A Mind to Murder

Prologue

Torremolinos, Costa del Sol, Spain June 2002

Another angry breaker lifted her up and then dropped her with a vicious crash. Tendrils of panic and icy dread clutched at the woman. She struggled to draw in a ragged breath. However, her lungs nearly exploded with the effort, as sharp needles of pain radiated down her left side. She gratefully sank into oblivion’s comforting embrace where there was nothing. No love. No lies. Only numbing blackness.

She was dragged unwillingly into consciousness again by a shuddering cough that rumbled and rattled her already battered body. Saltwater erupted from her nostrils. Its briny stickiness mingled with the coppery, metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. She had always loved the sea, but the high tide was cruel. It hissed and mocked her as if it knew what an utter fool she had been.

The next wave flipped her onto her back. She blinked. Salt and grit from the ocean floor made them sting, but she managed to open her eyes a crack. She gasped. The creamy orange moon loomed above her, a celestial pearl reclining on an inky pallet of wispy cloud.

One provocative strand of light tumbled from the sky and sliced a path through the waves. Come to me, the moon beckoned. I will help you forget.

The woman laughed and instantly regretted it. Every part of her body throbbed. Not only was she broken physically and emotionally, now she was losing her sanity.

Come to me.

The woman squeezed her eyes shut again and tried to block out the seductive voice.

Leave me alone, she cried silently.

But she didn’t want to be alone. In the terrifying chambers of her childhood dreams that had been her greatest fear. Being left alone.

He had already left her alone. He…She choked on an excruciating sob. It had been their honeymoon.

And he had tried to kill her.

She felt his hands grab her in a vice-like grip and shove her overboard as if she had been a rag doll. Her eyes burned with tears. Tears of shame. Of stupidity. The worst thing was she had believed all his loving words. But it had all been a lie. In this cold, watery hell in which she now was trapped, she saw it all with crystalline clarity.

So, with her last ounce of strength, she called out to the moon, Wait. Don’t leave me.

She didn’t know whether she had uttered the words aloud or only in her mind, but she felt her lips curve into a smile.

At least she wouldn’t die alone.

Chapter 1

London, December 2010

What a filthy night," Emmeline said, as she stepped into the welcoming—and warm—embrace of the St. Martin’s Theatre’s brightly lit lobby in the West End. She gave her umbrella a brisk shake, before furling it up tightly.

It had only been a five-minute walk from the restaurant, where she and Gregory had dinner with Maggie and Philip. But the dampness had seeped into her bones. She rubbed her fingers vigorously. They were chilled from gripping the umbrella in a fierce tug-of-war against the snarling gusts of wind. Mother Nature was in a particularly foul mood this December evening, lashing buildings, cars, and the hapless citizens of London with icy sheets of rain. No, rain was not the right word, Emmeline thought. Winter monsoon. She tossed a glance over her shoulder and peered at the murky deluge. She nodded. Yes, definitely monsoon.

Forget the weather, Maggie ordered, her green eyes alight with excitement. We’ve stepped into the magical world of the theatre. Her arm swept in an arc that encompassed the entire lobby.

Absolutely right, Maggie. For the next two hours or so, we have no cares, Gregory concurred, a smile curling around his lips. Come along, ladies. He inclined his head toward Philip. "And gentleman. Let’s get to our seats. Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap awaits."

Emmeline looped her arm through the crook of his elbow. I’ve been counting the minutes all week. You know how much I’ve always adored Agatha Christie’s work. This was a lovely surprise. I still can’t believe that you were able to get tickets to this gala performance. I know the proceeds are going to the Mousetrap Theatre Projects, which seek to expose disadvantaged young people and those with special needs to the theatre, but I thought it was sold out.

He waved a hand dismissively in the air. I can’t take the credit, darling. We are here tonight because of the largesse of one of Symington’s clients. He wanted to show his gratitude because I was able to recover his stolen property.

Emmeline tilted her head back, her mouth wreathed in a broad grin. Indeed. Symington’s should be in your debt. In the five months since you joined the firm, you’ve been instrumental in solving a series of major cases and in the process saved them from making hefty payouts.

