Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (25 page)

He stopped. A fat, black, rumpled creature occupied the sofa cushion usually reserved for him. As he watched, it uncurled with exquisite leisure, lifted its head, and stared at him with malevolent green eyes.

"Deepal! Here's Mrs. Nibley-Tatters. Lobelia to her friends," Sharada said, entering the living room with the old woman in tow. "We talked and talked the whole time you were gone. Just when I thought I should call the police, Jinxy came home. Strolled up to us, sweet as you like. By then, Lobelia and I were agreed. The best way to keep the poor dear safe was for him—and Lobelia—to come home with me. Just until Arry's put away, of course."

"Er. Lovely. Lovely. Um, Mum? Can I just…." He indicated the hall, giving Lobelia Nibley-Tatters what he hoped was a friendly wave before pulling Sharada out of earshot.

"Just till he's put away? You do realize that could be weeks. Months!"

"Deepal, she was quite set. No cooperation unless someone took her fear for the cat seriously," Sharada whispered. "And you saw how she lived, poor thing. No space left in that house to even have tea! I told her come, meet my sisters, hear all about us. Three barristers, fourteen solicitors, and a Scotland Yard detective in the family. She feels quite secure with me."

"What about that witness protection rubbish?"

"I said it was a little white lie. Research for a novel. She understood completely. Likes romances, our Lobelia. And Gopi and Dhanvi made her feel very safe. Who is that they're telling off, down in the street?"

"Dad. You were right, he's been following you."

"Ah. Well. They'll soon have him sorted." She made a dismissive gesture. "I really must divorce him. I know it's shocking. There's never been a divorce in our family. But things have to change, don't they?"

"Mum. I'm proud of you."

She beamed at him. "And now that Lobelia's agreed to testify, your new chief will be proud of you. He'll have you back on a murder case in no time."

"Yes, well, maybe we'd better give it a few days. What if Jinxy doesn't like it here? Or if someone looks cross-eyed at Mrs. Nibley-Tatters, and she gets cold feet again?"

"That won't happen. Gopi and Dhanvi agreed to stay for the duration. Anyone would feel secure with them around. Dhanvi will take your bed, Gopi will share mine, and Lobelia and Jinxy will be on the sofa."

"Mum. That's fine, except… where will I sleep?"

"Deepal. We all have to make sacrifices. This one is for your career." She sighed. "I really wish you hadn't sold the Astra."

Chapter Fifteen

When Paul and Sharada departed for Harrods, Kate headed to Scotland Yard. She needed to know if there were any new forensic details on the Hardwick case and to prepare for her interview with Georgette Sevrin. She could have asked DCI Jackson for a ride, but that was much too chummy; sharing cream tea was a sufficient breakthrough for one day. Or she could have asked Harvey to drive her in the Bentley, but he was too busy with dishes and laundry. Finally, she could have driven her husband's silver Lexus, but she had no driver's license. No part of life in London had ever required her to obtain one. So the Tube it was.

She hadn't walked far from her own gates when something caught her eye. A woman was snapping photographs of East Asia House.

There was no law against it, of course. Murder houses were attention magnets, sometimes years after the deed was done. And this woman, middle-aged and wearing what appeared to be a new quilted parka, was taking photographs respectfully. She shot only from the street or pavement, never stepping into the front garden or getting close to the windows. Still, Kate decided to cross Euston Place for a better look. Something about the woman's lank hair seemed familiar.

"Hiya," Kate said. "You're Patsy East, aren't you?"

Being addressed by name in a friendly manner was apparently tantamount to a threat, at least in Patsy East's book. She flinched so hard, she dropped her camera. Fortunately, the rig, which looked expensive, was attached to her via neck strap, and simply smacked her in the chest.

"Sorry!" Kate said. Like most Londoners, she'd once hated the necessity of marching up to strangers and introducing herself, but the Met's training had beat such reluctance out of her. "I'm Kate Hetheridge. Tony's wife. You know—Wellegrave House? Sorry I haven't been round to meet the neighbors yet. But you're a start, eh?"

