The Sign of Death by Callie Hutton (i like reading .TXT) 📕

William looked out the window as the carriage moved into traffic. “We have a few suspects who certainly had a motive to kill him, but we need the person who actually did the deed.”

“And are you one of them?” Amy asked.

“With a motive to kill him? Not that I would ever step over that line, but I’m afraid to say, yes. Although I didn’t discover I even had a motive until after he was already dead, so we don’t need to add my name to our list.”

“Not since the police already have you at the very top of theirs.”

He shook his head. “They have what they consider conclusive evidence.” William reached into his pocket and withdrew a paper. “I forgot about this note my butler handed me as I left earlier today to escort you to tea. I’m afraid I was a bit distracted.”

He opened it, read it, and smiled at Amy. “Nick Smith has found Patrick Whitney.”

CHAPTER 22

William dropped the knocker on the worn wooden door and stepped back, prepared for anything. Nick Smith had provided this address as belonging to Patrick Whitney. It was not his home, apparently, but for some reason he was living here.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and unless Whitney was an early riser, he should be at home. William had been watching the house for the past hour to see if anyone came out, but everything remained quiet.

It was a hoarier section of Bath, the houses mostly eighty to a hundred years old. Not exactly seedy, but the area would not be considered middle class. William dropped the knocker again.

About two minutes later the door opened and a woman stuck her head out. She appeared to be somewhere in her early thirties, and judging by her dishabille, she had just risen from her bed. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I was told Mr. Patrick Whitney was residing here.”

“What if he is?”

“I would like to speak with him. His stepmother is quite concerned about him.”

The woman snorted and opened the door wider, allowing William to enter. “If she’s so concerned, why isn’t she here herself?”

“She was unable to locate him.” As he stepped inside, his eyes swept the inside of the residence, which was quite pleasant. Although the furniture and accoutrements were old and worn, the place was clean and tidy, with splashes of color provided by pillows and a vase of flowers. The woman tightened the belt around her dressing gown.

“May I speak with Mr. Whitney?”

“I’ll have to get him out of bed first. He’s been sick, you know.”

“Sick?”

The woman nodded. “He’s been suffering from an ague, and I’ve been caring for him.”

“That is very kind of you. How long has he been sick?”

“Aye. About two weeks. He showed up here sick as can be and practically collapsed at my feet.”

“You are friends, I assume?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m a respectable woman and earn my wages by working in a pub. Serving drinks. Nothing more.”

A bell went off in William’s head. “At which pub do you work?”

“What’s it to you? I just said I only serve drinks.”

“No. I apologize; that is not what I meant. I am looking for those who work in the pubs near the river.”

“Looking for Patrick, looking for people who work at pubs. What are you, some private investigator?”

“No. I am checking on Patrick on behalf of his stepmother. I would like to speak to those who work at pubs near a certain part of the river for another reason.”

The woman sniffed. “Sounds suspicious to me.”

Perhaps his title would get him some answers. “I am Lord Wethington. May I ask your name?”

“Millie. Mrs. Millie Johnson.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Why?”

The woman was certainly of the suspicious sort. But then, if she was serving drinks in a pub near the river and allowing men to stay in her house while they recovered from illnesses, she would have to be suspicious in order to stay unharmed. And alive.

Since it appeared he would get nowhere with Mrs. Johnson, he said, “May I speak with Mr. Whitney?”

Millie shrugged and pointed to a room to his left. “You can wait in there. I think he’s probably well enough to come downstairs.”

William nodded his thanks and entered the drawing room. Whitney had been sick for the past couple of weeks and staying here. Why he wouldn’t seek help from his stepmother raised a few questions in William’s mind.

About fifteen minutes passed before Whitney entered the room. William had no idea what he had expected the man to look like, but nevertheless he was startled to see a very young man, perhaps little more than eight and twenty years. He had the look of someone who had been sick for a while. Moving slowly, he had pasty skin, dark circles under his eyes, and a slender form, which could be his normal figure. “Why are you looking for me?”

Just the walk to the room and that little bit of speech had left Whitney breathless.

“Why don’t we sit?” William waved to a faded olive-green settee.

Whitney nodded and plodded over to the settee. He let out a deep sigh once he was seated. For having been sick for a couple of weeks already, the man was not in good shape. Whatever had gotten hold of him must have brought him close to his death.

He looked over at William with narrowed eyes. “What do you want?”

William leaned forward. “Your stepmother is concerned about you. She wanted me to find you and let her know you are all right.” No point in mentioning she was afraid he might be hiding for killing Harding.

“As you can see, I am not all right, but don’t tell her that; she worries about everything. Which is why, when I started to feel really sick, I came to Millie’s house. We’ve been friends for years.”

“How long were your father and stepmother married?”

“Only about three years when