Here, here, Maggie echoed. Superintendent Burnell and the rest of the Scotland Yard must be singing your praises too.

Gregory bit back a smile, as he caught Philip rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

As you ladies know, old Oliver is not the most effusive of fellows.

Yes, well, Emmeline murmured. Perhaps, you shouldn’t needle him so much. She gave him a pointed look. His job is hard enough already with Assistant Commissioner Cruickshank breathing down his neck, just waiting for a chance to pounce.

Emmeline, you must admit, Philip interjected. Prat, though Cruickshank is, he behaved rather decently when it came to the Jardine murder.

She stiffened. She didn’t want any reminders of the recent tangled case that had ensnared them all with its ugly claws. She and Burnell had been accused of murder; Special Branch had come with a warrant to arrest Philip for some unspecified crime; and Laurence Villiers, the deputy director of MI5, had been threatened with blackmail. And a fifteen-carat, fancy pink diamond with the provocative name of the Pink Courtesan had men salivating and willing to do anything to get their hands on it. She and Gregory were forced to sift through layer upon layer of lies, family resentment, and rivalries. After a harrowing couple of days in Malta, where they nearly lost their lives, they discovered the truth. At the heart of it was a carefully orchestrated scheme by Alastair Swanbeck to exact revenge.

Swanbeck.

She shivered involuntarily. Was he really dead? He has to be, a voice inside her head scolded. He couldn’t have survived the explosion on the boat. But his body still hasn’t been found, she argued with herself. There was nothing to find, the voice snapped.

But everyone thought Swanbeck was dead once before. And that’s what worried her.

Gregory bent down and brushed a kiss against her cheek. She felt his warm breath as his mustache tickled her ear. He can’t hurt us anymore, he whispered.

She drew back and met her husband’s steady cinnamon gaze. It was as if he had read her mind. She touched his arm lightly. The arm where he had been shot when they were in Malta. But it was healing. They were healing. He gave a faint nod. They would be fine.

She lifted her hand and pressed it against his cheek. Yes, of course you’re right. I’m just jumping at imaginary shadows. We’re here to forget. Philip caught her eye and winked. For one night at least, all the nastiness in the world is on the other side of that door. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. Sloshing around in the rain at its own peril.

Gregory slipped his arm around her shoulders. That’s the spirit.

He drew the tickets out of the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and handed Philip and Maggie theirs. They chatted idly as they shuffled along with their fellow theatergoers, who were streaming toward the door to the left that led to the seats in the Stalls.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Gregory said in a soft undertone, As I’m a neophyte and you’re the expert when it comes to mysteries, Emmy, you must promise to go over the finer points of the story in detail. I wouldn’t want to miss an important clue. He paused a beat, his lips convulsing mischievously. In exchange, I’d be delighted to tutor you in the finer arts of a different kind.

He pressed a quick kiss on the sensitive spot just behind her earlobe. She felt her cheeks flame as her gaze shot to his face. One of his eyebrows arched up suggestively.

Ahem. Maggie cleared her throat loudly. "That’s quite enough of that you two. I know technically you are still newlyweds, but I suggest you continue the rest of your conversation later. At home. In the privacy of your bedroom. Mind you, if you had taken a proper honeymoon. Ahem. She cleared her throat again, her gaze flickering between them. You would have gotten some of this out of your system."

Here we go, Emmeline thought.

But no, Maggie harped on this old theme. Instead of enjoying the Lake District, the two of you decided to chase after an international assassin. I’ve made my feelings quite plain on this sad subject.

Yes, you have, Philip interjected hurriedly. "Many, many times in the month and a half since Emmeline and Gregory’s wedding. Their married life is their own to make."

Maggie would not be fobbed off again. "Hmph. And if that wasn’t bad enough. Then you immediately became embroiled in that sordid Jardine murder my darling husband alluded to a few moments ago. All of you ran off to Malta, while I and the boys were shunted off to Helen in Swaley. She halted, her probing stare locking on Emmeline’s face. Now, you know I adore your grandmother, but I was going out of my mind with worry. I’m still waiting for an explanation. The three of you have been particularly vague, when I’ve tackled you on the subject."

