Page 25

“Lord Astley, I didn’t take you for a gambling man.”

Frederick had only made it a few steps outside The Lucky Coin before Detective Johnson materialized from the shadowy corner of the establishment. The man’s tilted frown spoke volumes.

Frederick was trespassing in unwanted territory.

Johnson’s dark overcoat and bowler hat silhouetted against the overcast sky gave him the look of a villain in one of Grace’s cherished mystery novels.

“I’m not, sir.” Frederick conceded with a smile. “Only visiting on a hunch.”

“A hunch?” A derisive puff of air, like a snort, emerged from the man. “Taking up your wife’s fictionalized mantle or stepping in your friend Miracle’s footsteps by attempting more amateur sleuthing?”

“Amateur?” Frederick allowed the faintest smile. “I assure you, Detective, I leave the professional work to you. But wouldn’t it be better to have more eyes on the lookout than fewer, especially considering the delicate nature of this situation?”

“Delicate? I’ve seen Mr. Dixon’s wound. It was anything but delicate.” One of Johnson’s brows rose in challenge. “One might even consider it inflicted out of passion.”

Frederick held Johnson’s gaze, unflinching. “Do you genuinely suspect my sister-in-law?”

Johnson hesitated, his expression unreadable, before exhaling. “Less likely she wielded the blade herself. But as for her involvement? That remains to be seen.”

The thought still hovered in Frederick’s mind, but not with the same hold as it had yesterday. There was much more going on surrounding Tony’s death than the disharmony of a marriage. “I have high doubts on that score, and I’m not one to play favorites as far as Mrs. Dixon is concerned.”

Johnson’s lips twitched. “Yes, from Lady Astley’s detailed accounts, I understand why you’re less than enchanted with your sister-in-law.”

And seven months ago, the mere mention of Lillias had fueled his anger. Now it only reinforced his gratitude. Grace was a better match for him in every conceivable way—a divine intervention he had been too blind to see at the time.

“What do you say of moving this conversation inside, Lord Astley.” Johnson waved toward a nearby restaurant with a much more appealing facade than the darker hues of the Lucky Coin.

Frederick inclined his head. As far as detectives went, Johnson was leagues apart from Miracle in demeanor. Where Jack had a knack for camaraderie and wit, Johnson wielded formality like a weapon. And it took very little brain work to deduce that the two men had crossed paths at some point in time.

Once seated in a quiet corner of the café, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the low murmur of patrons, Frederick decided to probe. “What’s the story between you and Jack Miracle?”

A flicker of surprise lit the man’s gaze, before his expression darkened.

Frederick fought back a grin. Perhaps he did gamble more than he admitted—though never with cards or dice. Curiosity was his vice, he supposed. One greatly encouraged by his wife. “Was it about some dueling cases between the two of you?”

Johnson released a heavy breath and took a drink from the glass the attendant just set on the table. The sudden heightening of color in Johnson’s face flared an idea to life in Frederick’s mind.

“A woman?”

Johnson froze, the rim of his glass halfway to his lips. When he finally spoke, his tone was grudging. “I may have underestimated your amateur skills, Lord Astley.”

“A veiled compliment. I’ll take it. But Jack’s never mentioned any other woman,” Frederick added, frowning. “Except his—” He stopped short, heat rising to his face. “His wife.”

“Another sharp observation.” Johnson traced the rim of his glass with his finger, his gaze distant. “We worked a case years ago. Edith was involved. She chose Miracle.”

“And promptly left him for another man,” Frederick finished, watching Johnson’s head snap up in surprise. “Jack told me as much. Took some of his money, ran off, and filed for divorce within a year.”

Johnson exhaled, leaning back in his chair as though the words had knocked the air out of him. “I didn’t know.”

“He’s a good man and a good detective. Perhaps the lady wasn’t the right one for either of you.”

Johnson relented with a shadow of a nod, the topic mercifully left to fade. “So what did you discover from Hargrove?”

Frederick’s lips twitched upward. Finally, back to business.

Johnson’s question, while gruffly delivered, was a subtle concession—accepting Frederick’s assistance without outright admitting it.

Baby steps. “Tony Dixon had a conflict with a stranger, a Scot it seems, who happened to go by the name of—”

“Let me guess.” Johnson’s brow arched with maddening smugness. “Clark?”

Frederick narrowed his eyes. How much did the man already know? “Indeed. And the altercation occurred two nights before Dixon’s death.”

