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Grace ate her food without tasting it. Sharing a midday meal with her great-aunt was a rare treat and not one to be wasted with worries she could not control. Yet she couldn’t dismiss the feeling that Charlie was in danger, alone at the Ormsby house. Grace couldn’t send Sergeant Pyke or Alistair Stewart to Charlie’s aid, as they were out. She couldn’t go herself, as Mrs Harvey might send a message. Lily and Jasmine had eaten quickly, before heading next door to examine the new fingerprint samples.
The sound of her name cut through her distraction. “My apologies, what did you say, Auntie?”
“I said, I think you should give up medical school and learn how to cook,” Anne replied. “I was, it goes without saying, merely testing whether you were listening to me.”
Grace spluttered her mouthful of soup. “When I become a doctor, I will be able to afford to pay someone to cook for me, thereby giving two people a job they enjoy. That is, if I can convince paying patients that a woman doctor can be as good as a man.”
“There are more sick people than competent doctors,” Anne pointed out. “Although, it is true that those who need help the most cannot afford a qualified doctor. Do stop fidgeting, Grace. Charlie can handle anything the Ormsby household throws at him.”
“I cannot help but worry. The murderer will be anxious that we are close on his or her heels. A person ruthless enough to kill once will not hesitate to kill again.”
The bell rang at the front door. Grace knocked over her cup in her eagerness to answer. She flung the door open with a crash, but it wasn’t Charlie.
“Everything all right, Grace?” Anne’s beau, Kenneth Drummond, held out a note to her. “The messenger was about to ring when I arrived.”
Grace led the way to the scarred old wooden table, at which she and Anne had been eating. Anne had recently started receiving Drummond in the informal comfort and warmth of the kitchen, rather than the formality of the drawing room. A sure sign that Anne had accepted him as part of her inner circle, after a long period of pretending she was too old and cantankerous to have a gentleman suitor.
While Anne greeted Drummond with a discreet kiss on the cheek, Grace opened the note, which invited her to call on Mrs Harvey at her convenience.
“No need for sustenance, my dear.” Drummond was saying. “I am on the way to my club to chase down a potential opportunity for young Charlie Pyke. A ‘lead’, I ought to call it, in the parlance of detectives. I am only here for a moment, to leave the official documentation for the establishment of the new business.”
“Kenneth, I do believe this detecting business has given you a new lease on life. Did you settle on ‘Stewart, Wu, Penrose, Pyke, Pyke, Pyke, Drummond, Macmillan and Brown’ or Southern Investigations Agency?”
“The latter, I’m pleased to say, for the sake of the ink level in my inkpot.”
Grace wanted to see the document – not quite believing that this crazy idea of a private detective agency was now official. However, she had other priorities right now. “Mr Drummond, do you happen to know where Alistair Stewart and Sergeant Pyke might be found?”
“Visiting a police officer of their mutual acquaintance, I believe. The alternative being a visit to the manchester department of Dick & McKechnie’s store. I must say, Lily and Jasmine have taken to home decorating with the fervour of a battalion under the Duke of Wellington.”
“I don’t suppose you know where the men are meeting? I need to find them, quite urgently. I’m concerned that Charlie may need assistance at the Ormsby house. I don’t wish to overstate the level of danger, but he is there alone, potentially in the company of a cold-blooded murderer.”
Drummond pushed his chair back with the energy of a much younger man. “Leave it to me, Grace. I believe they went to the same club that I frequent, which does not allow ladies to enter.” He flung an apologetic glance at Anne, but wisely left the argument over male-only clubs until a later time.
Grace made haste to follow Drummond. Sharing the buggy would get her to Mrs Harvey all the sooner. She waved a farewell to Anne, who was smiling to herself as she gathered up the dishes.
As Drummond took up the reins and urged the sleeping horse to life, Grace regretted her melodramatic words. Was Charlie really at risk in the presence of the Ormsby family? He would hate it if Alistair and his father turned up unannounced and interrupted a critical interview.
Grace jolted out of her musing as the buggy halted for traffic at the bottom of High Street. No matter what character they showed to the world, everyone in the family had a financial motive to kill Edgar Ormsby. The question remained, were there other, hidden motives, buried inside, which had driven one of the people within the household to take a life?