Emmeline opened her mouth, but Maggie put up a hand to forestall her. "Don’t tell me that everything was in your article. Because I don’t believe it. I know there was more to it."

Maggie was right. There was more to the story, but they couldn’t tell her. Emmeline sighed inwardly. Secrets. How she despised them.

I’m beating a dead horse since your lips are not only sealed, but wired shut, on the subject. I will content myself with reminding you and your—she shot a sideways glance at Gregory—I will content myself with taking every opportunity of reminding you that it is time to devote all your energies to a baby.

Gregory chuckled, as Emmeline’s gaze darted to her right and left to make sure no one else had heard.

Really, Maggie, she chided. You’re as bad as Gran.

Can you blame her? The poor woman has been waiting ages and ages for the two of you to produce her great-grandchild. It’s extremely unfair. You’re married now. It’s time to get cracking.

Philip gave a disapproving shake of his head. You will forgive my wife. Her tongue often intrudes, where it’s not wanted.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed and she gave him a withering look, but he ignored it.

Gregory leaned across and gave Maggie a peck on the cheek. "Thank you for putting us in our place. We will take your um…advice to heart. We know it was said out of love."

Maggie sniffed. She was slightly mollified. Good. Her gaze landed on Emmeline again. Helen and I will be deeply disappointed, if you don’t demonstrate the same enthusiasm as your dashing husband.

Emmeline groaned inwardly. She had learned that it was the better part of valor not to argue with Gran and Maggie on this subject.

Over Maggie’s head, Philip mouthed Sorry.

They fell silent as they approached the shallow steps where an usher was standing and checking tickets.

From somewhere behind them, a woman’s silvery laughter mingled with the low murmur of desultory chatter. Emmeline knew that laugh. She craned her neck around to chance a peek.

Oh, no, she mumbled.

Gregory grasped her by the elbow and asked, What’s the matter, Emmy?

She turned her head back and stared straight ahead. Do you see that slim woman with the dark hair cut in a sleek bob standing in the middle of the lobby?

Gregory, Maggie, and Philip all glanced around.

Yes, Maggie said leaning her head close to Emmeline’s. "Who is she?’

One person I wish wasn’t here this evening. That’s Verena Penrose. Gossip extraordinaire, who has dedicated her adult life to skewering people with a few strokes of her keyboard. Oh, why did she have to be here? It had been such a lovely evening until this point.

Do you know her? Maggie asked.

Our paths have crossed. I try to give her a wide berth. I always feel so dirty, after I’ve been in her presence. Beneath that elegant and cultured exterior lurks a vicious and vindictive woman. Salacious exposés are her forte. She sullies the name of honest, hard-working journalists. Emmeline tucked her chin into her chest. I hope she hasn’t seen me. I’m not in the mood to do verbal battle with her tonight.

Gregory squeezed her arm. You won’t have to, darling. She just disappeared through the door to the Dress Circle.

A smile spread across Emmeline’s face. Her good humor was restored once more. Right. She plucked her ticket from his fingers and tugged at his sleeve. It would be a crime to keep Dame Agatha waiting.

An usher checked their tickets and directed them to take the door on their left to reach their seats in Row J. Snippets of conversation drifted to their ears as they wended their way down to their seats, with Emmeline leading the way. Row J was just below the overhang of the Dress Circle, but it didn’t obstruct their view at all. They quickly shrugged out of their coats and settled into the worn crimson velvet seats. Emmeline and Maggie sat next to one another in the middle, while their husbands flanked them, with Gregory on the aisle and Philip on his wife’s right.

Maggie flipped through the program making comments about the actors, Agatha Christie, and mysteries in general. Emmeline was only half-listening, as her eyes roamed around the theatre, drinking in the highly polished wood paneling and crimson silk wallpaper scattered with golden flower medallions that matched the carpet. A faint smile touched her lips as her gaze traveled on, following the graceful curve of the wood railing as it swept from an invisible point above their heads in the Dress Circle until it reached the boxes overlooking the stage.

