Read Online Murder by Sarah Pinborough - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Pinborough
Ads: Link
said, ‘that is for sure.’ If he could not derail the conversation, at least he would not stoop to trying to discredit Thomas Bond’s credentials as a suitor. For a start, he liked and respected the man. And it was becoming clear that Hebbert already had doubts about that possible match, if Bond ever got up the nerve to ask her to marry him, so there was nothing to be gained by sticking the knife in here. If he was going to win Juliana, then it would be through his own efforts, not by trying to malign his rival. It was hard to consider Bond a rival – how old was he? Late-fifties? Not that much younger than Kane’s father had been when he’d died.
‘Yes, yes,’ Hebbert agreed. ‘Thomas is a fine man. But he is nearing retirement and she is still a young woman. London can be a hard city to live in – I often see the very worst of its actions – and no doubt worse as a widow of means.’
He left the rest unsaid but the message was clear. If Edward Kane were to win Juliana’s affections and take her to New York to live a wealthy and privileged life, he would find no argument from her father. He felt a moment of guilt for Bond. He had taken the doctor into his confidence about James Harrington’s letters, and if he were a true gentleman he would back away from his growing relationship with Juliana. Where affairs of the heart were concerned, however, gentleman or not, he’d learned that people invariably did what they wanted to. Fighting it only delayed the inevitable. Even for those less carnally driven than himself.
‘She’s a strong woman,’ he said. ‘Whatever she chooses for her future, I’m sure she’ll do just fine.’ He was careful to say what and not who. He’d seen his father tell a thousand faux truths in boardroom meetings to know the power of choosing the right words.
‘We should play cards,’ Hebbert announced suddenly, changing the tack of the conversation. ‘There is normally a game or two going on, and I don’t feel quite ready to retire yet. What do you say?’
‘I’m always in for the tables,’ Kane replied.
‘Excellent!’ Hebbert was back to his jovial self. ‘Then we shall – Ah, Thomas! There you are. Cards?’
‘Sadly not.’ Bond finally returned to join them, but didn’t sit. ‘I have only just realised the time,’ he said. ‘I fear I must go home. Otherwise I shall be no use to the police in the morning. Nor to my patients at Westminster.’
He appeared slightly flustered, his smile tight.
‘Damn shame,’ Hebbert said. ‘It’s been a most pleasant evening. No doubt we shall meet again soon enough though.’
Bond nodded and shook both their hands. His fingers felt cold in Edward Kane’s grip. What was Bond hiding? Anything? Maybe it was just his own imagination at work, looking for signs that weren’t there. Always possible, he concluded, as he picked up his brandy and followed Charles Hebbert towards the cards room. Possible, but unlikely. He’d learned to trust his instincts and they were telling him that Dr Thomas Bond was onto something.
12
London. February, 1897
Dr Bond
I did not sleep well that night. At first I had thought my investigations would be easy. On arrival at the club, Hebbert had signed us all into the Members’ ledger before we handed in our coats and hats. It was as I had hoped: a record of each visit was made, and I imagined that the club was quite prestigious enough for the expensive leather-bound books to be kept for posterity.
I ate a good dinner, and entertained Edward Kane with stories of the inquest, glad to be able to avoid the subject of Harrington’s letters, and when we’d retired for brandy and both of my companions were pleasantly merry from wine, I excused myself and hurried to the entrance. With the list of dates of Jack’s murders in my pocket I had hoped to be able to quickly scan the right pages and confirm whether Charles Hebbert had been there that night – even if I only had time to check the date of
‘Yes, yes,’ Hebbert agreed. ‘Thomas is a fine man. But he is nearing retirement and she is still a young woman. London can be a hard city to live in – I often see the very worst of its actions – and no doubt worse as a widow of means.’
He left the rest unsaid but the message was clear. If Edward Kane were to win Juliana’s affections and take her to New York to live a wealthy and privileged life, he would find no argument from her father. He felt a moment of guilt for Bond. He had taken the doctor into his confidence about James Harrington’s letters, and if he were a true gentleman he would back away from his growing relationship with Juliana. Where affairs of the heart were concerned, however, gentleman or not, he’d learned that people invariably did what they wanted to. Fighting it only delayed the inevitable. Even for those less carnally driven than himself.
‘She’s a strong woman,’ he said. ‘Whatever she chooses for her future, I’m sure she’ll do just fine.’ He was careful to say what and not who. He’d seen his father tell a thousand faux truths in boardroom meetings to know the power of choosing the right words.
‘We should play cards,’ Hebbert announced suddenly, changing the tack of the conversation. ‘There is normally a game or two going on, and I don’t feel quite ready to retire yet. What do you say?’
‘I’m always in for the tables,’ Kane replied.
‘Excellent!’ Hebbert was back to his jovial self. ‘Then we shall – Ah, Thomas! There you are. Cards?’
‘Sadly not.’ Bond finally returned to join them, but didn’t sit. ‘I have only just realised the time,’ he said. ‘I fear I must go home. Otherwise I shall be no use to the police in the morning. Nor to my patients at Westminster.’
He appeared slightly flustered, his smile tight.
‘Damn shame,’ Hebbert said. ‘It’s been a most pleasant evening. No doubt we shall meet again soon enough though.’
Bond nodded and shook both their hands. His fingers felt cold in Edward Kane’s grip. What was Bond hiding? Anything? Maybe it was just his own imagination at work, looking for signs that weren’t there. Always possible, he concluded, as he picked up his brandy and followed Charles Hebbert towards the cards room. Possible, but unlikely. He’d learned to trust his instincts and they were telling him that Dr Thomas Bond was onto something.
12
London. February, 1897
Dr Bond
I did not sleep well that night. At first I had thought my investigations would be easy. On arrival at the club, Hebbert had signed us all into the Members’ ledger before we handed in our coats and hats. It was as I had hoped: a record of each visit was made, and I imagined that the club was quite prestigious enough for the expensive leather-bound books to be kept for posterity.
I ate a good dinner, and entertained Edward Kane with stories of the inquest, glad to be able to avoid the subject of Harrington’s letters, and when we’d retired for brandy and both of my companions were pleasantly merry from wine, I excused myself and hurried to the entrance. With the list of dates of Jack’s murders in my pocket I had hoped to be able to quickly scan the right pages and confirm whether Charles Hebbert had been there that night – even if I only had time to check the date of
Similar Books
