Chapter Text
“Blast! This heel’s come loose.”
Cynthia Mackenzie glanced up from the radio she was in the process of disassembling. A years’ experience with her flatmate had cured her of the surprise she’d felt the first time she’d seen Veronica Mars in one of her investigatory disguises. They now proved a source of mild but regular entertainment. “Off to a fancy-dress do?” she inquired dryly, tucking a lock of unruly dark hair behind her ear.
“Something like.” Veronica frowned at the mushroom coloured jumper she’d pulled on over an exuberantly embroidered skirt. “I’ve no objection to Bohemia in theory, but its wardrobe does leave something to be desired.”
A champagne blonde capable of inciting envy in half the young ladies so routinely written up in the penny press as popular beauties of the day, Veronica’s disguises generally did their best to render the wearer invisible – not the rather conspicuous invisibility of the cat burglar in popular fiction – but the true invisibility of the overlooked. Secretaries, maids, factory workers and nurses – Veronica specialized in looking so much the part that you forgot her existence entirely.
However, in the dwellings populated by the Bloomsbury group and the Pre-Raphaelites, to look commonplace and to blend in were antithetical goals. Her eyes fixed on the glass, Veronica tried and rejected an acid green scarf, to Cynthia’s private approbation. Whatever their dress sense might suggest, they could not possibly all be blind.
“And why the sudden need to infiltrate Bohemia?” Cyn asked.
“Attempting to fill a rather hopeless commission, I’m afraid. Lady Margaret Manning paid us a call this morning.”
“I saw her card.” Cyn glared at a faulty audio transformer before turning her attention to the tube plate. “Rather awkward that, what if you’d had to tell her you weren’t at home to visitors?”
“Oh she left that with the charlady the other day. Who has since made it clear that she has far too much to be doin’ than to deal with the constant stream of callers that comes of girls living on their own rather than decently at home with their families and she’s of a good mind to complain to the landlord.”
Cynthia shook her head. Their current char was an ongoing source of discomfort and amusement. Most of the time her diligence amounted to no more than moving the dirt around the room so that it might take in new sights and form new acquaintances, but that didn’t stop her from expressing her firm disapproval of every activity she didn’t wholeheartedly approve of. Since both girls were single and living on their own, said disapproval stretched to cover the entirety of their behavior.
“She’s a regular ray of sunshine, that one.”
“I proposed that in the future we might restrict our visitors to the hours between midnight and six, so as to be sure she wasn’t disturbed, but she rejected the overture.”
“Some people can’t bring themselves to acknowledge a kindness.”
“Fortunately I was in this morning, so I was able to tackle Lady Margaret myself.”
“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted?”
“We used to be playmates, but that was a long time ago. No in the general course of things I should never have expected to see her, not since I blotted my copybook, as it were, and especially not since she took up with my former fiancé.”
Cynthia looked up quickly at Veronica’s mention of her time at Oxford, but Veronica was examining the effect a long strand of wooden beads added to her ensemble and quite deliberately not making eye contact. Cyn would have liked to press further, but didn’t quite dare. Oxford was one of Veronica’s forbidden subjects. She didn’t discuss it and wouldn’t allow anyone else to. She’d speak deprecatingly of the reputation she’d acquired there – one that Cyn could never believe and had never once seen corroboration of – but Veronica never talked about the actual circumstances that led to her being sent down.
“Lady Margaret heard that I’d put out a shingle as a private detective from Sir Alconbury – you remember, the one with the sapphire in the gramophone and the lady's maid who turned out to be neither. Anyway, she came to enlist my services and I rather wish she hadn’t.”
“While colorful, your style of storytelling leaves a few things to be desired,” Cyn observed.
“She asked me to investigate her sister’s death.”
“Her sister – of course, I remember, it was in the papers. Shocking Death of a Peer’s Daughter. I thought it was a suicide?”
“The jury returned a verdict of accidental death. Opiate overdose - nothing very definite in the evidence, although the size of the overdose might be considered more consistent with suicide. The coroner’s summing up emphasized the possibility of accident as a result of the young lady’s unfortunate associations.
