enjoyed each other’s company. Bien sûr, I go to sleep. When I wake, Alatea is dead.”
His grimace did not convey grief. Rather, the expression seemed more like a moue of distaste to Lina. She had not expected him to be in mourning, but his attitude struck her as callous.
Apparently noticing her disapproval, he went on, “Ah, do not judge me too harshly, milady. Ours was an arrangement most convenient. Alatea craved clothes, jewels, travel beyond Paris, nights at the gaming table. I gave her these things. In return, she gave me an illusion of love. A very pretty illusion, but I can mourn her only as one mourns the dying butterfly for its loss of beauty. Not with the whole heart as I would my wife. You understand, I think.”
Lina spoke coolly. “You heard nothing, monsieur? The murder did not wake you?”
“If only the monster had wakened me!” he gritted, baring his teeth in a snarl. “I would have taken that vile salopard apart with these hands! Sale enculé!” He gestured with the brandy glass, almost spilling its contents. He calmed quickly, settling back on the settee. “Mais non, milady, I know that I woke and Alatea was dead, that is all.”
“If you permit, I will examine the bedroom,” Lina said, having nothing further to ask him at this time. After she saw the body, she might return with more questions.
Giving his permission, Vigne returned to his contemplation of the brandy glass.
Rhiannon tugged Lina’s sleeve when they reached the closed bedroom door. “Do you think he killed Miss Alvares?”
“I am not certain, my dear, and have not enough data to form a theory.” She realized Rhiannon seemed a little pale. She did not need to guess the cause. “Would you care to stay out here, my dear? Or the corridor is perhaps better. The scene is bound to be… messy.”
“Do you mind terribly?”
“Not at all. You have seen more than your share of horrors.”
Lina entered the bedroom alone. Someone had left the gas on, giving her plenty of illumination though the curtains were still drawn. Before taking another step, she surveyed the Aubusson rugs on the floor, finding three distinct sets of footprints: a man and two women, one wearing the kind of stout footgear typically worn by servants.
Intrigued, Lina followed the chambermaid’s progress to the bed, where she halted.
In life, Alatea Alvares had been a dark haired beauty, doubtless envied by other women and desired by men. Death had not stolen her looks, merely sharpened the fineness of her features and lent her complexion a becoming paleness. She wore neither nightgown nor peignoir, lying naked in a pale huddle of sheets as if still asleep and waiting for her lover’s return.
The illusion of sleep was belied by the throat wound—a deep slash cutting into the white neck, severing the carotid artery. Lina bent closer, trying to see past the blood crusting the lips of the laceration, which had begun to dry and curl a little, giving the appearance of an open mouth. Tacky blood stained the pillowcase under the victim’s head.
She frowned, straightened, and looked at the nightstand on Alatea’s side of the bed. Grape stems, a rind of cheese, an empty Veuve Clicquot champagne bottle, a plate with a smear of caviar and toast crumbs—evidence of a late night snack—she also saw a water glass, a spoon, and a chemist’s bottle. She found undissolved crystals clinging to the sides of the glass.
The handwritten label on the chemist’s bottle read: trional. She opened the bottle, noting it was about half full of white crystals.
A suspicion formed in her mind. She held the burgeoning theory at bay, however. It was a capital mistake to theorize before one had all the facts.
Getting on her knees, she ran her hand on the carpet just in front of the nightstand. Dampness under her palm deepened her frown. The solution had spilled at some point, though not enough moisture to account for a full glass. Checking under the bed, she found nothing and rose to her feet. A glance at the nightstand on Vigne’s side showed an identical glass.
She returned to the drawing room. Monsieur Vigne had exchanged his brandy glass for a coffee cup. He glanced at her.
“Who woke you?” Lina asked without preamble.
“The assistant manager, I think,” he replied. “Most unpleasant.”
“Did you not hear the chambermaid this morning?”
“Pardon?” Vigne seemed genuinely confused.
“La femme du chambre.”
Frustrated, Vigne let out a spate of profane French and informed Lina of several things. He had not seen or heard any damned chambermaid, he had been insulted and called a ‘damned blackguard’ by the assistant manager, and he had not, for God’s sake, killed his mistress. If she did not believe him, he concluded with a fearsome scowl, she could go to the devil.
Lina waited for the flow to cease. “Trional is a hypnotic.”
“Yes, yes, both Alatea and I have trouble sleeping.”
