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Mrs. Seymour shrugged. “Her grandfather was Edward Blake, of Blake Sugar.”

Jasper hadn’t heard of the company, but purveyors of sugarcane out of the West Indies often accrued impressive fortunes.

“Miss Blake had no previous suitors before him?” Jasper asked.

The housekeeper shook her head. “She was a bit eccentric. Private, with very few friends. Certainly surprised me when I heard she’d married.”

Just then, a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, entered the kitchen. Her distrustful eyes met Jasper’s, and he presumed the other maid had informed her that he was a police detective. Still, he introduced himself and showed his warrant card.

“You may use my room, Miss Chandler,” the housekeeper offered. “No more than ten minutes, mind you, Inspector.”

Miss Chandler’s eyes widened with uncertainty, cutting away from him as she led him to the small room the housekeeper kept as an office off the kitchen. He only closed the door halfway, not wanting to frighten the maid any more than she already appeared to be. He gestured for her to take one of the chairs set before a coal brazier.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked right away.

“Not that I am aware, Miss Chandler. I’ve come to speak to you about the complaint you brought to Scotland Yard after the death of your previous employer, Mrs. Victoria Herrington.”

At this, her chin drew back into her neck, affecting a look of surprise. “But that was nearly two years ago. And the detective I spoke to then said he was closing the case.”

“He did close the case,” Jasper said. “However, a recent occurrence has led me to take another look at that report.”

“What occurrence?”

“An attempted murder,” he provided, at which Miss Chandler sat forward with interest. He continued before she could ask more questions. “The police report for your petition to open an investigation into your employer’s death was lacking in detail. I’d like to ask you some questions about it now.”

The woman scoffed. “The detective I spoke to all but dismissed me the moment we met.”

Tomlin was, Jasper admitted, a lazy arse. But he would not take time to disparage his fellow inspector to Miss Chandler.

“You thought the death of Mrs. Herrington was suspicious and that her new husband might be involved. Can you tell me why?”

“Miss Blake—” the maid stopped, then corrected herself. “Mrs. Herrington fell ill while on their honeymoon trip to Italy. I was with them, as I was her maid.”

“What sort of illness was it?”

“Stomach complaints,” she replied. “She was bedridden most days.”

So far, it matched Augusta Lawlor’s experience.

“And the illness continued after their return to London?”

Miss Chandler nodded. “It worsened. She would…” Here, she turned bashful but, averting her eyes, continued, “She would produce a lot of blood in the chamber pot, and her skin erupted in sores. The doctor who came said it was a cancer, and there was nothing he could do but ease her pain.”

“With laudanum?” he asked.

The maid nodded.

“How long did she languish?”

Tears turned Miss Chandler’s eyes glassy, and she sniffed. “About three months. Near the end, her whole body would be taken with spasms. There was one final convulsion, worse than the rest. She didn’t wake afterward. The next morning, she passed.”

That sounded slightly different from Mrs. Lawlor, Jasper thought, who had been found seemingly dead in her bed one morning. There had been no mention of convulsions from her or her staff, either.

“And then what happened?” Jasper asked.

The maid composed herself with a deep breath and another sniffle. “Mr. Herrington seemed bereaved at first. But within the month, he’d sold the house, sacked all the staff, and disappeared.”

So, he had taken everything he stood to inherit as a widower. Unlike his abrupt disappearance the day of Mrs. Lawlor’s supposed death.