Lady Margaret puts strong odds on foul play, while remaining opaque as to the reason for her suspicions. Her parents had with Christian charity crossed the girl’s name out of their family Bible years ago, and Detective Inspector Lamb was, I gather, his usual delightful, piggish self when she attempted to broach the subject with him, so she was obliged to venture further and seek my counsel. Since Duncan’s behavior was none of hers, and since she did in fact maintain courteous terms after my less than graceful public fall, I felt obligated to offer my assistance.
For which courtesy, I shall be beginning my sojourn among the artistes at Stanislavsky’s where I shall look forward to feeding my soul with baddish music and worse poetry and starving my stomach altogether – as well as garnering a convincingly chance introduction to her busom friend Berenice Hadley, whom I gather is doing something quite exciting in the sculpture line and should hopefully give me a bit more to go on than the instincts of a sister that by her own account hadn’t seen the deceased for a year leading up to her death.”
“If Anton’s there, the grub’ll be decent,” Cynthia observed, instinctively cutting to the aspect of the evening she suspected bothered Veronica the most. To call Veronica Mars merely fond of food would be an understatement on the level of calling Lady Macbeth a poor hostess.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to come along and introduce me and lend some verisimilitude to an otherwise unconvincing narrative?”
Cynthia shook her head. “I haven’t heard a peep from that crowd since I counseled Max on the effect that latest muse of his was having on his work. I told him a muddy palate and the vaguest sense of human anatomy worked moderately well when he was confining himself to political subjects, but that if he insisted on attempting to emulate the new Romantics, he would do well to attend the odd medical lecture or two.
Veronica snorted. “Oh dear.”
“He took my advice, and it has improved his work wonderfully, but he hasn’t forgiven me for it.” Her sigh carried more exasperation than regret. “Besides, I was always too obnoxiously capitalistic for them.”
Her flatmate raised a single eyebrow. “And yet they accepted Lady Elizabeth Manning? Isn’t Lord Stewart positively rolling in it? Wouldn’t she be persona-non-grata by definition?”
Cynthia paused to consider before responding. “That’s a bit of a philosophical question, really. They quite like money. The having of money, I mean. Provided one gives a great deal of it away, says the right things, and doesn’t try to do anything so base as to earn more of it. That being said, I’m not sure whether the Manning girl was ever really accepted. She didn’t create anything you know, and she wasn’t attached to anyone who did. At least, not for very long. She was less a leading light and more a hanger on. She did give parties though – mostly successfully, and frightfully hot stuff.
“Doping?”
“And other things. Not what you might consider nice.”
“Cyn, neither one of us might be considered very nice.”
“Which tells you something about what her parties were like. And it wasn’t just the artistic crowd. There was a lot of money floating around at her things, and you know most of them don’t have two cents to rub together. There were names – titles – the type that show up in the penny press every second day for pulling some ridiculous stunt or another.”
“Oh heaven help me.” Veronica closed her eyes against the images her friend’s words conjured.
“Darling, I’m just afraid this case is going to throw you in with that particular set of Bright Young People you most abhor.”
“Hurrah for the spoilt darlings of society!” Veronica cheered, flashing that particular bright smile that never reached her eyes.
***
“A young lady to see you sir.”
The young man looked up from the folio he was examining in some annoyance. There were a bare handful of people whose intrusion he would welcome when he was in for an evening, and the caller’s description excluded those few. That Ratner had not summarily dismissed the lady in question preempted any possibility that he would be allowed to escape.
“Blast it all to hell!”
“Indeed, sir.”
Logan Echolls’ steps checked in the doorway of his well-appointed sitting room when he saw his visitor. “I’ve never known Ratner to be wrong before. Quite disconcerting, what? Like discovering the truth about Father Christmas.”
The Honorable Lillian Carnathan Kane shook her elaborately shingled halo of blond curls. “Don’t be tiresome, darling.”
“Miss Carnathan Kane.”
“I’ve come to fetch you out - you simply cannot spend another evening in this dreary hole,” she continued, casually besmirching one of the most elegant bachelor flats in London. “It’s too wearymaking for words.”
“What happened to your latest victim?”