They pulled to a halt outside Drummond’s club, where Grace took over the reins. Drummond trotted in at full septuagenarian speed. He returned less than two minutes later, to report that Alistair and Thomas had already left.
“I don’t know where they went, Grace,” Drummond said. “I could come with you instead.”
“No need, Mr Drummond. You have your meeting to attend. Charlie will be fine.” Grace hoped she was right. After all, there wasn’t much Charlie Pyke couldn’t handle on his own. Except perhaps a firearm ... or a bludgeon from behind ... or poison in his tea.
“If you insist, Miss Penrose. But you ought to take the buggy.”
Grace bade Drummond farewell and flicked the reins. She focussed on avoiding delivery carts, trams, meandering pedestrians and skittish horses, until she reach the Harvey’s house. There, Grace tied the horse to a nearby rail and patted her glossy neck, promising not to be long. Grace expected no revelations from Mrs Harvey. A decade was a long time ago. The mare waved her tail agreeably, having discovered a patch of lush grass within foraging distance.
Mrs Harvey was charming, if rather puzzled at Grace’s haste for answers. “My husband’s note said you want to know the maiden name of Iain Thayne’s wife. Siobhan or similar, he thinks, for her first name, but I only knew her as Mairi. I hope it’s not important. It’s so long ago and my memory isn’t what it was. I only knew the lass after she married Iain.”
“But you do recall Iain Thayne and his family, Mrs Harvey?” Grace asked.
“How could I forget? Terrible tragedy. I wish we could have done more for them, but Mairi’s uncle was determined to take her away to a quiet place to recover. He had a croft on Skye, if I recall rightly. I’ll never forget Iain’s children at the funeral. The elder lass barely able to stand upright, the younger lass crying a river of tears, and the son trying his best to hold his grief inside so he could support them all. Far too heavy a burden to bear for young folk.”
Grace wasn’t sure what else she could ask. “I know it is a long shot, but do you recall anything about the Thayne family. What his wife looked like? The names and ages of the children, perhaps?”
“Mairi was a pretty lass, as I recall.” Mrs Harvey stared dreamily into space for a moment, before sitting up with a start. “Och, what a numpty I am. I’m forgetting it’ll be in the ‘hatch, match and dispatch’ box. Why you want to know, I’ll not ask, as I can see you’re in a hurry.” She went to a cabinet, rummaging within the overflowing contents and withdrawing a bulging box. “All the christenings, weddings and funerals we ever attended are in this box.”
It seemed to take forever, though Mrs Harvey’s aged fingers flicked at speed through the pile.
“Here it is – the invitation to Iain and Mairi’s wedding.” Mrs Harvey held up a gold-embossed invitation. “It seems my husband was wrong about the name of Iain’s wife. Not Siobhan, but Shelagh.” She held the invitation to her heart, which was a touching expression of her feelings for her son’s best friend, but added to the frustration for Grace, who could not see the writing.
“A terrible time she had, poor Mairi,” Mrs Harvey continued. “I heard she went back to using her maiden name after the tragedy of her husband’s death. Poor lass never left her uncle’s house again, so they say. I believe the girls were forced to go into service. Such a shame, when they were so bright. But for the slip of a scalpel, they would surely have been wives in grand households.”
The doctor’s wife shook her head sadly. “Iain’s children worshipped him. His death was a terrible blow.” Mrs Harvey recollected her purpose and passed the wedding invitation to Grace.
Grace took one look at the elegant gold script and sprinted for the door, leaving Mrs Harvey slack-jawed in her wake. Grace tore the reins from the hitching post and vaulted onto the seat, urging the startled mare into a fast trot. She gave thanks for the manoeuvrable little buggy as she sped through the streets to the police station. Grace stopped only long enough to demand that the desk officer pass on the name of the killer to Wallace and Kelly with utmost urgency.
Then she was back in the buggy, urging the horse up the hill, knowing deep in her soul that Charlie was in danger. She could only hope she wasn’t too late. How she wished she had left a message for Thomas Pyke and Alistair Stewart to go to the Ormsby house immediately, but wishes would not magically bring them to his aid.