Page 48 of In the Midnight Hour

“After you retired on Friday, did you hear anything from Sir Radnor’s chamber?” Hypatia asked. “Anything at all, no matter how small or inconsequential.”

“A bit of shuffling, perhaps, but that wasn’t unusual. I didn’t pay much mind because Sir Radnor didn’t want me to help him at night. In fact, he expressly told me, years ago, not to disturb him unless the house was on fire.”

Hypatia narrowed her eyes. “What kind of shuffling?”

“Probably Sir Radnor using the chamber pot.”

“Do you know what time you heard the movement?” North asked urgently.

“I don’t have a clock in the dressing chamber. It didn’t sound like Sir Radnor falling though, so I agree with the inquest jury.”

North wondered why Harry hadn’t asked Usher more questions at the inquest. “You think he was murdered?”

The valet’s expression turned maudlin, as it had been when he’d entered the drawing room. “Seems so, but I can’t think who would do that to him.”

“How easy is it for someone to enter the house through the back?” North asked.

“They’d have to come through the mews, but the door to the morning room’s usually unlocked,” Usher replied. “Not very likely someone came in that way, but I suppose they could’ve.”

North met Hypatia’s gaze. She did not appear to be as encouraged by Usher’s assessment of the back door as he was.

“Thank you, Usher. You can return to Sir Radnor now, if you like,” North said. Usher inclined his head, then departed.

“I’m glad to know the back door was likely unlocked,” North said. “Anyone could have entered that way—the Clavertons or even Killingsworth.”

“Or me,” Hypatia said darkly. “And I wouldn’t have had to steal through the mews. Anyone else would have.”

He didn’t want her to lose hope. “But we know it wasn’t you. It’s possible the shuffling Usher heard in Sir Radnor’s chamber was the Clavertons—or Killingsworth. I confess I have doubts about the Clavertons committing the murder since Usher saw the walking stick in the dressing chamber Saturday morning.”

Her features tensed. “Disappointingly, I agree. If they’d killed Sir Radnor Friday night, they would have taken everything that night.”

“Probably, but what do we know?” North met her gaze. “We’ve never killed anyone. It’s difficult to imagine what one would do, especially if they hadn’t meant to commit murder. It’s possible they were so caught up with making it look like an accident that they put everything to rights, then left without stealing the items they came for.”

“You are exceptionally good at reasoning things out,” she said. “Or rationalizing. I can’t decide which.”

North’s shoulder twitched. He was rather accomplished at both. “It’s also possible that Usher is mistaken, that he can’t be trusted to accurately recall when he saw the walking stick.”

“I don’t know that our inquiries tonight have strengthened my theory of the Clavertons,” Hypatia said gravely. “If anything, I worry I’ll be seen to have had the greatest opportunity. And of course, I supposedly had motive as Sir Radnor’s heir.”

“But you didn’t have that motive since you didn’t know he’d made you his beneficiary.” North closed the remaining distance between them. “Your fear is making me wonder if you had some other motive.” He regarded her intently. “Your maid told Drummond that you were agitated. You haven’t mentioned that. Not at the inquest and not to me during any part of our investigation.”

Her green-blue eyes iced with fear.

“Usher said Sir Radnor was upset too.” North searched her face, hesitating to see if she would say anything. When she didn’t, he removed his hat and brushed his hand through his hair. “I think something happened between you and Sir Radnor on Friday evening.”

He waited again, holding her gaze, but she looked away. “Hypatia, you have to trust me, otherwise there is no point to this partnership.”

Chapter 11

Hypatia hadn’t even wanted this partnership—not at first. However, Northwood had made a good argument for her needing help. Something he said stuck absurdly in her brain.

“Did you call me Hypatia?” she asked. “I didn’t give you leave to do that.”

He stared at her. “That’s your response?”

“No, but it matters,” she said, probably too defensively. “How can I be sure I can trust you? Your brother is the coroner.”

“Didn’t I rush to tell you that you’re soon to be interrogated at Marlborough Street by a Bow Street Runner?” he asked in exasperation. “What do I need to do in order to prove you can trust me?”