“Oh, Eli? Well, he was a bit of a pet, but I had to give him the shove. He took everything far too seriously – Spanish you know – very hot and heavy and that’s all to the good – but he wanted me to meet his grandmother. Comical and rather sweet, but if I was going to do that I might as well be Duncan and his prim little fiancé. It was just too too boring.”
“Poor old sod.”
“You’re the only one that’s never boring.”
Logan offered her a cigarette, which she refused, and a drink, which she accepted. Selecting his own cigarette, he contemplated the woman he had once considered the love of his life. He shook his head, baring his teeth in a taunting smile.
“Darling, you’ve a short memory. I bored you too, when you had me. It’s only now you don’t that I’ve regained my appeal. The second I chose to wallow again; you’d discover my dullness anew.”
“Try me and see,” she offered, beguilingly as she took a step toward him.
“Perhaps you’d find that you no longer interest me.”
Her eyes glinted dangerously, but before she could decide whether to throw something or develop hysterics, he was speaking again.
“You’ve been doing without my company quite well for the past six months, Lil. What’s changed.”
“I’m to be presented in a fortnight.”
“Congratulations. I do hope they take care to hide the gin.”
“Beast.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before,” he observed.
Lillian rolled her eyes with the exaggeration of a film starlet before throwing herself down upon the settee cushions. She crossed her legs, her skirt rising high enough that he caught a glimpse of garter, and he shook his head. She sighed, “The Baroness has me dancing at attention all day till I could practically scream.”
He chuckled as he ashed his cigarette on a marble tray. “Dearheart, no doubt this is just an oversight, but you’ve neglected to mention what any of this has to do with me.”
Lillian bit her lip, momentarily dropping the affectations she’d wrapped around her like a stole. When she spoke, her voice was quieter. “Duncan’s no use anymore, and you’re the only one who ever stood up to her.”
As ever, the flash of the girl he’d loved affected him, even as he recognized the ever-diminishing returns. He might have been cured, but he well recalled the symptoms.
His smile this time held no mocking. “I seem to remember you doing a bang-up job of it yourself.”
“But never on my own. It’s not – I don’t like to do it on my own. It frightens me.”
Logan frowned. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Nothing! Well nothing much.” She hesitated and then breezed forward defensive armor firmly back in place. “And if you’d stick your head out of this poky little flat then maybe it could stay that way.”
He wanted to press her, but already she was making her excuses. Her skittishness didn’t surprise him, it was her typical response to vulnerability, but he was troubled by her unwillingness to expound. She’d never hidden any of her exploits before. Rather the reverse.
He supposed it could be embarrassment. She hated losing face, and if her actions could be interpreted as having to do with losing him – but then she’d moved on long before he’d finally had enough.
Ratner appeared with her cloak and gloves, and the domestic interlude resolved itself into drawing room comedy, the lady making her farewells with only few light barbs as shield to her weakness.
He recognized the maneuver and let it go, still worrying over the question of her latest excess. He was loathe to draw himself back into the miasma that crowd offered, but he didn’t see how he could bring himself to deny her either. Besides -
“Dash it all, Ratner, as unwelcome an intrusion as that was, the lady had a point.”
“Sir?”
“I have been hiding in here.”
“A retreat in the face of an emotional upheaval could be considered –“
“I’ve been hiding. And its time I stopped.”
“Indeed, Sir.”
“Ratner, you know I find it most insulting when you playact a stage comedy solely for my benefit.”
“My apologies. I shall endeavor to ensure a larger audience next time, sir.”
“That’s all I ask.”
***
The flat was minuscule, and crammed to capacity. A haze of smoke hovered over the assembled masses, a combination of Turkish cigarettes and the sausages being murdered over a small stove in the corner by a rabbity little man whose shock of red beard was his only distinguishing feature.
On one side of the room, a young man declaimed passages from his ongoing and unpublished epic to an appreciative audience that ceased their conversation long enough to shriek encouragement whenever he happened to pause for breath. On the other, a trio of musicians took up the more than the remaining space to great applause and occasional moderate injury.