Her gaze narrowed into a frown, when she saw the notorious Verena Penrose leaning perilously far over the railing to Box B in a bid to be the center of attention, as usual. There was a man with her, but from her vantage point all Emmeline could see was his arm because he was sitting back in the shadow of the wooden column.

She nudged Maggie with her elbow and gestured with her chin. There she is again making a spectacle of herself.

Maggie glanced up. Verena Penrose?

Hmm, Emmeline murmured, as they watched the woman wave to someone across the theatre.

Maggie bent her head closer and whispered, If she’s as awful as you say—and I have absolutely no doubt about your judgment—I wonder if that chap with her knows what he’s let himself in for tonight.

I don’t fancy his chances, Emmeline remarked, Verena devours men and spits them out when she’s finished with them. She’s had a string of husbands, each one richer than the last. And in between, to keep herself from getting bored, she’s thrown herself into several affairs that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with lust, power and shock value.

In other words, a barracuda, Maggie ventured.

Precisely. If that weren’t bad enough, she’s anti-Semitic.

Maggie’s jaw tightened, as she cast a glance up at Verena Penrose’s box. Is she? Well, that’s not surprising.

That’s another reason I can’t stand the bloody woman. I’ve been on the receiving end of some of her venomous barbs on more than one occasion.

Hmph. That woman likes living dangerously. Obviously, she’s not acquainted with your temper. Personally, I would have throttled her.

They both giggled.

You don’t know how much the idea of doing her bodily harm captivated my imagination. I was very creative.

Maggie smirked. I’ll bet you were.

Emmeline exhaled a long sigh. However, in the end, it wouldn’t have solved anything except making me feel better for the moment. We both know from experience that you can’t change people like that.

Maggie slipped her arm around Emmeline’s shoulders. Unfortunately, no. She paused. But we can still dream about her painful demise. After all, what goes around comes around.

Emmeline smiled and touched her head to Maggie’s. I knew we were friends for a reason.

The lights dimmed. A hush descended upon the audience. Time for the play to cast its spell.

Chapter 2

The red velvet curtains came down, signaling an end to Act 1. The audience began to stir. A few stood and stretched but remained at their seats while many spilled into the aisle. Some hurried to the toilets before the queue got too long and others ambled leisurely toward the door to the Stalls Bar.

Emmy, are you enjoying the play? Gregory asked as they rose to their feet.

His wife gave an enthusiastic nod. Oh, yes. It’s wonderful. I hope the rest of you are too.

How could we not? Maggie countered. Miss Investigative Journalist, I bet you’ve already figured out who the murderer is.

A sly smile curled around Emmeline’s lips and her shoulders twitched up in a sheepish shrug. I have a fairly good idea. Shall I tell you who I think it is?

Maggie flapped a hand in the air. Certainly not. You, like Helen, are always right. I don’t know how, but you are. I don’t want the play to be spoiled. Therefore, you will keep your lips sealed.

Emmeline sketched a little salute, mimed locking her mouth and tossing the key over her shoulder.

Philip shot his cuff and checked his watch. Well, now that we’ve settled that question. The interval’s supposed to be twenty minutes long. How about a drink.

This suggestion was met with hearty approval.

The crush in the bar wasn’t too bad. Emmeline and Maggie spied a quiet corner, while Gregory and Philip waded across the room to the bar.

Maggie had been regaling Emmeline with the twins’ latest naughty adventures when a husky female voice intruded upon their conversation. Emmeline Kirby, I’d know those dark curls anywhere. I see you still haven’t managed to tame them. Pity. This statement was punctuated with a laugh.

Emmeline’s spine stiffened. Bloody hell, she swore silently. Her gaze locked on Maggie’s for an instant, before she slowly pivoted on her heel.

She gritted her teeth, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation with Verena Penrose. The tall, impossibly slim woman with hardly any curves, was swathed in a mauve dress that accentuated the blue-violet hue of her eyes. Her trademark sneer was firmly in place upon her lips, while her eyes held a mocking glint.

