Page 82 of Murder at the Dinner Party

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” I said as I slipped behind her and closed the door. “I was looking for a clue.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “Does Mrs. Turner know you’re in here?”

“No. She doesn’t want me to investigate anymore, but I want to take this through to the end now. Mr. Hardy deserves it. Don’t you agree?”

She didn’t respond, which was perhaps understandable, given that he’d spoken cruelly to her. “I have to count Sir Ian’s port before I take Mrs. Turner her tea.” She held up a key and indicated the sideboard where Mr. Hardy locked the most expensive bottles for safekeeping.

I stepped aside to allow her to pass. She knelt on the floor and unlocked the sideboard. “It’s Davey, isn’t it? He’s the father of your unborn child.”

She sat back on her haunches, but kept her back to me.

“Betty,” I said gently. “I’m not here to make your life more difficult. I merely want answers.”

“I don’t understand what my predicament has to do with Mr. Hardy’s death,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I don’t know if it does have anything to do with it. But knowing how he treated you gives me a better understanding of the man. Do you know if he had any family?”

She shrugged.

“Friends? Anyone from his past that he spoke to you about?”

“He didn’t speak to me about anything like that. I was beneath him. The only time he talked to me was to give me orders and to tell me I had loose morals.”

“When he learned about the baby?”

Her shoulders slumped forward, and she burst into tears again, but she did manage a nod.

I laid a hand on her shoulder, but the gesture felt woefully inadequate. She needed more than my sympathy. She needed money and support. But if she was guilty of murder, nothing could help her.

“Betty, didyoukill Mr. Hardy?”

She spun around. “No!”

I grasped her shoulders and leveled my gaze with hers. “Is Davey the father of your baby?”

The door suddenly opened and Davey stood in the doorway. He must have heard us. Had he been listening at the door or had he merely wandered past when Betty blurted out her denial?

He took in the both of us and the open sideboard. He put out his hand to Betty and gave her a gentle smile. She stared back at him, her eyes huge. Something passed between them. Something I’d not noticed before.

“It’s mine,” he said as he assisted her to stand. “And I’m going to take care of everything. You all right, Betty?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

He handed her his handkerchief. “Dry your eyes.”

She took it gratefully and wiped the tears away.

Davey turned to me. Where he’d always been boyishly jovial, he was now quite serious, and mature. “Hardy knew about us and the baby. He confronted me.”

“In the courtyard,” I said.

He nodded. “But I didn’t kill him. After we had words and both calmed down, we had a good conversation. That’s when I decided to make an honest woman of Betty.” He clasped his hands over both of hers as she clutched the handkerchief. “This was some days before he died. I never killed him, Miss Fox. I never went near this office that day.”

Outside, a clock chimed. Betty gasped. “I have to fetch Mrs. Turner’s tea.”

“I’ll lock up,” Davey said. “You go.”

She pressed the sideboard key into his palm and raced out of the office.