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Chapter Nine

“ W ipe your feet.” A hatchet-faced maid stood in front of Jasper, preventing him from taking another step into Sir Elliot Payne’s kitchen until he abided her command.

He’d first gone to the front door of the enormous townhouse, but one look from the footman and he’d been ordered to the service entrance used by tradesmen before having the door shut in his face. Bloody aristocracy. Even the servants were snobs.

“Better still, you can remove your shoes,” the maid said after Jasper had made perfunctory swipes of his soles on the bristled floor mat. “The floors have just been swept, and I won’t have you dropping dirt all over the place.”

He stood tall and met her haughty stare. “I am not removing my shoes, madam. Take me to your employer. I’ve questions for him regarding one of his aides.”

She sniffed and, though standing a full head shorter than Jasper, managed to look down her nose at him.

He could only imagine the reception she would have given him had he not gone home first to bathe, shave, and put on a change of clothes.

There, he’d given his ruined coat to Mrs. Zhao and asked her to buy him another with the pound note that had been left in his pocket.

She had not been pleased to see that a perfectly good suit coat had been treated so poorly.

“Wait here,” the maid said.

He remained where he stood for several minutes while she whispered to a footman, who then disappeared into the main house to announce the detective inspector to Sir Elliot.

Jasper would have rather gone to Niles Foster’s bachelor’s rooms near Parliament to search through his belongings than come to this fine home on Park Lane.

Questioning a knighted member of Parliament, however, was a task for a lead inspector.

And considering Elliot Payne had been set to give a speech to the WEA on the same night his aide drowned, Jasper was curious as to why Sir Elliot had canceled on short notice.

After receiving Jasper’s update that morning, Detective Chief Inspector Dermot Coughlan had agreed that an inquest was warranted on the drowning case, and while they awaited word on the postmortem findings, they were to begin their investigation.

The footman returned to the kitchen, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back. “This way,” he directed solemnly.

Jasper followed him through the home’s corridors, noting similar features to his own home on Charles Street.

Ornate crown molding, thick Aubusson carpets, intricate woodwork and paneling.

This home, however, had a fresher appearance, with touches of elegance and wealth that Gregory Reid had not been able to lavish upon his own home.

A copper’s income, even that of a Chief Superintendent, would not have allowed for it.

How the bloody hell a detective inspector’s wages were supposed to maintain a house and servant often kept Jasper awake at night.

But that tight spot was something to think about some other time.

The footman entered a small study, and Jasper followed on his heels.

“Ah. Detective Inspector Reid from Scotland Yard,” an older gentleman said as he stood from behind his desk. He was somewhere in his fifties, agile and distinguished in appearance, with a head of thick, silver hair, free of the pomade many men used.

“Sir Elliot,” Jasper replied. “Thank you for seeing me.”

The knight dismissed the footman and gestured toward a pair of leather club chairs in front of a hearth. He came out from behind his desk to take one. Jasper didn’t like to sit but relented, perching on the edge of the seat cushion.

“What are your questions about, Inspector?”

“Your aide, Niles Foster.”

Sir Elliot settled his elbows on the arms of the chair and laced his fingers. “I do hope he hasn’t gotten into any trouble with the police.”

“Would it come as a surprise to you if he had?”

He would inform the man of Foster’s death momentarily, but here was a small window of opportunity for him to glean something about the aide before the revelation was made.

“It would, yes,” the MP replied thoughtfully. “Oh, I know he is young, and young men are prone to trouble, but Niles has been professional and dependable. Of course, what he gets up to when he isn’t at work…” He opened his hands, palms raised, as if to say, who is to know?

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Foster?” Jasper asked.

He laced his fingers again and frowned in thought. “Yesterday. Early afternoon. Inspector, how has my aide come to your attention?”

There was no reason to delay the news any longer.

“Niles Foster was found dead this morning. I’m investigating his death.”

The knight dropped his hands to the armrests, his expression opening with genuine astonishment. “My God. Are you certain it is him?”

“He’s been identified.”

Sir Elliot stood. Paused, as if not quite knowing what to do next. Then, he retook his seat. “The poor man. How did he die?”

“I’m still waiting on the postmortem results, but at the moment, it appears he drowned.”