Emmeline cleared her throat. Verena, what an unexpected…surprise.

Verena tossed her head back and laughed. For a Jew, you’re a very poor liar. I thought you people were supposed to be experts when it came to lying and cheating. Behind her, Emmeline heard Maggie draw in a sharp breath at this offensive remark. Verena, however, was oblivious and went on, You knew I was here. You saw me in the lobby earlier, although you pretended not to. I hope you weren’t trying to hide from me. She batted her eyelashes coquettishly over the rim of her glass as she took a sip of her martini. The gesture only served to send Emmeline’s pulse racing.

She drew back her shoulders and sliced the odious woman to pieces with her gaze. I don’t need to hide from anyone, she retorted in clipped tones. But we have nothing to say to one another, so if you’ll excuse us. My friend and I will be going. Come along, Maggie.

She attempted to sweep past, but Verena blocked her path. Coward, she hissed.

What do you want, Verena? Emmeline snapped, her efforts to tamp down her temper abandoned. If you’re bored, why don’t you leave the theatre right now and allow the rest of us to enjoy the play in peace? I assure you no one would miss you. I wouldn’t have thought Agatha Christie was your cup of tea to begin with.

Verena peered down her nose at her with disdain. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Miss Prim and Proper? I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I have no intention of leaving. Tonight is a work outing. She sighed melodramatically. A journalist is a slave to the job.

Emmeline laughed, but rage bubbled in her throat at the woman’s audacity. Journalist? Ha. You call what you do work? You’re nothing more than a spiteful gossip, who derives pleasure from ruining people’s lives.

Aren’t you being a teeny-weeny bit hypocritical? Verena asked. You write reams of column inches about corrupt politicians, unscrupulous businessmen, and murderers. How is that different from what I do?

Not that I need to justify myself—

Verena interrupted her, But I’ve struck a nerve and you have to save face.

How dare you? Maggie exploded, outraged on Emmeline’s behalf.

Emmeline patted her friend’s arm lightly. It’s all right, Maggie. Then she rounded on Verena again. As I was saying, my job is to see that the truth is told, to hold those in power to account for the public’s sake, and to ensure that justice is served.

Verena clapped her hands. "Bravissima. You said that with such conviction. Did you practice that speech in front of the mirror until you actually believed the drivel you’re spouting? Perhaps if you ask nicely, they’ll find a part for you in this dreadful play."

She barreled on, without giving Emmeline a chance to respond. Let me tell you something. Your precious public doesn’t care a damn about the truth. All they want to read about is someone else’s problems so that they can feel better about their empty, dreary lives. She took a breath and scoffed, I despise people like you, who think that they’re superior to everyone else. The only difference between us is that you’re a scheming little Jew. Her voice rose an octave and her nostrils flared. You’d steal my scoop in a heartbeat. Don’t try to deny it. We’re both willing to step on whoever stands in our way to get ahead in this man’s world. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Gossip and scandal are my bread and butter. As it is yours if you’re honest. You can’t trust anyone in this world.

Her blue-violet gaze surveyed the bar. Look at all those smug faces. She gave a disapproving shake of her head. They think they can get away with anything because they have in the past. Infidelities, gold-digging, and even murder. Each person is harboring a dirty secret. When you trade in scandal, all sorts of evil truths come to light. Think of it like the old superstition about the ravens in the Tower of London flying away, and the Crown and Britain falling as a consequence. She pressed a hand to her chest. I’m the one who can set the ravens free. All I have to do is twist the key and the box is unlocked. Everyone must pay in this life. Some sooner rather than later.

You’ve made a lucrative career—if you can call it that—out of innuendo and rumors without bothering to check pesky things like the facts. I always corroborate every story with multiple sources, as a good journalist should. Not a word goes to print otherwise.

Verena rolled her eyes. Spare me your holier-than-thou sanctimony. There’s nothing wrong with making money. It’s awfully amusing to have people groveling on my doorstep, begging for a dispensation to allow them to go on pretending that their reputations are unsullied. Why should I? She gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. So, I’ve made a few enemies. It makes life more interesting.

