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Chapter Twenty

A s it turned out, Emma Bates’s home on Rupert Street wouldn’t take Jasper and Lewis far from their path to the Stewarts’ residence, so they agreed to try there first.

“If she took the kiddies to see their grandparents, what reason does she have to go back to her brother-in-law’s home?” Lewis asked as they strode toward the intersection of Shaftsbury Avenue and Rupert Street.

Reluctantly, Jasper explained that after their visit to Holloway Prison—which Lewis had muttered was a barmy idea to begin with—Leo had divulged a suspicion that the widowed Emma Bates was smitten with Porter Stewart.

“And with her possible relation to the Spitalfields Angels, you think she had access to a bomb and set up Mrs. Stewart to get her out of the way? Come on, guv,” Lewis said with a snorting laugh.

It did seem rather convoluted. If the woman’s maiden surname hadn’t been Paget, Jasper would’ve dismissed Leo’s suspicion. But as the Angels were now linked to both Niles Foster and the case against Mrs. Stewart, he couldn’t set it aside.

“I don’t have the answers yet, but we do know some of the Angels have strong ties to Clan na Gael,” Jasper said, then launched into what Leo had theorized earlier, including the bit about Lester Rice and his deceased brother, Peter.

“If Clan na Gael planned to carry out three bombings that day, and the Angels knew about it, they might have forced PC Lloyd to plant Mrs. Stewart’s suitcase so that it would be found amongst the rest of the wreckage. ”

He sighed, still wanting more to back up their theory. It was as if the pieces were floating around in his head, out of order, connecting for only a moment before splitting apart again.

Lewis murmured half-hearted support for this possibility, then said, “Tomlin’s going to go to the superintendent. You know that, right?”

He exhaled. “Yes.”

Chief Superintendent Monroe had replaced Gregory Reid when he’d become ill enough to step down.

Monroe was an aloof man, tall and imperial, and he would not like that Jasper had disregarded Inspector Tomlin’s findings in the Stewart case.

Subversion in any form was more than frowned upon.

Jasper would be reprimanded, though how harshly he wasn’t sure.

“I’ll worry about that later,” he said.

At Mrs. Bates’s address, a young maid opened the door and told them that her mistress was out.

“Has she returned here after her trip to Kent?” Jasper asked.

The maid bobbed her head in affirmation, but when Lewis asked where they might be able to find her, she became skittish and quiet.

“Does Mrs. Bates have family in London?” Jasper tried when the maid looked ready to close the door on them. “Other than Mr. and Mrs. Stewart,” he added.

The maid frowned. “I can’t say.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Lewis asked.

She pursed her lips and looked back over her shoulder into the house. Then whispered, “ Can’t . I don’t want to lose my position. I were just brought on last month.”

Jasper didn’t want to get the girl in trouble, but she knew something, and he wasn’t willing to risk letting it go just to be polite. “Does the name Paget sound familiar to you?”

The maid’s visible fright was an answer. He pressed onward.

“Has anyone by that name come here, looking for your mistress?”

Still miserable, she slipped onto the front step and closed the door all but an inch behind her. “Mrs. O’Toole says we aren’t ever to speak of them. If Mistress has a visitor by that name, they’re to be directed to the back door.”

The tradesmen’s entrance for family? Emma Bates was either ashamed or wished to secret them away for another reason.

“Have any of them come here recently? Within the last few weeks?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Not in the month since I’ve been here.”

Jasper considered asking to speak to this Mrs. O’Toole, who was likely the housekeeper.

But then, the maid’s frown pinched even more deeply.

“But Mistress did put a letter in the post my first week. I only noticed the name because Mrs. O’Toole had just told me about sending them ones to the back door. ”

“It was addressed to someone named Paget?” Lewis asked.

At the maid’s nod, Jasper said, “Do you recall anything else about whom it was going to? A first name? Street address?”

An indiscernible voice came from within the house, and the maid jumped and hurried back inside.

“Please, miss, anything at all?” Lewis asked as she was closing the door. All that remained was a sliver of her face when she said, “Mr. C. Paget. That’s who it were addressed to. That’s all I know.”

The door shut on them then. It was enough.

“All right,” Lewis said as they started back out on the pavement. “So, she’s got kin in the Angels.”

“Not just kin.” Jasper ignored the soreness of his ribs as he walked more swiftly. “Clive Paget is top brass. Old enough to be her father, maybe.”

“You really think this lady made a bomb?” Lewis didn’t believe it, even now. Jasper wasn’t sure he did either.

They turned north toward nearby Carlisle Street, where they ended up having more success.

Mr. Stewart was in, though the maid who allowed them to step into the foyer was not nearly as cowed by their warrant cards as Mrs. Bates’s maid had been.

She glared at them, as if they were personally responsible for dragging her mistress off to prison.

“Wait here while I see if Mr. Stewart is in.”

“Betty, I told you not to allow Mrs.—” A tall, handsome man in his middle thirties swept into the foyer from a back hall. His stride stalled, as did his reprimand for the maid, when he saw the two Scotland Yard officers.

“Mr. Porter Stewart, I presume?” Jasper said.

The man blinked and cleared his throat, attempting to recover his poise. “Yes. And you are?”

As he held up his warrant card and introduced himself and Lewis, Jasper took in Porter Stewart’s appearance. The knot of his ascot was loose, and a bright red mark colored his left cheek. He had the stunned look of a man who’d just been slapped.

“Who were you telling your maid not to allow inside your home?” Jasper asked.

“What is the reason for your visit, Inspector?”

“We’ll get to that in a moment. First, I’d like to know who you instructed your maid to keep out.”

Mr. Stewart gaped like a fish. “That is none of your concern.”