Berenice Hadley was a sharp featured if not altogether unpretty brunette whose attempts at makeup did much to counter her natural advantages and who clung throughout the interview with a limpet-like tenacity to her young man, a nonentity she introduced only as Stuey. She was not disposed to talk about Lizzie until after Veronica had procured for her a fourth gin and bitters - over the mild objection of said young man - at which point she became voluble.
“Lizzie was a darling. We were the greatest of friends. She relied on me, especially during those last weeks; she said I was the only one she could count on.” Berenice assured Veronica in a semi-slurred recitation that didn’t speak particularly well for Elizabeth’s other connexions.
“It must have been a comfort to her, knowing that she had your support.”
“It was!” she agreed in an excess of emotion. “I know it was! That’s why it was so shocking when she did it.”
Veronica permitted herself to show the somewhat malicious interest commiserate with a gossip’s healthy curiosity. “You mean she committed suicide? I thought the coroner -”
“Oh that. Everyone knows that was fixed up – my girlfriend Celia works the dispensary for St. Martins, she said Lizzie took enough to send herself off five times over.
And Lizzie was brainy, no way she makes a mistake like that. No, that the bit about an accident was only so much hooey. Bless that father of hers for that. Won’t acknowledge her, won’t let her on the property or even let her sisters visit - not that I saw them really pushing to try - but can’t let people talk about how his dismissal led to her suicide either. Old hypocrite.”
Berenice’s dismissive handwave struck the gentleman to her right, and they wasted several moments in apologies as neither party seemed coherent enough to identify either the injury or the person at fault. Eventually it was settled to everyone’s satisfaction that ‘Stuey’ should compel the host to procure some strong coffee for the lot of them, since the size of the venue, and therefore the responsibility for flailing limbs proving a danger could be definitively placed in his hands.
Having dispatched the grumbling and apparently long-suffering young man, Berenice seemed to lose the thread of the conversation. Veronica judged that another gin and bitters would put her well past communicative and begin the slide into comatose, and that pushing her further on the question of the perhaps not accidental death might sharpen even that young lady’s habitually dulled senses.
The poetry recital had erupted into an argument on verse that seemed likely to descend from celestial ideals to the solid form of fisticuffs at any moment and Veronica wondered if she might do better to cut her losses for the night and call on Berenice some other, soberer, time – surely she didn’t sculpt while fully in the bag - when the young lady’s words caught her attention once more.
“-really blame that man of hers. God, she was such a little fool. She talked about him like he was a prince. Course, they’re all a prince when they want something. I could have told her it was never going to go anywhere. Sure enough, what does he do the second she comes to him for anything? Leaves her flat. Just the type. Takes what he wants but doesn’t want to get his precious hands dirty. I never liked white hands on a man.”
Veronica was all sympathy. “So she committed suicide because her fellow left her?”
“Stupid reason to have done a thing like that. I found her, you know – we were sharing a flat at the time– I’d been out at the pictures - Stuey took me; he’s a doll - and I came home and there she was, sprawled out on the bed, cold.”
“How dreadful for you.”
“It really was,” Berenice said almost eagerly, clearly relishing own importance in Lady Elizabeth Manning’s rather sad story. “They asked me about it afterward, if I’d seen it coming like.”
“You’ve such a sympathetic nature, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d confided in you. I’m sure if I had any troubles I would have come straight to you.”
“But she didn’t! I never thought for a moment she would do a thing like that. I wouldn’t have left her alone, would I? If I’d thought she could be a danger to herself?” For a moment, the girl’s genuine grief cut through, and Veronica felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt for pushing her.
Berenice continued, “Even if she was up the duff, that was no reason to –”
Berenice stumbled as her young man returned bearing the promised coffee, and she flung herself into his arms, sobbing tears that probably owed equal thanks to gin and emotion.
He caught her up with an ease that spoke of long practice, and turned to glare at Veronica, correctly blaming her for the catastrophe.
Veronica’s mind was full of what she’d just learned, but she offered a deprecating grimace. “I’m so sorry. You must blame me for oversetting her. I was just so curious.”
He was not mollified. “You were pushing in more like. There was enough of that from the penny press, without having to have it dragged out at every party.”
