A Suspicious Affair Read Free Page A

an annuity, Denning threatened to send me to a cottage in Wales. Provision enough, he said. And he withdrew Foster from university because the boy was a dunderhead anyway, he swore. I pray the Lord will provide for us now, for that sad excuse of a nobleman cannot be trusted to do so even from the grave.”
    “So you were entirely dependent on him?”
    “What’s that? Oh, the money. Yes, I cashed in my consols to give Marisol her Season. It was our only chance, you see.” Miss Laughton set aside the knitting to wipe her eyes again. Then she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “No matter if we are thrown on the parish, I am glad the duke is dead. So you can put the manacles on me now, Mr. Dimm.”
    “Uh, Miss Laughton, do you know how to fire a pistol?”
    “Of course I do. You aim the round part away from you and pull the little metal thing where your finger goes.”
    Dimm rubbed his chin. “And where did you say you were that hour or two before dinner?”
    “Why, right here, in this little back parlor. Denning never comes near it, don’t you know, but it has the prettiest view of the gardens.”
    Dimm opened the drapes, which were pulled for the night. He could see the roof of the stable complex, but not the alleyway. “Did you see anyone running through the gardens? Anyone suspicious loitering about or acting oddly?”
    “Oh no, I was working on my knitting. The baby is coming soon, you know.”
    “Then did you hear anything? Quarrels, carriage doors slamming, gunshots?”
    “What’s that?”
    *
    So much for Lady Denning’s family. Dimm relighted his pipe from a spill at the hearth, thinking of Gabe’s brothers and sisters sleeping upstairs, all the nieces and nephews in nooks, cousins and inlaws nigh to bursting the rafters of this little house in Kensington. There was that huge Denning mansion, the ballroom bigger than Dimm’s whole place, yard and all, for just four people. And one of them was dead. Dimm puffed and sighed, and went back to his notes.
    The duke wasn’t much for family either, it seemed. His mother was fixed in Berkshire, two married sisters lived in Wales and Scotland, and the only brother had rooms at the Albany.
    Dimm had found Lord Boynton Pendenning there, trying out gray waistcoats, black arm bands, mourning boutonnieres.
    “Such a decision, don’t you know?” the pale, thin man had drawled, gesturing the Bow Street officer into his dressing room. “I mean, one wouldn’t wish to appear the hypocrite, would one, with sackcloth and ashes? On the other hand, one must consider the proper degree of respect before paying a call on the grieving widow. Such a dilemma.” He tied a black stock under the white cravat at his thin neck, then turned to ask his valet’s opinion. “I tell you, I’ve been fretting over it ever since I heard the news.”
    Dimm blinked when the valet clapped his hands together in approval, but proceeded with his questions: “Where might that have been, milord—where you got the word of your brother’s death?”
    Pendenning waved a long-fingered, beringed hand. “Murder, you mean. The news is everywhere, don’t you know. I suppose I was in some gaming hall or other; that’s where I spend the afternoons. Before coming home to dress for the evening, of course.”
    “Mightn’t you be a tad more specific, milord? Like, do you start dressing at four? Five? Six?”
    “That depends entirely on the cards, my man. Let me think. Ah yes, the dice were cold at Pimstoke’s, so I went on to the Pitpat.” Dimm noted that Lord Boynton named less reputable gaming parlors, where the stakes were often higher than at the gentlemen’s clubs, the company less select, and the games often rigged.
    “The cards were against me at Danver’s place,” his lordship continued.
    “But you got lucky in the carriageway at Portman Square?”
    Pendenning turned from the mirror. “What, pray, can you be insinuating? That
I
shot old Arvid?”
    “Begging your pardon,