Page 61 of The Detective and the Baroness

“Would the murder make the papers in Manchester?”

“A murder in London? Not usually, as they have enough of their own crimes to fill the papers, but since the victim is a baron, possibly.”

“Yes, I would appreciate it. It’s the Strand Provincial Bank, 210 Piccadilly.”

“I will make the stop tomorrow.”

Corrine took Mitchell’s hand. “Thank you for being here for me.”

“If you haven’t guessed already, I would do anything for you. Anything.”

Corrine threw her arms around Mitchell’s neck and embraced him. She loved him fiercely, and as soon as the funeral was over and Travis was laid to rest, she would tell Mitchell just that.

Life, indeed, did go on. And Corrine was not going to waste a moment of it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Mitchell awoke the following day, he discovered snow had blanketed the ground overnight. It was only a few inches but would not melt anytime soon since it was blasted cold. After pulling his wool scarf tightly about his neck and his wool coat collar upward, he stepped outside and shuddered as the brisk wind whipped about his legs. Reaching into his coat pocket, he grabbed his fur-lined leather gloves and, once situated, retrieved his cane from under his arm and started along the walkway, keeping a wary eye out for any possible ice. All he needed to do was to take a tumble and injure his leg further. Finally, after close to a month of diligent rehabilitation exercises, Mitchell was starting to notice some improvement in flexibility over the past couple of days, and the occasional pain in his leg was not nearly as intense or as often as it had been. Or maybe the lightness in his step was Corrine.

The prospect of a future with her had him hoping as never before. But many obstacles still stood in their path. Mitchell reasoned that anything was possible as long as they faced it together.

A hansom cab traveled toward him, so he flagged it down. “Thirty Wimpole Street,” he called out to the driver as he climbed in and closed the folding doors. Now that winter was here, many of the cabs had a windowed enclosure to give some protection from the elements. Mitchell had heard, through his peerage acquaintances, that petrol cabs would replace horse-driven carriages in less than ten years. Perhaps that would be one venture Mitchell might consider, although he couldn’t invest much. Less than ten minutes later, he paid the driver and was left standing before the Addington residence. Mitchell glanced up and down the street, concentrating on the surroundings. Since it was cold this morning, there were few pedestrians or costermonger carts. Mitchell’s focused observation fell on a shivering young boy standing across the street, holding out a battered cap, hoping people would drop in a penny or a half-penny.

Mitchell crossed the road and dropped a shilling in the cap. “Best to get in out of the cold, lad. Buy yourself a hot meal.”

“Thank ye, sir. I will. Yer kind and all.” The boy, dressed in ragged clothes, quickly snatched up the coin and placed his hat on his head. With an exaggerated bow, he loped off down the street and disappeared around the corner.

Looking both ways, Mitchell crossed the street. A black mourning wreath hung on the front door of the Addington residence, and black crepe was wrapped on the door knob. He barely rapped on the knocker when Thomason opened the door to greet him.

“Sergeant Simpson. Do come in.”

The scents of turpentine, carbolic soap, and beeswax inundated his senses. “You were left with a hell of a cleaning job, Thomason. How did you fare?”

Thomason led him to the study where the odors were more potent. The rugs were gone, and the furniture had been moved against the wall. “We managed, Sergeant. However, the maid quit as the task was too gruesome and stated that she could not work in a house where a murder had taken place. I fear the footman and the housekeeper-cook are also contemplating taking their leave.”

Mitchell looked around. You could hardly tell it had been a grisly murder scene. “I will inform Lady Addington. Can you hire another maid?”

Thomason shook his head. “I doubt it, Sergeant. Jonathan and Mrs. Morris are only here because all peerage and wealthy homes are cutting back on staff levels. They would be hard-pressed to find gainful employment in service. I know this is a selfish request, but do you know what will become of us?”

“You’re to be kept on for the time being until the new baron arrives and—”

Thomason visibly staggered. “New baron?”

Mitchell probably should not have revealed that, but one of the first things Dobson or Chambers should have done was inform the servants. The way staff was treated always angered him. Mitchell had seen it many times in his capacity as a policeman. So, to hell with it. “Lady Addington was shocked by the development as well. The young man was only recently identified. He comes from another branch of the family, apparently one that Gilbert Addington had no contact with. Gilbert never informed Travis Addington that the Irish branch existed. It was the solicitor who made that discovery. The new baron is a young man in his twenties, recently married.”

“I am in shock. I do not know what to say.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. The young baron will need servants, so chances are you will be kept on. Lady Addington suggested that very thing. But that will be Patrick Addington’s decision.” Mitchell looked about the room. “Personally, I cannot see the young man bringing his new bride to a house with such tragedy attached to it. But that will be for the solicitors and the new baron to work out.” Mitchell reached into his side pocket and passed Thomason a note. “Lady Addington asked that I retrieve a few items. The rest will be collected later. The solicitors will arrange it.”

Thomason opened the note and read it. “Of course. Whatever the baroness needs. Do thank her for speaking up for the staff.” He hesitated. “There are some items in storage downstairs, such as dishes, a clock, and extra bedding. Could the baroness use them? No one has taken an inventory as yet. I take it Lady Addington will not be returning here.”

“No, she will not. As for the items, thank you for the suggestion. She is renting a small flat from a friend of mine and could use various household materials. She will appreciate the assistance.”

Thomason shook his head sadly. “I never should have gone to the pub that night. But the baron insisted. He even gave me two pounds for a steak dinner and a couple of pints.”

“How were you to know?” Mitchell murmured. “Do not feel guilty.”

“Come this way, Sergeant.” Mitchell followed Thomason upstairs and into Corrine’s bedroom. It wasn’t overly large but well decorated with light blue and gold shades—very much Corrine’s colors.