“When and where did you obtain the bottle of trional in your bedroom?”
“Yesterday. I asked the manager to obtain a new bottle. Mon Dieu!” he burst out. “Why do you question me on such trivial matters when every moment we waste, Alatea’s killer goes free? And every moment I come closer to your English hangman!”
“Monsieur Vigne, I know you did not kill Miss Alvares, and I can prove your innocence.” Lina backed up a step when Vigne sprang to his feet.
“Who is he?” the man demanded. “What monster killed my beautiful Alatea?”
“Be calm, monsieur. Remain here. It will not be long before I conclude the case, and then you will know the killer’s name, I promise you.”
She left the suite in a hurry, not desiring his interference. His anger was understandable. Had someone dared harm Rhiannon… but that way lay madness. She deliberately put aside the unwelcome notion to concentrate on the matter at hand, only to stop, shaken to the core, on seeing that Rhiannon was not in the hall, as she had assumed. For a moment, her heart seized in her chest. Had something happened while she interrogated the Frenchman?
Downstairs, she sought out Millborough, learning he was in the restaurant. He had commanded a table with an excellent view of the foyer, and Rhiannon sat with him. The pristine white tablecloth held several dishes—she recognized the remains of canard à tete rouge, a Strasbourg terrine, and woodcock salmi. It seemed the waiter had just served the dessert course for the ices and jellies had not yet begun melting on their plates.
“If you are quite finished with your luncheon,” Lina said, a combination of irritation and relief sharpening her tone, “I have some news to report.”
She was pleased when Rhiannon had the grace to blush. “I know I should have told you I was going downstairs,” she said, “but when the detective inspector came—”
“What detective inspector?” Lina asked, turning her wrathful gaze on Millborough, who wiped his mouth with a napkin and gave her an impassive stare.
“The fellow’s name is unimportant,” he informed her, “but as soon as I caught wind of his intentions via my assistant, I hastened upstairs to stop his incursion. I will tell you with all honesty, milady, that I do not possess the necessary figure to ascend three flights of stairs with ease, much less at speed. Fortunately, it was only the man himself who disobeyed my edict. His minions remained below. I sent him packing for the nonce. As to Miss Moore… she was good enough to accept my invitation and keep an old man company. I told her there was no need to disturb you, as I presumed you would seek me out downstairs when you did not find her waiting in the corridor, and so it proved.”
Lina could not fault his logic, though she would have liked to stamp down hard on his occasionally gouty toe for giving her such a scare. “Monsieur Vigne did not kill Miss Alvares,” she said. “Now I must speak to the hotel manager.”
Millborough’s eyebrows rose, but he replied, “Mr. Gordon. I will send him to the room reserved for you.”
Rhiannon stood despite Lina’s protest that she should stay and finish her meal. “Any more and my corset will split,” she said with a good humored grin. “Shall we go?”
In the private room, Lina confronted Mr. Gordon the moment he entered. “Who is the chambermaid assigned to the suite occupied by Monsieur Vigne?”
The startled man stared, slack jawed. Finally, he took a breath and regarded her with something like calm, albeit a calm frayed around the edges. “You refer to Miss Darrow. She is an excellent and reliable worker, milady, employed at the hotel for six months.”
“Thank you. I will speak to the young lady at once.” When he hesitated, she added, “Without delay, sir. Do not dawdle.”
Gordon frowned, opened his mouth as if to berate her, and seemed to think better of it. Apart from a terse, “As you wish, milady,” he left the room in pointed silence.
From her seat on a chair upholstered in a lurid absinthe green, Rhiannon asked, “Are you being deliberately rude today?”
Lina swung around to face her. “No, my dear,” she said, letting her exasperation show. “I am eager to see the end of this case.”
The door opened, admitting a young girl, possibly sixteen or seventeen years old, wearing the practical black dress, white apron, and white cap of a chambermaid. She was pert and blonde, but Lina saw a hardness like mid-winter ice in Miss Darrow’s blue eyes. Nevertheless, one could not judge another solely by the subtle betrayals of their body. The chambermaid might be understandably reticent over a confrontation with a woman unknown to her.
“Ah, do come in,” Lina practically purred, putting on a mask of geniality. Servants were so often treated as non-entities or given outright abuse, they responded well to friendliness. She remained on her feet, keeping them on equal footing.
