Page 16 of Guardian
“Might be that, too,” he said. “I’m sure Amelia’s doing what she can.”
As I sipped my wine, I spotted the evening edition of theReviewnewly placed on the rack. The pages were slightly askew, but on the front page below the masthead was the bold headline, clearly visible:mayfair murders!
“James, could you hand me that paper?” I pointed.
He fetched it off the wooden rack and handed it to me. I read the first sentence—There has been yet another housebreak in the West End with tragic consequences, resulting in the death of two servants—and tore through the paragraphs below with increasing unease.
“What’s the matter?” James asked.
I looked up. “A housebreak in Mayfair. The family was away—but they’d left two servants behind, and the burglar stabbed the housekeeper to death in the parlor and then went upstairs and killed the maid in her bed.”
James grimaced. “That’s awful. Does it say where in Mayfair?”
“No, just the family’s name. Fairleigh.” I bit my lip. “But Mayfair’s small.”
Understanding flickered in his eyes, and genuine sympathy lit James’s face. I half expected it. Sarah brought out the sweetness and sincerity in people. “You think it might be near where Sarah works.”
I nodded, but I was thinking more than that. Did Sarah know something about this? Was that why she’d been so secretive? I scanned the first paragraph again. The burglary had happened last night. So she couldn’t have known about it before she’d come home.
And yet—
“Kit? Can I see it?” James asked. I handed the shuffled pages to him, and he refolded them to read the article. His frown deepened as he read through the list of the goods that had been stolen, a reminder of the Yard’s recent failures, a description of the crowds of hundreds gathering in front of the Fairleigh house to gawk, and the final line, which to my mind was absurd: “Anyone with information is asked to contact Inspector Stiles of the Yard forthwith.”
Who would have information? And who would talk to the Yard?
“Hmph,” James said.
“What?” I asked.
“The list of things stolen,” James said, and read aloud: “Diamond-and-ruby earrings, three strings of pearls, several unique rings, silver spoons and candlesticks, and small pieces of art, including an oil painting by Rembrandt. Police are canvassing known fences in the area in search of the stolen items.”
“Beg pardon.”
We looked up. A young woman stood beside our table, patiently waiting so she could put down our plates. Hastily, James folded the newspaper away from the table and returned it to the rack.
The server had placed the fish before me, and though the flavor reached my nose, my stomach revolted at the idea of eating it.
Servants murdered in Mayfair. Sarah’s peculiar reticence last night. The fear in her face when I encountered her on the bridge. A chill ran over my bones as the gossamer thread of suspicion thickened and took shape. Hadshebeen threatened somehow? And had she concealed it from me, for fear I’d make her leave her position?
James had picked up his knife and fork, though he had yet to begin. His eyes met mine, questioning. “It’s a terrible thing, to be sure, but there’s no danger to Sarah. In fact, now the constables will be all over Mayfair. It’ll be safer than ever.” As I remained silent, he began to cut into his steak. “It says the family was away. Does Sarah’s family leave London often?”
“I don’t know. They’re here now. Sarah mentioned a party for the daughter this week.” I shook my head. “It’s just so ... brazen.”
“Less brazen if they think the family’s away.”
He glanced at my fish, which was getting cold.
Obligingly, I cut into it and put a bite in my mouth. It dissolved on my tongue, tender, buttery, flavored with spices I didn’t recognize. I took two more bites before I set down my fork. “It’s delicious.” For it was. But my mind was fixed on what James had just said. “How would the thieves know that the family was away?”
“Announcements in the papers,” he said, “about house parties outside of London. Sometimes they print the guest lists, especially if titles are attending.”
“Why would they do that?”
He shrugged. “To make people who aren’t invited feel low, I expect. Thieves check the lists to know when families will be traveling. Or they keep their eyes peeled for a pantechnicon van removing paintings and furniture. It’s a dead giveaway the family’s leaving for their country house or the Continent.”
Something about the way he said it made me blurt, “Are you caught up in this?”
James stopped chewing for a moment, then swallowed. His face showed a mix of surprise, indignation, and disappointment that I’d even ask. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I told you I’m done with dodges. But I hear things.”
