Page 16

Chapter

Fifteen

SHADOWS AT WALSH HOUSE

B efore I could even pen a note to Julia asking for an audience, I received one from her. She begged my forgiveness for asking me to leave and asked if I could pay a call on her. There were matters she wished to discuss. I wasted no time making my way to Walsh House.

Upon my arrival, that residence loomed before me like a half-finished portrait—grand, certainly, but lacking warmth. Though the morning sun glinted off its stone facade and the ivy was neatly trimmed, something about the house struck a dissonant chord. As though its very walls knew that the man who had ruled it was now nothing but a name, soon to be etched on a tombstone.

The mourning draperies had already been drawn across the Walsh House doors. Heavy black crepe swathed the entrance like a shroud, an outward symbol of grief that did little to mask the turmoil coiling through the place.

I was admitted at once and shown to the morning room, where Julia awaited me.

She stood by the window when I entered, clad in mourning black, though her gown was cut simply and lacked the dramatic veils and embellishments society so often demanded of grieving widows. Her posture was ramrod straight, her fingers tightly interlaced. She turned as I approached and managed a pale smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Rosalynd,” she said, her tone apologetic. “Thank you for coming. I apologize for my behavior yesterday. I shouldn’t have asked you to leave.”

I gently took her hands in mine. “You were overwrought. Understandable given the circumstances.”

“Thank you for understanding and attending to me in my hour of need.”

“I came because I care, Julia. And also, because I’d like to ask some questions.”

A flicker of something—wariness, perhaps—crossed her face. She gestured toward the settee. “Of course. Let’s sit.”

The silence stretched between us as the maid brought in tea and withdrew. I waited until the tea had been poured and the maid dismissed before setting my cup aside and folding my hands in my lap.

“What was it you wished to discuss, Julia?”

She hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the door, then to the fire, as though gathering the courage to speak. At last, she exhaled slowly, the tension in her posture belying the calm she tried to maintain.

“It’s about Walsh,” she said. “Or rather, the mess he left behind.”

I said nothing, sensing she needed to unburden herself before I offered judgment or sympathy.

“The butler came to me yesterday. The staff hadn’t been paid in weeks, and the grocer has refused further deliveries. The coal merchant sent notice. No more fuel until the outstanding balance is cleared. I had to scrape together what I could from my personal allowance just to put food on the table.”

I was horrified by what she’d just revealed. “Surely he hadn’t neglected the accounts entirely.”

She gave a small, hollow laugh. “He didn’t neglect them, Rosalynd. He depleted them. Not only that, he’d been selling off valuables, piece by piece. I suspect he was gambling heavily. Again.”

“Did you know?”

“I suspected,” she admitted, her voice growing thinner. “But I never imagined the extent. And now there’s nothing but unpaid bills and dwindling credit. I fear for what may happen to myself, the household. But most of all, I fear for my child.”

“You did right to tell me,” I said gently. “We’ll find a way through this. Together.”

Julia gave a faint nod, though the lines around her mouth remained tight with worry.

I hesitated a moment, then asked, “Was there anything else? Anything unusual you noticed in the last few weeks? Visitors, letters—anything out of place?”

She looked down at her hands, twisting the fabric of her sleeve. “There were men who came to the door. Not often, but enough for the butler to comment. Walsh never introduced them. He always met them in the study, behind closed doors.”

“Did you ever overhear their conversations?”

“No. He was careful.” A pause. “Too careful. But afterward, he’d be more irritable than usual. On edge.”

“Did he say who they were?”

She shook her head. “Never. And if I asked, he’d fly into a rage.” Her voice dropped. “Once, I found him in the library, tearing pages from a ledger and burning them in the grate.”

My stomach tightened. “Do you know what was written in them?”

“I only caught a glimpse—figures, names, something scrawled in the margins. He saw me looking and slammed the book shut. Told me to stay out of his affairs if I valued what comfort I had left.”

The room seemed to shrink around us.

I leaned forward slightly. “Julia, did you keep any of what you found? The receipts, the papers—anything?”

Her fingers stilled. “A few.” Her eyes met mine. “I didn’t know what they meant. But now…”

“You’re starting to wonder what he was truly involved in.”