“That cuff on your cheek looks fresh,” Lewis said.

“A couple minutes old, at the most,” Jasper agreed. “My guess? You told your maid not to allow in the woman who landed it.”

The banker touched his reddened cheek reflexively, then lowered his hand. “It’s a personal matter, Inspector. And I find I need a drink.”

He turned into a large room, divided into two spaces by a cloister-like arch.

The front half of the room was a sitting area, and the back was a dining room with a large marble hearth.

Stewart went straight for a cart of decanted spirits and crystal glasses.

He poured himself a liberal splash of amber liquid and tossed it back in one gulp.

“Mr. Stewart, we’re investigating the murder of Niles Foster,” Jasper began. “We have a credible witness who can place Mr. Foster in your office, in your presence, at Seale and Company Bank just days before his murder.”

The banker refilled his glass. “The name isn’t familiar. I deal with dozens of customers every day. How am I to remember this one man?”

Jasper showed him the photograph he’d kept in his pocket. Mr. Stewart swallowed his drink smoothly, without reaction. “I’ve no recollection of him.”

“He was a parliamentary aide to Sir Elliot Payne. You recall him , don’t you? An MP, scheduled to speak at the Women’s Equality Alliance meeting on the night of your wife’s arrest?”

Mr. Stewart squared his shoulders at the mention of his wife. “What does this have to do with Geraldine?”

“That is what we’re trying to determine,” Jasper replied.

He held up the photograph again for the banker to see.

“You know him. There is no point in pretending otherwise. So, why don’t you tell me why Sir Elliot’s aide came to your bank and waited thirty minutes only to speak to you for less than five? ”

Porter Stewart touched the corner of his mouth and a spot of blood on his lip. The woman’s strike had been fierce. Jasper had a good guess who she was.

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said without a shred of dexterity. “He wanted a loan. Without any collateral, however, I was forced to turn him down. He became rather hot over it, I’m afraid.”

The man was lying, but there was no way to prove it. Jasper took another tack. “Why did your sister-in-law cuff you across the cheek just now?”

Mr. Stewart’s purposefully distant expression came alive. “What… I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your ascot is mussed, you’ve been slapped, and Emma Bates came here this morning after getting your children well out of London so she could have you all to herself.”

It was pure theory, but Jasper slung it out with confidence, hoping it would stick. He had nothing to lose anyhow.

“You cannot know that,” Mr. Stewart protested, but he was more in awe than he was angry.

“I know plenty,” Jasper hedged. It worked.

Mr. Stewart turned away and sipped his drink, this time more restrainedly.

“She’s a beautiful widow, still in her prime,” Jasper went on, drawing from what Leo had told him, as he’d never made the woman’s acquaintance. “And she admires you a great deal.”

“That is quite enough, Inspector. What you are suggesting is offensive.”

“I’m sure it is. How long have the two of you been having an affair?”

Jasper could always tell when a person was holding something back—usually for self-preservation. Mr. Stewart was doing just that. He needed to needle the man until he gave up whatever he was hiding.

“I will ask you to leave this instant,” he snapped.

“Your wife’s valise was used in one of the Scotland Yard bombings. Would Emma Bates have had access to your attic?” Jasper pressed further. “Or perhaps you fetched the valise yourself and staged the break-in.”

The banker slammed his glass onto the drinks cart. “Enough! This is ludicrous. I had nothing to do with that bombing, and it does not matter what Emma feels for me because I most certainly do not feel the same toward her.”

He drew a shaky breath. Ran his fingers through his already unkempt hair.

“Where is she?” Lewis asked.

“No longer here. She ran off after she…” Mr. Stewart capitulated. “After she struck me.”

“Why did she do that?” Jasper asked. When the banker hesitated, he guessed, “You rejected her?”

With a nod, he swiped up his glass again.

“This is a bloody disaster. It was a lapse of character. One dalliance,” he said, his voice cracking.

“I told her that it could not be. That I’d made a mistake.

I thought she understood and agreed. But then…

I don’t know, she got it into her head that I was going to leave Geraldine. Divorce her. Can you imagine?”

Lewis stopped just short of rolling his eyes. “What was she thinking?”

Mr. Stewart didn’t note the detective sergeant’s sarcasm. “I know. I tried to reason with her, tried to keep her calm.”

“But?” Jasper asked.

He rubbed his temple. “She would not be mollified.”

“This all happened today?” Jasper asked.

“No, no. It was a month ago. Nearly two. But today, she brought everything up again. And again, I had to tell her it would not happen. It could not.” Mr. Stewart no longer looked ready to toss them out.

If anything, he appeared eager to confess.

Jasper imagined he’d been struggling in secret with his lapse of character , as he’d called it.

“Em has always been sympathetic. She saw how much of my attention and effort went toward Geraldine and her political group. My wife, well, she is a force. It can be difficult to get a word in edgewise about anything. But Em seemed to recognize that I needed support too. Attention, perhaps. She encouraged me to speak up for myself.” He sounded nearly nostalgic and forgiving, and his calling her Em was proof of familiarity.

Mr. Stewart lowered his head, sobering. “I am ashamed that I strayed, but it was only once. One mistake,” he repeated.

A vigorous slamming of the front door knocker punctuated Mr. Stewart’s confession.

The maid, Betty, had been lingering close by—listening in, most likely—and hurried to open the door.

The murmur of a female voice reached them in the large gathering room, and the small hairs on the back of Jasper’s neck stood at attention.

His blood stirred. And then, Leo swept inside, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Her lips bowed with a rare smile.

“Oh, good. You’re all here,” she began. “I think I know why Mr. Foster was killed.”