Miss Darrow’s gaze darted around the room and rested briefly on Rhiannon, finally coming to rest on Lina once again. Her shoulders straightened as she became more confident. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Gordon said you wished to see me.”
“Are you not employed as a chambermaid in this hotel?” Lina asked, watching the girl from beneath her lashes while she took a cigarette from her jade and silver case and lit it with a lucifer. She found tobacco an excellent stimulant for her mental faculties.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Miss Darrow’s nervousness had returned, Lina observed. Possibly she feared an accusation of theft – every servant’s anxiety. “It’s quite all right. I merely have a few questions to ask you,” she said. “I am seeking an upstairs maid for my household, and I hear from Mr. Gordon that you are a good worker. Indeed, he had nothing but praise for you.”
The girl’s cheeks tinged faintly pink with pleasure. “Thank you, ma’am, I’m sure.”
Lina puffed her cigarette a few times. Yes, that tidbit about seeking an upstairs maid had captured Miss Darrow’s attention. It would be a position higher than the one she currently enjoyed, and in a private household with “perks” such as the right to collect and sell all the candle ends, and keep the money for herself.
She related a few more domestic matters to ease the girl further, and then said, “And you’ve had a dreadful shock this morning, I hear. In Monsieur Vigne’s suite, so I am told.”
Miss Darrow tensed. “Yes, ma’am,” she answered shortly, lowering her gaze.
An unusual reaction, Lina thought. In her experience, servants gossiped worse than village grandmothers, and the more gruesome the details, the better to relish the effect on their audience. Her statement should have been the perfect prompt for a harrowing, if somewhat exaggerated, tale about the bloody murder done upstairs.
Instead, Miss Darrow had gone white around the lips, but not with shock. Lina detected a strong current of mingled anger, fear, and no little frustration in the girl.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, crushing out her cigarette in an empty bonbon dish.
“Not much to say, ma’am. I seen … I mean, I saw the dead lady,” Miss Darrow said, correcting her grammar with an effort, “and I told Mr. Gordon.”
“You did not speak to the gentleman next to the dead lady? Or try to wake him?”
“No, ma’am. I reckoned he was the killer, so I went to Mr. Gordon straight away.”
“I see.” Lina let the silence stretch, hoping to prompt the girl into speaking. If Miss Darrow thought she might withdraw her offer of employment …
“You see, ma’am,” the chambermaid said swiftly after a moment, “I saw the lady, all bloody and dead like she was, and I was afraid the gentleman might come for me too ‘cause he must be mad.”
“He had blood on him, I suppose, positively weltering in gore,” Lina’s interest did not have to be feigned.
Miss Darrow shook her head. “No, ma’am, not a drop.”
“How strange.” Lina rose, went to Rhiannon, and whispered instructions in her ear.
Rhiannon obeyed, going to the desk to remove pen, ink, and paper from the drawer. Sitting down, she wrote a quick note before going to the door and exiting the room.
Lina noticed Miss Darrow following Rhiannon’s every move. She pretended ignorance and put on a surprised expression when the chambermaid said, “I must be going, ma’am.”
“My dear young woman,” she said, “Mr. Gordon has promised that I could interview you for as long as I desire. Your pay will not suffer for it, I promise you.”
“Still, I’d best be about my duties, ma’am.” Miss Darrow inched in the door’s direction.
Moving quickly, Lina put herself in front of the door. “Do you intend to refuse my offer?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, but—”
It was Lina’s turn to interrupt. “Ungrateful chit, how dare you insult me!” she exclaimed. The next several minutes were spent in a lengthy diatribe she had once heard delivered by her mother toward a servant who had given notice.
Miss Darrow’s eyes glazed over, but she rallied to say when Lina was forced to pause for breath, “I’m sorry, ma’am, truly sorry, but I must go now.”
“I think not,” Lina said flatly, dropping the pretense. Her next words were calculated to cause maximum distress. “You murdered Alatea Alvares.”
Miss Darrow scuttled backward, her skirts clenched in both hands.
“You made several mistakes after your cut the lady’s throat,” Lina went on. “First, your footprints on the rug clearly show you went to both sides of the bed, yet you deny disturbing the gentleman—”
“I stole his tiepin!” Miss Darrow put in hurriedly.
“Produce it,” Lina countered. She waited for another lie, but the girl remained silent. She recognized the desperate gaze of a hunted creature. “As I was saying, Monsieur Vigne could not have killed Miss Alvares. No murder weapon found in the room, you see. Damned difficult to sever the carotid artery without a blade with a good, sharp edge. Whoever cut the lady’s throat had to have taken the weapon in the room with them.”
