Page 44 of The Detective and the Baroness

“Yes, sir?”

“Back to Whiteley’s, if you please.”

Once they arrived, Mitchell paid the driver. He gave him a little extra for his deft navigation of the overcrowded London streets and keeping an inconspicuous distance from the viscount’s cab. Mitchell stepped across the threshold of the perfumier shop and was inundated with a blend of evocative scents. The place was fancy and reeked of money, decorated with white Grecian columns, glass display cases, and electric lighting overhead. Female shop assistants manned every case, and many were waiting on customers.

A well-dressed gentleman came toward him, no doubt the floor supervisor. “Good afternoon, sir. May I direct you?”

Mitchell wasn’t keen on flashing his division card again, but technically, he was still among the ranks. Reaching into his side coat pocket, he fetched his leather card case and flipped it open. “Detective Sergeant Simpson. Viscount Rothley was just in here.”

“Yes, I served him myself. Is something the matter, Sergeant?”

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?” Mitchell asked solemnly, giving the supervisor a reason to take the conversation elsewhere.

“Of course. Follow me. Natasha, you have the floor.” The supervisor led Mitchell down a narrow hallway and into a cramped office. “Her name isn’t Natasha; it’s Annie Jones, but fancy names give the customers a dash of class.”

Good. The man was chatty. Which meant he might reveal all sorts of things. Mitchell sat in front of the desk facing the supervisor. “And your name, sir?”

“I am Colin Peterson. How may I help you?”

Mitchell gave him a crooked smile. “I’m sure you’ve said those words many times through the years.”

Peterson laughed personably. “Very clever, sir. Yes, I have.”

“Viscount Rothley, why was he here?”

Peterson sobered. “I am not certain I should discuss such an important client.”

“I would not ask if it were not imperative and integral to my case. Of course, I am unable to discuss it.”

“Of course.”

“I assure you that anything you tell me will be under the strictest confidence. Your name will never be mentioned.”

“Well, in that case.” Peterson reached into his desk drawer, brought forth a hefty ledger, and flipped through the pages. “The viscount opened an account with us last year. He ran up quite the bill—several hundred pounds, in fact. I was vastly relieved when his son came into the store about six days ago, paid off the arrears, and closed the account. He informed me not to give his father any more credit. I just informed the viscount that the account was paid in full and would be unavailable to him in the future.”

“And what was his reaction?”

“Understandably angry. He cursed his son, calling him ‘an interfering young buck with no business sticking his nose in his business.’ The viscount demanded I open another account, and I politely refused. He fumed but eventually placed an order and paid cash.”

Mitchell scribbled in his notebook. “And what did the viscount usually order?”

“All sorts of perfumes, lotions, creams, soaps, cosmetics, only the best quality.” Peterson leaned in and squinted at the ledger. “All deliveries were to a Mrs. Robson, ninety-four Old Street.”

So Rothley kept a paramour. Was that where all the money was going? At least in the last year or so?

“The viscount came into the shop with Mrs. Robson about seven months ago. He placed a huge order,” Peterson continued, warming up to the subject. “I heard from supervisors from other departments that the viscount spent hundreds of pounds on ladies’ clothing, like leather gloves, expensive undergarments, and the like. Do not get me started on the jewelry.”

Rothley had a mistress, all right. “How would you describe Mrs. Robson?”

“Early forties, much younger than the viscount. She was dressed stylishly and had an air of quality about her. It was hard to tell if it was real, or if she was putting it on. I have seen men of means come in with their side pieces, sometimes with those of the lower classes. Giggling and rubbing up against the men. Mrs. Robson did not act that way. She had dignity.”

Mitchell tucked away his notebook. “You have been most accommodating, Mr. Peterson. Thank you.”

“I appreciate that I was able to take a short break.”

Mitchell grabbed his cane and stood. “This is to be kept under the strictest confidence,” Mitchell reiterated gravely.

“Of course.”