“Did Hargrove mention anything about Dixon’s regular temperament?”

Frederick took a measured sip from his glass, the burn in his throat barely masking the sting of recalling Tony’s fate.

A decent man undone by his own desperation.

“By all accounts, he had a good reputation. Generous, even. But he was notoriously unlucky—cards, dice—a win from any form of gambling seemed to elude him.”

“And banking didn’t seem to suit him either,” Johnson added.

“Worked at the same firm for a year without a single promotion. Some miscalculated figures cost him his standing.” He paused, looking up from his glass.

“Evidently, he went into banking at his family’s insistence. The man wanted to work with his hands.”

“Farming?”

“Or building. A craftsman at heart.”

Tony sacrificed his dreams for Lillias’ ambitions?

A banking position would have carried more prestige, after all.

And did Lillias know? For some reason, that made the death of the man even worse.

Despite the rumors of his and Lillias’ marital conflict, some sort of affection had moved them. Both of them, if Frederick guessed.

“Speaking of strangers from across the pond,” Johnson interrupted his thoughts, fixing him with a pointed gaze, “there’s a Scot staying at the Clarion Hotel. Arrived recently. Keeps to himself. Ring any bells?”

Johnson already knew exactly why Frederick would be acquainted with such a man. Had Mrs. James alerted him of the note Frederick had sent to Mr. Barclay last evening? “Mr. Barclay is here on business concerning my wife and her sister.”

“And what sort of business, may I ask?” Johnson’s right eyebrow raised.

Frederick mirrored the expression. “Barclay is handling an inheritance. Apparently a Scottish estate left by their mother. He should be meeting with Lady Astley and Mrs. Dixon even now to discuss the matter.”

“Oh, he’s already been there. Officer Todd informed me.” Johnson finished off his glass. “Curious timing, wouldn’t you say?”

The thought hadn’t strayed too far from Frederick’s mind, but he kept quiet.

“A Scottish pin found at the murder site. A foreign stranger who had an altercation with the victim before his death. The sudden arrival of a Scot to deliver an inheritance which conveniently resides in Scotland?” He stood and tossed a few bills on the table.

“Curious.” He tipped his hat. “I’d keep a very wary eye out, Lord Astley. ”

Grace walked to her room, envelope in hand, ready to delve into the photos Mr. Barclay had left, when a small shadowy figure down the hallway stopped her.

Zahra stood by the tall window, her long dark hair falling down the back of her pale pink dress, her body half hidden behind the curtain as she looked out.

The same sweetness Grace always felt when she realized the little girl was theirs burgeoned through her, and she walked over the simple carpet toward her.

But just before Grace reached the window, Zahra turned and held out her palm to stop Grace’s forward movement. “Keep hidden, Sayyida. It is the false Clark.”

The warmth in Grace’s chest crashed into a chill, her pulse ratcheting up as she crouched and slid closer to the wall, keeping her body away from the window’s visibility.

Grace peered over the top of Zahra’s head, which overlooked the back garden where the houses all stretched out around the large, wooded park area she’d seen yesterday.

In daylight, it didn’t look as foreboding, but the thickness of the trees not only offered shade from the sun but a cloak for more villainous options as well.

“He has no mustache,” Zahra whispered, gesturing to her own upper lip with a gravity that would’ve been comical under any other circumstances.

Near the edge of the wood stood a very transformed Officer Clark, or what she could see of his profile at such a distance through a dirty window on an overcast day with a tree blocking part of his person.

He gave off the same impression as the fake Officer Clark.

He was tall, that much she could tell. With a sturdy body shape very similar to the man they’d seen rush into the house claiming to be the false officer.

And his swath of brown hair matched her memory of the man too.

He stood apparently talking to someone, but the someone was shaded by trees.

From where she stood, Grace couldn’t quite make out his eye color or see if there were any facial scars, a very important tidbit of information for any sleuth to recognize, but his stature cut a memorable figure among the forested area.

He wore a summer suit, well trimmed and, if she guessed right, rather stylish, but of course, her knowledge in such matters was always lacking refinement.

“Are you certain it’s him?” Grace whispered.

Zahra shot her a look of withering offense.

“Well,” Grace amended quickly, “I thought so too. But it’s good to confirm. You are new to sleuthing, after all.” She paused, softening. “But your instincts are remarkable.”

Zahra’s expression eased, and she nodded toward the window. “He is not as handsome as Sayid.”