“Older boys often took us younger ones under their wings. At the age of twelve, I was not the great hulking brute you see before you now. With Charles as my mentor, I was saved a great deal of bullying.”
The image he brought to mind was one I could hardly credit. For one thing, he was hardly a great hulking brute. He was tall but more fashionably lean than hulking. As for Charles taking anyone under his wing, I’d be more inclined to believe he’d accidentally smother them as protect them. School ties would have to suffice as an explanation.
“He just seems a different type than you. He is a younger son yet he has no profession. He’s never married and lives at his brother’s home in town. Has he no ambition?”
“He’s the heir.”
I waved aside his answer. “Yes, he told me that was his reason for seeking a wife. But that’s only recently been determined, when the viscount and viscountess realized they were not to be blessed with a son. What were his prospects before then?” I bit my lip, awaiting George’s reaction. Perhaps I was being rather hard on Cousin Charles. “I don’t mean to say he’s wasting his life, by any means, and it’s no business of mine even if he is. I only mean since you are so constantly occupied with business or investigating, he seems to be your opposite.”
George lifted his hand in a c’est la vie gesture. “To some degree I suppose we are, but that hardly negates friendship.”
As we had arrived at the Evingdon home, I suppose that was all the answer I’d receive.
Upon presenting our cards to the butler, we were shown into a bright sitting room, decorated in the typical, tasseled style popular a decade or so ago, and accessorized with so many bits and bobbles, one could only refer to it as clutter. This was one of the older homes in the neighborhood and had clearly not been redecorated for some time. Since the current Lady Evingdon rarely came to town, I suppose care of the house belonged to Charles. Dozens of small framed pictures littered every table; books, both opened and closed, were scattered about; knickknacks and gewgaws adorned every horizontal space.
“Where is one to sit?” I whispered to George, just as our host entered the room to greet us.
“Hazelton,” he said, stretching out a hand to his friend. “How good of you to call.” He turned to me. “And Cousin Frances as well. Lovely to see you. Blakely should have taken you to the drawing room.” His gaze took in the room. “Bit of a mess, isn’t it?” He flashed his winsome smile. “But since we are here, might as well make the best of it.”
He brushed past me, sweeping a few books from the divan and indicating we should be seated. Taking a seat in a chair across from us, he was clearly agitated, stacking the books on the table, shifting his gaze back and forth between us. “Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked finally.
“Not necessary,” George replied. “We stopped by because we suspect you are either about to, or perhaps just had, a visit from the police.”
“Ah, yes, the inspector chap. I say, have you the sight or something?” He gave George a sharp look. “Left just a few moments ago. How’d you know he’d be coming here?”
“I’m afraid I’m the one who sent him here, Cousin Charles,” I said. “Well, indirectly anyway. You see, he was asking me about Mary Archer and I told him about introducing the two of you.” I raised my hands in a helpless gesture. “In his mind, that rather made you a suspect.”
“Ah, that explains it. I wondered how he knew I was acquainted with her.”
“I take it he informed you of Mary’s . . . passing?”
“Indeed, he did. With all the details. Such a wretched end for such a kind woman. I’m afraid I may have misjudged. That is to say, perhaps I was too hasty.” He blew out a breath as if to compose himself. “Damn, I feel like the devil about the whole situation.” His face reddened. “Oh, damn! Forgive me, cousin.” He waved his hand in an agitated manner. “I mean, forgive my language. It was completely in-inappropriate. Blast!” He grimaced at the expletive and jumped to his feet. “Apologies. I believe I will order some refreshment.”
Rather than ringing for a servant, he strode to the door and, pulling it open, stuck his head out. “Blakely!” he shouted. “Whiskey!”
“I don’t think Lady Harleigh would care for spirits,” George said, while I simply stared as the scene played out before me.
About to close the door, he leaned through the opening. “And tea,” he ordered. “Bring tea as well.”
George ran a hand through his hair as my cousin strode back to his seat. “Charles, are you well?”
“Not at all, thank you.”
He rested his elbows on his thighs and dropped his head into his hands. “That inspector chap thinks I did it. That I murdered Mrs. Archer. He’s probably off to find the rope to hang me.”
“He has suspicions. There’s a great distance between suspicion and conviction. And my hope is to remove you from his suspect list as soon as possible. That is, if you’re willing to share with us the content of your meeting with Delaney.”
Charles darted a glance at me, then locked eyes with George, who gave him a nod. I suppose I could understand why he would question my trustworthiness.
“I did not intentionally point the police in your direction, and as soon as I knew Delaney was coming to interview you, I contacted Mr. Hazelton in the hope he could provide some legal support if needed.”
George gave me a quizzical glance, and I glared back. Yes, I was stretching the truth a bit, but it hardly mattered now.
Before he could reply, a tap sounded at the door, followed by Blakely entering with the tea tray and a decanter of spirits, presumably the requested whiskey. While the butler laid the table, Charles took the decanter and set it aside.
I lifted the teapot and gave him a questioning glance.
He smiled. “Yes, Cousin Frances, I do believe tea would be the better choice after all.”
“Back to the matter at hand,” George said, accepting a cup from me. “Shall we discuss your interview with Inspector Delaney? Clearly, he didn’t arrest you, but I am curious about his line of inquiry. Did he indeed treat you as a suspect in Mrs. Archer’s murder?”
“He didn’t say the words, but I certainly felt like a suspect.” Charles took the cup of tea I offered and placed it on the table to his side. “He asked me a great many questions. How long had I known her? Had I ever visited her home? How close was our relationship and why did I decide to end it?”
He glanced at me. “I didn’t read about her death in the Times until this afternoon. When I spoke to you I had no idea she had died.” He dropped his gaze to his hands. “And the bit about foul play came as a surprise. I was prepared when the inspector came calling. But he did seem to view me with more suspicion than I would have thought circumstances warranted.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Evingdon,” George said. “This case may prove to be a difficult one for Delaney. It’s possible Mrs. Archer was involved in activities that would allow for a great many unknown suspects. When Frances mentioned you, Delaney pounced on the chance of at least one known suspect. Did he provide any information about her death?”
“Far too much for my comfort.” He sighed. “After that, he asked the questions, and I answered.”
“It would be good to hear what your answers were,” George said.
Charles gave him a rueful smile. “I met her through Lady Harleigh about three weeks ago. I escorted her to the theater and dinner, in company with several friends two weeks ago. We visited the British Museum last week and had another outing to the theater.” He glanced at me. “I enjoy the theater. As that is the whole of my acquaintance