She gave the barest nod. “And whether his death was really so simple after all.”

“Did Walsh have any close acquaintances? Friends he confided in?”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Walsh didn’t have friends, Rosalynd.”

“What about enemies?” I asked gently. “Disagreements? Threats?”

She hesitated, then looked away toward the window, where the gray light of London filtered through gauzy drapes. “There were plenty. More than I cared to count. He took chances, Rosalynd. Not just at cards—but in business, in reputation, in nearly every interaction. He thought himself untouchable. And perhaps he was, until now.”

I leaned forward slightly. “Did he ever receive threats? Anything written? Spoken?”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “One night—perhaps two months ago—a gentleman barged into the house. I was upstairs. I only came down because I heard shouting. He was young, enraged, and claimed that Walsh had cheated him at cards. He said—‘I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I do.’ I remember the exact words because Walsh just laughed and called for the footman to throw him out.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. He never gave his name, and Walsh wouldn’t speak of it afterward. Said he was no one of consequence.”

“And that didn’t strike you as odd?”

Julia’s voice dropped. “Everything struck me as odd. He could be charming when he wanted something. But behind closed doors, he was clever. Secretive. Always maneuvering. His income from the estate barely covered our expenses, or so I thought. But as I just discovered, that wasn’t true. The ball was meant to convince people we were flush with money.”

“But you aren’t.”

She nodded slowly. “The bills for the ball haven’t been paid. The florist, the musicians, even the caterer. He kept pushing off their demands for payment. Promised returns were coming. Always ‘just a few days more.’”

My stomach sank. “Where did he think the money would come from?”

Julia hesitated again, her voice thickening with discomfort. “He said there was an investment—a silver mine. In the American West. He convinced several gentlemen to put money into it. But I . . . I don’t think it was real.”

My breath caught. “How do you know?”

“I read a letter. I wasn’t supposed to, but it was left open on his desk. A man was demanding answers—he’d invested a considerable sum and had not seen a penny. Said Walsh hadn’t responded to his inquiries and threatened legal action. Walsh burned the letter in the fireplace.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“He told me it was nothing.” Her voice cracked slightly. “But I think he was afraid. He never said so, but I saw it in the way he started locking his study door at night. Sleeping with a pistol in the drawer.”

I pressed a hand to my chest. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“And say what? That my husband might have swindled half of London? That our wealth was smoke and mirrors?” She looked at me with haunted eyes. “I couldn’t. I was too ashamed.”

“You need to inform Dodson. So he can look elsewhere for the murderer.” At the very least, it would keep suspicion from falling squarely on Julia.

“Mister Hanover made the same suggestion.”

“You’ve seen him?”

She nodded. “Last night. He apologized for the lateness of the hour. Given the circumstances, he felt it best to see me as soon as possible. He said—” she swallowed hard “—there was no concrete proof, indeed no proof at all to tie me to Walsh’s murder. Still, I can’t help but worry.”

She was right to do so. The rumors alone not only accused her but could lead to cold, hard facts. And Dodson was not one to ignore them. He would follow the gossip to where it might lead. But there was another avenue to explore. “Did you know about his mistress?”

Her shoulders slumped in resignation. “He visited her every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork. It was something we no longer discussed. I’d learned long ago that confronting him only led to cruelty.”

I reached across and took her hand again. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked at me, eyes shining with unshed tears, and opened her mouth to respond. But the sound of a door crashing open shattered the moment.

Voices rose in the corridor.

Julia’s grip tightened on my hand as a footman attempted to announce, too late, “Mr. Charles Walsh and Mrs. Lucretia Walsh?—”

“That will be Lord and Lady Walsh,” Lucretia Walsh declared as she entered the room.

They’d burst into the room like a gust of cold wind. Lucretia stood with all the hauteur of a woman who believed the house was already hers. “I thought it best we come in person.”

Julia stood, spine stiffening. “Why?”

Lucretia’s eyes swept the room, taking in the tea tray, the elegant furnishings, and finally settling on me. “Because it’s time to discuss the future. This house?—”

“Is still mine,” Julia interrupted sharply. “At least for now.”

Lucretia’s mouth thinned. “Charles is the heir. He should occupy the family residence.”