You prey on people’s misfortunes.

Emmeline was blinded by the whiteness of Verena’s reptilian grin. It’s called power. It’s the only thing worth having. Power is deliciously thrilling. And I intend to have as much as possible.

You’re willing to write anything if it will set tongues wagging. Most of it is titillating lies, but it doesn’t matter as long as your name gets out there.

Verena tossed her chin in the air. You’re one to talk, she mocked. I wonder how much that story of yours over the summer about Victor Royce and his family was true. Don’t misunderstand me. I found it fascinating. It had shades of a James Bond thriller. Russian spies, poisonings, family disputes, and a trail of bodies. Deliciously wicked. And at the end of it all, you, dear Emmeline, ended up as the prime beneficiary of Royce’s will. Her voice dipped to a sinister hiss. As an outside observer, something smells a bit fishy. Or is that a whiff of blackmail? We all know how greedy Jews are. Always playing the victim and claiming other people’s property is theirs.

Emmeline felt the sting of these words as surely as if Verena had slapped her face. She knew the vile woman was alluding to the story she had written back in the spring about Maggie’s quest to recover her Great-Aunt Sarah Levy’s Constable painting, which had been looted by the Nazis.

A caustic rejoinder danced on tip of Emmeline’s tongue, but Maggie was quicker to lash out. Why don’t you crawl back under the rock from where you came, you bitch? Every word dripped with icy malice.

Verena had the temerity to laugh. Oh, wait, I remember. She made a show of squinting at her. Yes. You’re poor Maggie Roth. The one who caused all that fuss over the Constable painting. You were a darling of the papers for a few weeks. Do you miss all the media attention? Or now that you have your grubby hands on the painting, that’s all that counts? As I said before, it always comes down to money for you people.

Emmeline’s fingers flexed open and closed. A primitive voice inside her head urged, Go on. Punch her dead center in the mouth. You’ll barely notice the blood for that heavy coating of red lipstick.

Ah, Emmy, there you are. Gregory’s voice drifted to her ears.

The tension from her muscles uncoiled. She glanced around and he was suddenly by her side.

Sorry, it took so long. The barman got in a bit of a muddle. Here you go. He handed her a glass of golden Sauvignon Blanc and flashed her a smile that sent that familiar warm glow spreading through her body.

Thank you, she murmured as she accepted the glass and leaned into him slightly.

Philip was right on his heels and handed a glass to Maggie. He raised an eyebrow in askance, but Maggie was still fuming. She flicked a glance at Verena and then took a long, fortifying swallow of her Bordeaux.

Where are your manners, Emmeline? Verena prodded. Who are these delightful creatures?

Gregory extended a hand. Forgive me, he replied. I’m Gregory Longdon.

Verena clasped his hand and held onto it longer than was strictly necessary. Verena Penrose, she murmured. Longdon. Feigning concentration, two vertical lines appeared between her perfectly plucked brows. I’ve heard that name somewhere before.

He’s Emmeline’s husband, Maggie blurted out.

Verena’s blue-violet eyes widened and her mouth curved into a smile. "Oh, yes, of course. My, my, Emmeline, still waters run deep. How did you manage to catch such a criminally attractive man?"

Emmeline felt the bile rise in her throat. Although Verena’s comments were directed at her, the woman’s gaze never left Gregory’s face. Her tongue even flicked out for an instant, like a rattlesnake, to moisten her lips.

Gregory, always an astute judge of character, sensed something was not quite right despite the playful tone. He slipped his arm around Emmeline’s waist and drew her close to his side.

Ah, Ms. Penrose, fortune smiled upon me the day Emmy dropped into my life. In fact, I still can’t believe she agreed to be my wife. Every day is still like our honeymoon.

Emmeline tipped her head to one side and beamed up at him. She couldn’t love him more than at that moment. His words were a reminder that now they faced everything together. Good and bad.

Verena chortled. Please call me Verena. Everyone does. She paused for a beat and then continued, One of the world’s most handsome men and a charmer. I take my hat off to you, Emmeline. She stared at her intently. I suppose there must be something behind your insipid façade and that superior manner. But for the life of me, I simply can’t see it.