From what she’d seen, Veronica wondered if the gentleman of the press would have had to do much dragging, but she knew better than to say as much.
“I do apologize. I just – it’s such a terrible shame. Young and beautiful to die like that – it’s like something in a story.”
He spat at the ground. “Lizzie Manning was a tart. Title or no title. She was a bad egg and I was doing my best to get Berenice away from her before she did me the favor herself.”
Berenice’s wails grew louder.
“I’m sorry love, but them’s the facts. She was no good for you. Best thing she did in this world was deciding to leave it.”
“I don’t suppose it would have occurred to you to help her on her way?” Veronica asked sharply, her opinion coming down heavily against Berenice’s beau.
“None of that now. That’s slander that is. I never laid a finger on any woman. She offed herself.”
“If they were sharing a flat, you must have seen her often.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t nowhere near the flat that day, was I? Berenice and I took in the pictures. I’m out of it, and she’s out of it, so you can just put your nose back where it belongs.”
Veronica turned to go, judging this particular well to have run dry when Stuey clutched sharply at her elbow.
“Hey, you want to go looking for trouble, go look at the guy who got her into her mess in the first place. They were thick as thieves those two before he up and dropped her.”
“And who would that be?”
He spat again. “You just talk to Logan Echolls.” Veronica sucked in a breath at the name, but he continued, “If anyone had anything to do with her killing herself, it’s him.”
“Thank you for the information,” Veronica said tightly, before turning sharply away, pushing through the crowd elbows first, suddenly unable to take the noise or the smoke or the press of people any longer.
***
Logan Echolls had spent a dull but gratifying day, reestablishing the connections that guaranteed his entrée into the Carnathan Kane circle, however much the Lady of that family might resent it. The snobby old cat might not like him much, but every Bishop or Countess that maintained his connexion rendered her the more incapable of leaving him off any guest list but the most intimate of family dinners.
He returned to his flat after a luncheon at Lady Boothby’s to find his study already occupied.
“Echolls, old chum! Wonderful to see you!” Dickie Casablancas exclaimed with a fervor appropriate for a reunion some years in the making, but perhaps a bit excessive for a man he’d seen at the club the just one week prior. “Been having a bit of a jaw with that clever man of yours, what? Only I’m in a bit of a fix at the moment.”
Logan smiled. “When are you not?”
“And you know Balmy Enbom swears by him, ever since that he helped detangle him from that little handful in New York,” Dickie continued obliviously.
“Oh, I think she was rather more than that,” Logan replied after a quick mental estimate. “But yes, Ratner does wonders with the fairer sex, the more amazing since so many of them seem to have no use for him at all. But tell me, are you pining hopelessly? Been thrown over? Need to impress a father, mother or great Aunt who unfortunately know what you look like already?”
“You do talk rot sometimes, Echolls.”
“And this is how you respond to a friend bleeding the heart’s blood for you?”
“It’s just, Maddie seems to think –“
“Madeleine St. Claire?” Logan gave a helpless burst of laughter. “How in the world did you let that one get her hooks into you?”
“See here, I’m not hooked.” Dickie said indignantly. “I have never been hooked.”
“You’ve never faced Maddie St. Claire. Well, that’s definitely a task for Ratner. Bit of a Herculean labor though.”
“We took in a show at the Aldwych, that’s all,” Dickie protested.
Logan snorted. “Terribly appropriate in at least two ways. Listen, mate, you know I would be happy to stand up with you. Just give me the time to work on my speech before you make anything official. No special licenses or trips to Scotland.”
“I’d be on a flight across the pond if I could manage it.”
“Ah, young love.”
“I’m not fool enough for that.”
This last was quite true. Although it should perhaps be noted that this was perhaps the only thing Dickie Casablancas was not fool enough for, as his rather colorful record attested. His most recent summons involved an ill thought out portrayal of Lady Godiva for a fancy-dress ball, which might have been less scarring if he’d not been riding astride. Still, however terrifying the escapade, it paled in comparison to the thought of one Madeleine St. Claire.