Patsy nodded too much, like a cornered person willing to agree to anything for a chance to escape.

"Taking pictures, eh? That's brilliant," Kate continued, determined to get the mousy little woman to say something. Had Sharada been correct to label her a wandering wife? She really wasn't Hardwick's type. Too short, too plain, too obviously introverted. Maybe those society photos with her and Hardwick—drinking champagne, wearing a sequined dress—signified something else.

"You're with Scotland Yard," Patsy said so quietly Kate had to strain to hear. "It's all right to take pictures, isn't it? Not against the law?"

"Not against the law," Kate agreed, a touch overly jubilant to her own ears. Something about speaking to a person as colorless and restrained as Patsy made her want to overcompensate. "Are you a professional?"

Patsy looked blank.

"A professional photographer, I mean."

"Oh! No. I'm not a professional anything. Declan wouldn't like that. Expects me at home."

"Sad about Mr. Hardwick," Kate continued, and cursed herself when she saw suspicion flare in Patsy's eyes. She added hastily, "But of course I can't talk about the investigation. I do think if you want pics of East Asia House, now's the time. What with that REB group working so hard to get rid of it."

"Yes. Declan's very involved. Says it will be gone soon," Patsy said. "That's why I'm taking pictures. A little something to remember it by. I'd better go." Without another word, Patsy turned and fled, leaving Kate standing with an unsaid "goodbye" on her lips.

And that
, she thought,
is why I should have left all the neighborhood interviews to Tony. Me as future head of the Toff Squad? Please.

* * *

"Oi! Gulls," she called, surprised to find the uniformed constable in Scotland Yard's third floor bullpen. "Don't you know it's Saturday?"

"Hello, DS Hetheridge." PC Gulls wasn't her usual chipper self. "Had a date last night. Worst two hours of my life. Decided to come in today and see if I could do something right, since I can't pick a decent bloke to save my life." More carefully, she asked, "So, how are you? Since… you know."

"You mean my husband? Oh, well, 'keep calm and carrion' sums it up. That's life at the Met. I—" She stopped, realizing Gulls had asked a sincere question and took her flippant words as a sincere answer. "No, don't look like that. I just have my riot gear on. It's habit, Gulls, trick of the trade. The truth is, he's fine. We're both fine."

Gulls still looked distressed. The young officer's respect for Tony was genuine, Kate realized. Buck-toothed Derek Saunderson and his ilk notwithstanding, there were many at Scotland Yard who felt nearly as betrayed by the turn of events as she did.

"I should follow your example. About the riot gear, I mean," Gulls said, pushing back from her workstation's computer and stretching. "I come over as too earnest. Everyone says so. When I heard what happened to the Chief, I almost cried."

"I did cry," Kate admitted, after a quick look around to make sure no other officers, particularly males, could hear. "But behind closed doors. The men around here gossip more than women ever do. Especially if they see a chink in the armor."

"I just wish I'd been able to sit in with him on an interview. I could have learned so much," Gulls said. "And I was so chuffed because he promised. I considered it done, only a matter of time, because he never makes assurances lightly. Definitely never promises, not unless he means it. I suppose he had no idea what the next morning would bring."

Kate bit her lip. She was beginning to like Gulls. The young woman's friendliness and gentle nature was refreshing, now that Kate had dropped her defenses long enough to appreciate it. And that tempted her to share something, or at least hint. But no. Being privy to Tony's secrets meant keeping them. Now that Kate had finally broken through to him, she wouldn't risk their rapport, not for anything.

"Say, Gulls. I don't want to burden you," she said in that tone that signaled an opportunity for unpaid, possibly unacknowledged work that might lead nowhere or to bigger opportunities in the future. "But if you're serious about getting your mind off that lousy date…."

"I am!" Gulls sat up straight. "Is it for the Hardwick case? Please! Burden me."