“Forgive me,” I said, rising to stand beside Julia. “But now is not the time to hold this discussion.”

“On the contrary,” Lucretia snapped. “The sooner we make arrangements, the better. There are certain expectations?—”

“Expectations can wait,” said another voice.

Edwin Heller had followed his cousin and his wife into the room. “Forgive the intrusion. I’d hoped to arrive before they did.” He entered with an apologetic look.

Lucretia sniffed. “You always were too soft-hearted, Edwin.”

He ignored her and spoke directly to Julia. “Charles doesn’t expect you to leave this very moment. Not before the funeral. Not while you’re still grieving. Proper arrangements can be discussed afterwards.”

“Thank you,” Julia whispered, voice trembling.

Charles finally spoke, his voice low. “Of course. We don’t wish to rush you, Julia.”

Lucretia opened her mouth again, but I cut in before she could strike. “Julia will need time. And support. Your father’s will needs to be read. He had to have made arrangements for Julia. For all you know, he wished her to remain here until the birth of the babe.”

Lucretia’s head spun toward her husband. “He can’t do that, can he, Charles? After all, he’s dead.”

Charles flinched. “For the love of God, Lucretia. If that is what Father desired, of course, I will honor his wishes. I would never go against them. Let us wait and see what the will says.”

His attitude had undergone a drastic change since the last time I saw him. Maybe he’d had a change of heart after branding Julia a murderer. I doubted it. More than likely, his cousin had talked some sense into him. It simply would not do to call his stepmother a murderess when there was no evidence to suggest such a thing. Never mind tossing Julia from her home while she was expecting a child was bound to cause a huge scandal. His honor would be besmirched before he even assumed the title.

But that did not seem to matter to his wife, who quickly turned on him. “You’re a weakling, Charles, in more ways than one. I never should have married you.”

Charles shifted uncomfortably. Edwin murmured something about needing to speak with the family solicitor and deftly ushered his cousin and Lucretia out of the room.

The moment the door closed behind them, Julia’s composure crumbled. She sank onto the settee and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I slipped beside her, wrapping an arm around her as she trembled beneath the weight of it all.

“I’ve tried so hard,” she gasped. “To keep up appearances. To keep things running. And now—now it’s all unraveling. The house, the lies, the debts. All of it.”

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore,” I murmured. “You have me. And you will get through this.”

She turned her face toward me, tear-streaked and pale. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that. Will you attend the inquest with me? It’s scheduled for Tuesday.”

“Of course, I will,” I said, pressing her hand. I would need to send a note to Steele. He would want to be there.

“I’d like to search Walsh’s study,” I said carefully. “Perhaps there’s something there that might point us toward the murderer.”

Julia shook her head, her voice edged with weariness. “Inspector Dodson combed through it last night. He claimed there was nothing of interest.” She paused, then added with quiet certainty, “But I wasn’t surprised. My husband never kept anything important there. His ledgers and confidential papers were always locked in the hidden safe in his private quarters.”

“You didn’t share that with Dodson, did you?” I asked, keeping my voice low, though my pulse had begun to race.

Julia’s mouth tightened. “No. I don’t trust the man.”

“Neither does Steele,” I said, relieved. “You did the right thing by holding it back.” I hesitated, then added gently, “Do I have your permission to explore Walsh’s rooms?”

She nodded, though the motion was slow and burdened. “I hope you find something,” she murmured. “Anything to stop this madness.”

“I’ll tell you if I do,” I promised. “Do you know the combination to the safe?”

Her gaze lifted to meet mine, and for a moment, something fragile and aching shimmered in her eyes. “Our wedding date,” she said softly. “He was hopeful then. He believed in us. But as the years passed without a child, that hope soured. He became distant. Cold. But he never changed the numbers. That’s what I’ll remember. That once, at least, I meant something to him.”

Her voice trembled at the end, and I wanted to believe her memory was enough to tether her to peace. But the truth pressed heavily on my chest. The man she’d married may have once been kind, but the one who’d died had been cruel, controlling, and worse. I’d seen the bruises, even if she hadn’t spoken of them.

If Dodson ever learned of them—if he suspected that those bruises told a motive—he would not hesitate to use them against her.