“Beg pardon, and all that,” Logan apologized. “So, you’ve laid the problem at Ratner’s feet, like a good little boy? Has he thought up a prescription yet?”
“He says he’s mulling it over. I’m blest if I can see what he can do except smuggle me out of the country. She’s already wanting to announce our engagement. It was all I could do to keep her from contacting the Morning Star to put the announcement in directly.”
“Proactive girl that one. None of your moony-eyed dreamers about her.”
“Sir,” Ratner reappeared with a discreet cough.
“I say, that was fast,” Dickie said approvingly.
“I beg your pardon, while I did have some thoughts on Mr. Casablancas’s current predicament, there is a young lady to see Mr. Echolls. I have shown her into the sitting room.”
“You haven’t decided to sic Maddie onto me to get her off of Dickie here, have you?” Logan asked, suspicion settling over his face.
“An intriguing solution sir, and one that had not, in fact, occurred to me.”
“Good, forget I mentioned it.”
“Well, if you’re entertaining, I’d best be along,” said Dickie with a quirk of the eyebrow and suggestive gesture. “I suppose I’ll see you at Balmy’s soiree tomorrow?”
“I have already accepted the invitation with every appearance of pleasure.”
After three more protracted farewells, Logan finally escaped Dickie’s company and made his way into the drawing room only to stop short for the second time in two days.
“I have got to speak to Ratner about his careless use of that particular attribution.”
Veronica Mars turned toward him, smiling the vicious little smile that always made him a little breathless, even back when she was his friend’s fiancé.
“Hello again, Logan.”
“Miss Mars. To what do I owe this punishment?”
She walked around the room, running her hand over his shelves in a baddish attempt to restrain her ever present curiosity. He had no doubt that if she’d been left alone for another ten minutes she would have catalogued his whole flat, including the contents of the safe.
“As it happens, I’m on an investigation, and wouldn’t you know it, your name came up.”
“Hardly a surprise. I’d be hard-pressed to think of a bit of dialogue that wouldn’t be improved with the mention of my name.” He smirked as he leaned against the door frame. “But do tell me about this investigation. Have you passed secret messages in invisible ink? Uncovered secret ciphers? Actually, I’m fairly certain I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about the murder of Lady Elizabeth Manning?” She said sharply, bringing him to attention. “And aren’t ciphers secret by definition?”
Logan shook his head. “Murder? Lizzie wasn’t murdered.”
“You seem quite certain of that.”
“Should I not be?” he asked. Veronica Mars was many things, one time friend, long time enemy, pest and self-righteous brat, but she wasn’t stupid.
“Her sister seems to think it’s a strong possibility.”
His mind raced as he considered. “Meg or Grace? Meg probably, Grace never does anything without her father’s approval, and Lord Manning was pretty clear about wanting to move on from that particular interlude.”
“The particular interlude being the death of his pregnant daughter?”
That brought him up short again, although he didn’t know why. If anyone was good at learning things they had no business knowing, it was Veronica Mars.
“How in the world did you know Lizzie was up the duff?”
She tilted her head as she examined him. He did not take the opportunity to examine the fairness of her neck.
“I’m more curious about how you knew it. I’m fairly certain she didn’t announce it to all and sundry, and for some reason the medical details were withheld at the inquest. Of course, there is one particular gentleman she might have shared the news with.”
So, that was her game. Naturally. He closed his eyes against the accusation. “I see. So, according to your excellent detective skills, I’m supposed to have killed the girl because she was pregnant with my child?”
“Daughter of one of the leading Conservative Lords? It would have been a scandal.”
He held his temper by a bare thread, taking care to keep his words slow and deliberate lest he throw a vase across the room. Again.
“Have you seen the papers lately? Everything in my family is scandal. The studios couldn’t keep my father’s proclivities quiet, my mother emulated Anna Karenina, and a couple of newspapers still maintain that I’m a villain because the hood who attacked me later ended up dead. What possible way could the birth of a child – in or out of wedlock – do anything to worsen my reputation?”
She jutted her chin out, as unwilling as ever to give him anything. “I understand the two of you were close?”