"Yeah. It's about the murder weapon." Withdrawing her mobile, Kate consulted her notes, a mishmash of words and sentence fragments the uninitiated would assume encoded. "A tabletop reproduction of a famous sculpture by Giambologna:
Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus
. It was marble, very accurate, but the sort of thing real art lovers consider in bad taste. Since Hardwick dealt in originals, it seems like he would have hated it… except it was in his house, and someone killed him with it. FME Garrett thought maybe it came from a home shopping network. I'd like you to check into its origin. Someone from the lab should be able to get you a photo of the base and any maker's marks."

"Because where Hardwick bought it might be significant?" Gulls asked, then shook her head as if disgusted by her own slow wits. "Or do you think it was a gift? A gift he might have not have accepted with good grace?"

"Yeah. It hit me on the ride over—sure, the statuette made a convenient weapon. But what was it doing in Hardwick's gallery in the first place? Most murders are committed over love or money," Kate said. "Everyone knows that. And Buck and Sunny cornered the market on those motives. First Hardwick took Buck's wife, then he took Buck's money. But ridicule can be a motive, too. Ingratitude. Snobbery. A gift that wasn't appreciated? It's worth looking into."

* * *

Georgette Sevrin had been detained for questioning in a secure wing of St. Thomas hospital. The Met frequently placed vulnerable witnesses there, citing round-the-clock care and topnotch mental health resources. But it also had barred windows, electronic locks, and strict regulations against unsupervised egress. In short, the wing was well equipped to keep Georgette safe and comfortable if she needed psychiatric help, yet continuously monitored if her disturbance was all an act.

After showing her credentials, accepting a temporary badge, and being lectured on rules and procedures, Kate was finally permitted to meet Georgette in a small conference room. It offered nothing but beanbag chairs and a coffee table bolted to the floor. No loose objects, cabinets to hide in, or way out, except for a single door with a nurse on the other side. High on the wall, a camera with a blinking red light recorded everything, the better to provide interview footage to Scotland Yard.

"Hello, Miss Sevrin. How are you today?" Kate asked.

Georgette didn't answer. She looked markedly different than she had on the night of the murder. Then, she'd worn thick spectacles to rival Mrs. Snell's. With her graying hair uncombed and wild, she'd appeared perfectly unhinged in her mugshot, gazing into the camera with terrifying intensity. Today, the specs were gone, and her hair was shorn in a buzz cut to rival the one favored by Kate's only society friend, Lady Margaret Knolls. Instead of a
Mad Men
-era housedress, Georgette wore cotton pajamas, too finely made to be hospital-issued, and matching blue socks.

"You look nice," Kate ventured, sitting down. "I hope my sudden appearance hasn't frightened you. I'm from Scotland Yard, but I assure you, I only want to ask a few questions. If at any time you feel confused, we can—"

"I have a migraine coming on," Georgette interrupted matter-of-factly. "Spare me the preamble. Ask what you want and go away."

"Er, well, I see. It's only… the night of Granville Hardwick's murder, you were noticeably, um, confused. I think you said you were trying to reach Narnia via the wardrobe? In light of that—"

"Listen, Miss whatever you are. You didn't introduce yourself. Don't they teach basic courtesy at the Met anymore?" Georgette asked in that mercilessly acute tone. "Let me explain how this works. I have lucid moments. Familiar with that term?
L
,
U
,
C
,
I
,
D
," she spelled. "It means there are times when I can understand what I hear and respond with clarity. Like today. When I'm being unlawfully detained against my will in an abominable place that considers green gelatin a food and not a plaything. It makes my head hurt. You make my head hurt. But they tell me I can't leave until I answer your questions. So fire away."

Kate absorbed that. How would Tony proceed? For that matter, how would sweet, sympathetic PC Gulls proceed?

I'm not him. I'm not her. Time to roll the dice.

"This is the downside of faking it, eh? Being treated like you're actually a nutter?" Kate shrugged. "My sister's schizophrenic. Better lately, but she doesn't much like the drugs her doctors prescribe. No matter how much they help, she always wants to quit them. A little booze, a little meth—old school self-medicating."