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Behind her, Mrs. Harwood swung open the door and burst into the short hall. Audrey ran again, despite the pain in her stomach. She had to keep moving, had to get away. Her life, and her baby’s, depended upon it.

Chapter

Fourteen

“They were moving their belongings at night?” Hugh asked as Norris drove him, Sir, and Thornton toward Shepherd Street. He’d told his driver to be as quick as possible.

“That’s what the footman, Sanders, told me,” Sir answered.

“So as not to draw attention to themselves by the light of day, I suspect,” Thornton said. “And thus, avoid embarrassment.”

Hugh could understand why the Harwoods would not want to openly advertise to their neighbors that they’d been reduced to selling off their furniture, but since leaving Cumberland Place a few minutes ago, Sir had yet to fully explain why he’d thought to re-check Jessamin Harwood’s alibi for the night of the murder.

“Were they moving their belongings that night?” Hugh asked. “The night of Miss Harwood’s murder?”

Sir had taken off his top hat, exposing his mop of curly black hair, dampened with sweat despite the cold weather. He’d rushed to bring this news, and if he’d gone to the effort, Hugh knew it was for good reason.

“That’s what I wanted to know. Sanders said he heard a rumor they were bringing their things to a pawnbroker near where Mrs. Harwood’s mum lived.”

“The mother who is ill?” Hugh said.

“Perhaps they didn’t want to see their belongings in the shop window of a local pawnbroker,” Thornton suggested. “What does this have to do with your claim that Mrs. Harwood has been lying to Hugh?”

Agitated, Sir ran his fingers through his hair, causing a strip of it to stand up straight. “What do you need when you’re moving furniture?” he asked, his voice rising to an adolescent warble.

“A cart,” Hugh answered as he caught Sir’s point.

The boy grinned mischievously. “I went to Chancery Lane. Found a pawnshop and a livery near the mum’s address. Guess who hired a dray four times in the last two months to haul furniture?”

Thornton held up his hand. “Morris Harwood?”

Sir popped his hat back onto his head. “Morris bloody Harwood. And the last time was two nights ago.”

Hugh clapped his hands, the sound muffled by his gloves. “Sir, you’re a genius. Harwood had the cart. Harwood transported his sister’s body. Christ.”

“He killed his own sister?” Thornton puckered his face in revulsion.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Sir said. “Since I was in the area, I asked around about the mum. Found her house. A black wreath was on the front door.”

“The house is in mourning,” Hugh murmured.

“A maid at the neighbor’s confirmed Mrs. Harwood’s mum died a fortnight ago,” Sir reported.

“Which means,” Thornton said, “Mrs. Harwood couldn’t have been taking care of her ill mother the night Penelope was killed. She doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Mr. Harwood never disputed his wife’s claim, even though he must have known her mother had died,” Hugh said, a full picture of the murder beginning to take shape. It put a boulder in the pit of his stomach. He’d been played for a fool, right from the beginning.

The three of them sat quietly with the dawning truth—Morris and Jessamin Harwood were involved in Penelope’s murder. One of them, or both, had killed her.

“I’m glad you’re with me, Thornton,” Hugh said. “We’re going to be taking the pair of them to Bow Street.”

Sir straightened up. “You don’t need him. I could help.”

Hugh arched his brow. “Give yourself a few more years, Sir.”

The lad slouched back against the squabs.

“Do you have your flintlock?” Thornton asked. Hugh sighed, lamenting he did not. When he’d left home earlier, he’d had no reason to think he would need it. With any hope, the Harwoods would not give him and Thornton any trouble.