Gregory gave his wife’s waist a squeeze, a gentle warning. She glanced at his profile. Although his smile was still firmly in place, the planes and angles of his face had hardened.

Verena abruptly tore her gaze from him and settled on Philip. This is my lucky night for meeting dishy men. I know exactly who you are. Philip Acheson.

She proffered a hand. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, before reluctantly shaking it. Emmeline bit back a smile at the revulsion etched on Philip’s features. He looked as if he wanted to wipe his hand on his trousers, but deemed it impolite to do so.

Verena’s eyes drifted back to Maggie. I remember seeing pictures of the two of you in the papers at that time your wife caused that big scandal about the Constable.

This was too much for Maggie. The painting belonged to my family. It was stolen from my great aunt.

Verena gave an exaggerated yawn. Yes, yes, dear. I’ve heard that old, tired story before. It’s wearing rather thin.

No one is interested in your bigoted opinions, Philip shot back.

She shook her head. It’s a tragic shame to see two otherwise intelligent men taken in by these scheming Jews. You’ll regret your foolishness one of these days.

Gregory took Emmeline by the elbow. To Verena, he said in crisp tones, You’ve insulted my wife and Ms. Roth out of sheer bloody-mindedness. A gentleman never strikes a woman, but I fear if I linger here a minute longer you will leave me with no choice. I have no doubt Mr. Acheson agrees with me completely on that point.

Although she was more than capable of fighting her own battles, Emmeline found it extremely nice to have a champion.

Verena’s eyes narrowed, but she kept her counsel.

They had only taken a few steps when she hurled at their retreating backs, "Mr. Longdon, I’ll find out your secrets. I’m very good at ferreting out dirty laundry. And I’ll take great pleasure in reminding you of this night when I reject your pleas not to publish them."

Gregory gracefully spun around on his heel. Emmeline put a restraining hand on his sleeve. Don’t, she implored. She loves baiting people.

He patted her hand, a faint smile touching his lips. My life is an open book, Ms. Penrose. You’ll only end up with egg on your face, if you take it into your head to smear me or my wife. He flicked a sideways glance at Maggie and Philip. Or our dear friends.

Hmph, Verena snorted. If that was a threat, it failed miserably. I expected better of you. Her gaze roved over the entire bar, before once again latching onto Gregory’s face. Her voice rose an octave, drawing a few curious stares. Secrets and lies have a funny way of rising to the surface. Always. People are deluding themselves if they think that they can get away with murder. In the end, everyone has to pay the price for their crimes.

Gregory gave a curt nod. Thank you for that bit of wisdom. I’ll tuck it away and ponder it at my leisure when I find I have nothing better to do. Good evening.

Without another word, he turned his back on her and guided Emmeline to an empty corner at the opposite end of the barroom. Philip and Maggie were close on their heels.

Ooh, Maggie fumed when it was just the four of them. She rounded on Gregory. Why did you wish her a good evening? I would have wished her straight to the hottest corner of hell.

Gregory chuckled, as he took a sip of his Scotch. It wouldn’t have made a difference. However, his eyes were full of concern for Emmeline. Darling, are you all right? Don’t let that odious woman upset you.

I’m fine. I should be used to Verena by now. The hand that wasn’t holding her glass curled into a fist at her side. But she always knows which screws to turn. I try to let it wash over me—

Maggie took a deep swig of her wine and cut across her. Huh. The woman deserved to be sliced to pieces. I’m surprised she wasn’t a pool of blood at our feet. I would have gladly been your accomplice.

You don’t know how close I came, Emmeline admitted sheepishly.

Then it’s a good thing Longdon and I arrived when we did. Neither of us would have fancied visiting our wives in jail. I’m certain Superintendent Burnell wouldn’t have been too pleased to have the two of you as guests of Scotland Yard.

This remark had the effect of lightening the mood. Their conversation turned to the upcoming holidays and plans for the new year. Emmeline injected a comment at the appropriate juncture, but she was