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Six

“What was that all about?” Hugh asked his wife as Carrigan drew the carriage out into traffic.

They’d left the Harwoods’ after Morris decided he would go to Thornton’s home alone to verify that the dead woman was, in fact, his sister. He trusted that it was Penelope but, of course, needed to see for himself. Mr. Harwood hadn’t wanted to take up more of Hugh’s time, which would be better spent searching for her murderer—whom he insisted was Tobias Sinclair.

Now that Hugh and Audrey had a sound reason for questioning him about Miss Harwood, they were on their way to Albany on Piccadilly, where Tobias Sinclair let a set of bachelor’s rooms.

With one of her mischievous grins—the sort that made Hugh want to tug her to him and ravish her mouth—Audrey opened a panel of her cloak and produced a bird-topped garden stake.

“My love, I can afford to buy you garden decorations. There is no need to steal them,” he teased. He knew exactly why she’d pulled the stake from the glasshouse’s herb bed.

She stuck out her tongue and handed him the stake. He noted she still wore her gloves, and though he was grateful that she did, he knew Audrey would wish to hold the stake without them and read its energy.

“There is blood under the soil, do you see?” she asked. He did.

The color of blood on the rod was unmistakable. When stabbed back into the soil, small particles of dirt had clung to the fresh blood. He grimaced. The poor young woman had been run through from behind, while attempting to escape her assailant. Knowing this was the murder weapon, it seemed to weigh heavier in his hands.

“So, the killer stabbed Miss Harwood from behind, and she fell into the marjoram plants?”

“They looked to have been flattened recently, and a few possibly taken from the soil. Perhaps the ones spattered with her blood,” Audrey said. “But, as I did not see blood on the remaining herbs, I imagine she didn’t lie there very long.”

The floor tiles, Hugh presumed, would be easier to clean.

“The killer didn’t bother to return the stake to its proper place,” Hugh said, “because they were pressed for time to move the body quickly?”

“But why not leave her body where it lay?” Audrey asked. “Why go to the trouble of transporting it to Victor Messinger’s carriage house?”

“It would stand to reason that the killer wanted to throw suspicion onto Mr. Messinger,” Hugh said, still peering at the stake in his hand. He looked up to his wife. “You are going to hold it, aren’t you?”

Her eyes still locked on his, she removed her gloves and laid them aside, looking like she was preparing for battle. “Yes.” She held out her hand.

“And if it is Tobias that you see?”

Her hand lowered to her lap, and she bit her bottom lip. But then, she nodded decisively.

“We must know the truth. No matter what it may be.” She held out her hand again.

Exhaling, Hugh placed the garden stake into her palm. Instantly, her eyes went unfocused. He’d watched her fall into visions before, the energy from objects transporting her to another world, another plane of reality that Hugh would never be able to visit. It was fascinating. And yet, he didn’t truly envy Audrey. To come upon a murder victim after the fact, as he’d always done as an officer with Bow Street, was disturbing enough. To witness it firsthand, and to know there was nothing she could do to stop it from happening, had to be terrifying.

Audrey had often claimed it was a necessary evil; yes, the visions were frightening and disturbing, but in the end, they did help to catch the criminals.

She blinked and frowned, her lips parting and brows twitching, and then, after a handful of seconds, she drew in a deep breath. Her eyes refocused on him. The energy was gone. The vision had finished.

Audrey huffed in dismay and handed Hugh the copper stake, as if desperate to be rid of it. “The vision was strong, but it was difficult to see anything,” she began. “Only Miss Harwood held a lantern—the rest of the glasshouse was dark, and with the storm outside, there was no moonlight at all. I saw her rush around the bend in the path, and then another figure entered my view a moment later. In the second before the stake was pulled up and put into play, I saw a hand against the lantern light—a gloved hand.”

“What color? A man’s glove, or a woman’s?” Hugh asked.

She pinched her golden-blonde brows. “Either brown or black, I’m not sure. And I don’t know if it was a man or woman. But whoever it was, they were wearing a voluminous cloak or greatcoat. There was a fluttering swirl of fabric as the hand reached for the stake.” She shook her head, clearly disappointed. “And Miss Harwood said nothing before…well, before her assailant reached her.”

Hugh knew what Audrey had seen then and didn’t press her for more details. Instead, he asked, “What about afterward? When the stake was driven back into the soil?”

“I’m sorry, Hugh,” she said with a sigh. “In the attack, Miss Harwood dropped the lantern. It dashed out the flame, and everything went black.”

He gripped her hand. “Don’t apologize. We now know for certain that this is the murder weapon. The killer was in the Harwood’s house last night.”

So, too, had Tobias been. Audrey nodded tensely, likely thinking the same thing as he was.

“And someone had time enough to clean up whatever blood had been spilled,” she added. “But was that before or after the body had been delivered to Mr. Messinger’s horse stall?”