The knight repeated that last— drowned —as if the word did not make sense.

“Where was this?” he then asked. But Jasper knew better than to allow the person he was questioning to seize the reins.

“Sir Elliot, I’m looking into Mr. Foster’s final hours and what might have led to his death. You say you last saw him yesterday, early in the afternoon. Can you provide a specific time?”

He blinked and nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. Let me see. Niles informed me that he had an appointment and that he would not be present when I emerged from chambers. I went in at one o’clock, so that was the last time I saw him.”

“Did he say anything about the appointment? Where it was, or with whom?”

He shook his head. “I don’t become personal with my aides. What they do in their off-hours is their business.”

It was understandable. A man as important as Sir Elliot Payne wasn’t likely to care about Niles Foster’s private life.

“How did he seem before he left? In good spirits?”

He shrugged, and his expression was one of ignorance. “I suppose. I noticed nothing amiss.”

Jasper thought of Foster’s appearance. “Did he have any bruising on his face?”

This seemed to interest Sir Elliot. “Bruising? None at all. I thought you said he drowned?”

“It appears he met with some violence beforehand.” The bruising had looked fresh, and now Jasper knew for certain Foster had received the beating after one o’clock in the afternoon.

What he wanted to know was if the man had been alive or dead when he went into the duck pond.

The ormolu clock in the knight’s study read a quarter past noon.

Claude might have performed the postmortem exam by now.

“Did Foster associate with other parliamentary aides? Clerks?”

“Not that I am aware of, but as I said, I was not on familiar terms with him,” Sir Elliot answered. “He never caused any fuss.”

“Didn’t he? I’ve been told his argument with Viscount Hayes outside chambers last week was loud and very public.”

The MP hitched his chin. “I heard of their dispute, though I didn’t witness it myself. I should think you would wish to speak to Lord Hayes about it.”

That Niles Foster had been found in the viscount’s duck pond wasn’t something Jasper wanted to share. It didn’t look good for Oliver. Of course, Sir Elliot would eventually learn of it anyhow.

“Thank you, I will.” He stood. “One more thing, Sir Elliot. A woman has been arrested in connection with the bombings at Scotland Yard two days ago. Mrs. Geraldine Stewart, with whom, I am told, you are acquainted.”

He furrowed his brow. “Mrs. Stewart? I cannot believe it.”

“You were to attend the Women’s Equality Alliance meeting last night but canceled shortly before,” Jasper said, disinclined to reveal where he’d gotten this information. “Can you tell me where you were instead?”

The MP didn’t seem to have any motive for harming his aide, but it would be good to have his alibi, nonetheless.

“Yes, it was unfortunate to have to cancel so late in the day, but another meeting came up that I could not miss. I had a message delivered to Mrs. Stewart, giving her my apologies.”

“With whom did you meet?”

Sir Elliot seemed perturbed by the pointed question but gave an answer just the same. “Sir Charles Ralston. A fellow member of the House of Commons.”

Jasper made a note of the name. He would, of course, need to run the name down and verify Sir Elliot had been with him last evening.

“From what I hear, you were to speak in support of the women’s suffrage movement,” Jasper said.

Sir Elliot, still seated in the leather club chair with his legs crossed, rotated his left foot in slow circles. “It is only a matter of time before women can vote. I am a progressive, after all. Labor usually is,” he added. “It’s the Tories who are perpetually stuck a decade in the past.”

“Do you think her a violent sort?”

He kept his foot swirling as if in deep thought. “I never saw it. But she is quite passionate about women’s equality, and when passions run high… Well, one never knows, does one?” He sighed. “Mr. Stewart won’t come out well in any of this. Surely, it will reflect poorly on him.”

Jasper hadn’t yet thought of the husband. “What is his business?”

“Banking.” Sir Elliot seemed to come to attention. “These two cases aren’t connected, I presume?”

He answered no, but there was at least a singular thread linking them: Sir Elliot. To what end wasn’t clear. Maybe it was truly nothing at all. A coincidence. Though Jasper hated that word.

Thanking the knight for his time, he left the study and exited through the front door onto Park Lane. Several cabs, already hired out, passed by before one stopped at his signal. He directed the driver to Spring Street.