Miss Darrow retreated as far as the unlit fireplace, standing with her back pressed against the mantelpiece. She curled her hand around the poker handle. Lina was not concerned. She knew at least six different ways to disarm the girl, only two of which would result in broken bones.
She said nothing else, content to wait until Rhiannon’s return. Some five minutes passed with Miss Darrow clearly attempting to steel her nerves, and Lina smoking another of the Egyptian cigarettes she preferred. At last, the door opened. Not Rhiannon, but Millborough Pike came into the room, his vast presence seeming to fill the available space.
“The information you requested,” he said to Lina, passing her a folded sheet of paper.
“Where are the police?”
“Panting on the threshold. I told them I had the solution at hand.”
She read the message at a glance and returned her attention to Miss Darrow. “You are a butcher’s daughter,” she said. “You used to help your father slaughter cattle before finding more genteel employment at your mother’s request. This is now known to us through Miss Fairchild, your coworker.”
“And what’s that to you?” Miss Darrow replied, tossing her head in a brave show.
“It is also well known that you carry a sharp knife for protection, as you do not live in the best neighborhood. You are well used to inflicting death and well used to the sight of blood. Speaking of which … you said the gentleman had not a drop of blood on him. Another mistake, Miss Darrow. You will, I hope, note the difference between ‘mistake’ and ‘lie.’”
Miss Darrow said nothing.
“In the case of a severed artery, blood exits the body at a terrific rate under high pressure,” Lina continued. “Like the murder weapon, the scene had a missing element: telltale jets and sprays of blood on the headboard, walls, floor, and of course, Monsieur Vigne.”
Lina took a step closer to Miss Darrow, who flinched but did not lift the poker.“Your victim did not bleed as she ought. You severed Miss Alvares’ throat, but you did not actually kill her. She was already dead.”
Millborough’s muffled exclamation made her hide a triumphant smile.
“On the table next to the bed, I found a bottle of trional crystals, a hypnotic drug that is safe in the proper dose. The bottle was new, acquired yesterday, yet only half full,” Lina said.
“What is the usual dose, milady?” Millborough asked.
“A teaspoon dissolved in a glass of water,” she informed him. “I theorize that last evening, Miss Alvares took her usual dose of trional, as did Monsieur Vigne. But unlike his mistress, the monsieur slept soundly through the night. Miss Alvares, on the other hand, woke at least once. In her addled state—assisted, no doubt, by the combination of trional and champagne—the lady took a heroic dose, which proved fatal.”
“But why mutilate the body in such a dramatic fashion?”
Lina nodded at the white-faced Miss Darrow. “I suspect she desired to blackmail Monsieur Vigne, but failing to rouse him from his stupor, was forced to retreat and raise the alarm. No murder has taken place, Mr. Pike, merely an unfortunate accident made to look like murder through the unskilled machinations of a girl who should have known better.”
The poker clattered to the floor. Miss Darrow began to cry. I didn’t mean no harm by it,” she murmured.
Appearing relieved, Millborough bowed his head. “My thanks,” he said to Lina, “are sincere, my gratitude infinite. A crisis has been averted. I can now deal with the police from a position of strength. Tell me, how can I repay you, milady?”
This time, Lina did smile. “Send your cursed brother to the Continent on some diverting chore or another. I weary of that interfering scoundrel haunting the London lanes and snooping into my affairs. That would satisfy your debt very nicely, I think.”
Millborough said thoughtfully, “I have, in fact, just received a report of some rather queer goings-on in a place called Grimpen Mire …”
“And the girl?”
“Miss Darrow will lose her position here. That is certain. However, I may possibly arrange for her to leave with an unstained character, provided she does not repeat her error.” Millborough stared at the chambermaid with a thunderous expression until she nodded, chastened.
Filled with satisfaction, Lina turned as Rhiannon returned to the room, took her partner’s arm, and led her out of Claridge’s and into the afternoon sunlight
Millborough belongs to the “Bagatelle Club”. Is this a club of people who concern themselves with trivia and bagatelles? Or a club of people who play the billiards game of that name? Or a club of people who play the piano?
More in the line of “a mere bagatelle” – a thing of no great importance.
Nene
I enjoyed this.
Thanks for the read.