So why had Fellows risked all by rushing to Park Lane to Mather’s summons? He’d read the note in rising excitement, burned it, then left the office. He’d grated his teeth at the slowness of hansom cabs until he stood on the doorstep of the palatial house.
Fellows hadn’t bothered to mention the journey to his chief. Anything to do with the Mackenzies was verboten to Detective Fellows, but Fellows reasoned that what his chief didn’t know would not hurt him.
A stiff butler with his nose in the air answered the door and directed Fellows into an equally stiff reception room. Someone had crammed the room with draped tables and costly objects d’art, including photographs in silver frames of stiff people.
The reception room said, We have money, as though living in Park Lane hadn’t already conveyed the same. Fellows knew, however, that Sir Lyndon Mather was a bit up against it. Mather’s investments had been volatile, and he needed a large infusion of cash to help him out. He’d been about to marry a widow of means, which ought to have kept him from bankruptcy. But a couple of days ago, a notice had appeared in the newspaper that the wedding was off. Mather must be feeling the pinch of that.
The butler returned after Fellows had paced for half an hour, and led him to a lavish sitting room across the hall. More draped tables, gilded knickknacks, and people in silver frames.
Mather, a blond and handsome man that the French might call debonair, came forward and stuck out his hand. “Well met, Inspector. I won’t invite you to sit down. I imagine that when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll want to hurry out and make arrests.”
Fellows hid his annoyance, hating when other people told him his job. The average man obtained his knowledge of Scotland Yard from fiction or the newspapers, neither of which was very accurate.
“Whatever you say, sir,” Fellows said.
“Lord Ian Mackenzie’s gone to Paris. Early this morning. My butler had it from my footman, who walks out with a girl who worked in Lord Ian’s kitchen. What do you make of that?”
Fellows tried to conceal his impatience. He knew Ian Mackenzie had gone to Paris, because he made it his business to know exactly what Lord Ian Mackenzie was doing at all times. He had no interest in servants’ gossip, but he answered, “Has he indeed?”
“You know about the murder in Covent Garden last night?” Mather watched him carefully.
Of course Fellows knew about the murder. It wasn’t his case, but he’d been briefed on it early this morning. Body of a woman found in her room at a boardinghouse near the church, stabbed to death with her own sewing scissors. “Yes, I heard of it.”
“Do you know who went to that house last night?”
Mather smiled triumphantly. “Ian Mackenzie, that’s who.” Fellows’s heart started to race, his blood tingling as body as when he made love to a woman. “How do you know that, sir?”
“I followed him, didn’t I? Bloody Mackenzies think they can have everything their own way.”
“You were following him? Why was that, sir?” Fellows kept his tone calm, but he found breathing difficult. At last, at long last.
“Why isn’t important. Are you interested in the details?” Fellows removed a small notebook from his coat pocket, opened it, and retrieved a pencil from the same pocket. “Go on.”
“He got into his coach in the wee hours of the morning and went to Covent Garden. He stopped at the corner of a tiny lane, coach too big to go into it. He went down the lane on foot, entered a house, stayed maybe ten minutes, then hurried out again. Then he goes to Victoria Station and takes the first train out. I returned home to hear my butler say that Mackenzie had gone to France, and then I opened my morning paper and read about the murder. I put two and two together, and decided that rather than tell a journalist, I should consult the police.”
Mather beamed like a schoolboy proud to tattle on another schoolboy. Fellows digested the information and put it with what he already knew.
“How do you know Lord Ian entered the same house where the murder was committed?”
Mather reached into his frock coat and pulled out a piece of paper. “I wrote down the address when I followed him. I wondered whom he was visiting. His fancy piece Ithought. I wanted to give the information to Mrs.... to another person.” He handed the paper to Fellows. Number 23 St. Victor Court. The very address at which a former prostitute called Lily Martin had been found dead early this morning. Fellows tried to keep his excitement in check as he slid the paper into his notebook. He’d been trying to land Ian Mackenzie in the dock for five years, and maybe this new development would let him.
He calmed himself. He’d have to pursue this carefully—no mistakes, make certain everything was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. When he presented the evidence to his chief, it would have to be something that Fellows’s superiors couldn’t dismiss, couldn’t ignore, couldn’t keep quiet, no matter how much weight the duke, Hart Mackenzie, tried to throw around.
“If you don’t mind, sir,” Fellows said. “Please keep this information to yourself. I will act upon it, rest assured, but I don’t want him warned. All right?”
“Of course, of course.” Mather tapped his nose and winked. “I’m your man.”
“Why did you quarrel with him?” Fellows asked, putting away his notebook and pencil.
Mather’s hands balled in his pockets. “That’s rather personal.” “Something to do with breaking your engagement with Mrs. Ackerley?” Who had also gone to Paris, Fellows knew from checking up on Mather.