“Sure, we were close. We were pals. Lils had left me for her Spaniard and Lizzie had lost her guy and we both were at loose ends a bit. But it was never – we were never intimate – don’t look to me for that.”
“You mean there’s a woman of your acquaintance you weren’t intimate with?”
“More than just the one, as I think you’ll recall,” he said, drawing closer to her despite himself.
“Your reputation says otherwise,” she breathed and he paused despite his every inclination.
He could so easily fall again bringing her with him. He bit his lip and deliberately moved to the opposite side of the room.
“My reputation? I wasn’t the one sent down from Oxford after being found blotto in a gentleman’s dormitory after hours.” That brought her up sharply as he'd intended, her eyes burned as she glared at him. But she didn't miss a beat.
“You mean I’ve been misinformed?” she parried, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“Hardly a new sensation for you, I’m sure. Perhaps you can write another of those slanderous little articles of yours.”
“Not a word of what I’d published about that so-called secret society was untrue,” she said, bristling. “Which you’d know if you’d bothered to question any of them instead of relying on shared school days as a measure of a man’s character.”
“Well, this has been fun. But since you’ve absolutely nothing to go on here, I’ll have to ask Ratner to show you out.”
“You don’t deny that you spent a great deal of time with Lizzie Manning for some months? A carousal that ceased a few weeks before her death?
“No, officer, I don’t deny it. I do however point out that if I’d overthrown the young lady, as you suggest, I would have had no reason to kill her; she would have had a much greater reason to kill me. Yes, we got up to a few stunts, but our friendship was a harmless way to occupy the time in the face of mutual broken hearts.”
She snorted but wouldn’t make eye contact. “Serves you right for falling for the Carnathan Kane girl.”
“If you must believe I was talking about her.”
Veronica chose to ignore his admission, just as she’d ignored all the evidence back then right up until the moment in the library at her fiance’s ball. She took her seat deliberately, turning her investigator gaze back on him.
“Tell me about Lizzie.”
He sighed and smoothed his hair back. Of course, he could have her out of the place, in a second. And of course, he didn’t.
“She was going off the rails. I was too, rather, so we were both perfect and terrible for each other. I started to right myself around the time she began to fall apart altogether. She’d started doping more heavily – stuff she’d gotten from someone else, not me. If someone did kill her, it wouldn’t have been difficult to engineer, damn it.”
“You’d gotten dope for her?” she asked, judgement breathing in every syllable.
“Easy enough to get samples at some of those parties, but at the time we were both in rather deeper than that. She had a couple of suppliers, but they wouldn’t have wanted to kill her.”
“Funny, I thought they were doing just that,” she observed, as prim and suspicious as ever. “And just to observe the formalities, where were you on the day she died?”
He swallowed, though he should have known it was coming. “I was at a shooting party in Kent. Although, I suppose I could have taken an express, poisoned her, and then returned for a late breakfast. Rather shocking to miss the day’s shooting, but as long I took care to be seen drinking to excess the night before, it’s unlikely I’d be questioned on the matter. Clearly you need to check with the conductors and ticket agents to firm up the timeline, at which point I will present myself, ready to be shackled.”
“I look forward to the event with pleasure.” She stood and made to leave, and suddenly he couldn’t allow her to. Almost before he realized it, the words tumbled out.
“Wait, Veronica. I’m in this with you.”
“No, you’re not.” She glared at him and he would have smiled if it wasn’t suddenly vitally important to convince her of his sincerity.
“Lizzie was a friend of mine, so until we can prove this wasn’t murder,” then yes, I am.”
“You do realize I can just leave.”
“And you realize that I have complete access to her social circle? Something you no longer have, if I recall correctly?” She frowned and he smiled. “Barmy Embom’s having a bit of a thing tomorrow, lot of major players will be there. What do you say I pick you up at eight?”
Veronica huffed in frustration before coming to a decision. “Six. You can take me to dinner first and tell me a little bit about these major players.”
“I doubt I can afford it, but sure. We’ll go to Gatti’s. I’m fairly sure the chef there still remembers you fondly. Probably has your picture on the wall.”
“This is business, Logan,” she reminded him and he chuffed a laugh.
“It always is with you.”
***