Dancing With Danger (Goode Girls #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,1

back in a regimental posture. One her brilliant brothers-in-law often adopted when lecturing her about being more judicious.

Not that such homilies were effectual in her case.

But the men in her family appeared especially important and erudite while standing thusly, and even though she didn’t usually listen, it was certain that most people who were unacquainted with their soft hearts and darkest secrets would be inclined to do so.

“Do you see the slight edema there at her neck?” She motioned to the open throat of Mathilde’s high-necked gown, where the once-porcelain skin was now tinged a blue-grey. “This suggests asphyxiation, but there are no ligature marks, nor is there bruising.” She bent closer, inspecting the wound. “But a distressing bit of an interruption in the cords of her muscle, just there, leads me to believe that when your coroner arrives, he’ll find that her neck has been quite broken.”

Mercy exhaled a shaking breath, grasping onto her composure with both hands. If this dullard could keep his wits about him when faced with such a tragedy, then she was equally determined to.

“She wouldn’t have died instantly.” Her throat rasped over traitorous emotion. “Likely, she’d have been paralyzed, but able to talk and scream until the pressure crushed her trachea.” Her fingers reached for her own neck in sympathy, her bones heavy with guilt and her heart surging with an ardent vow to retaliate. “Her name was Mathilde Archambeau. That’s A-R-C-H—” She glanced over at Jenkins. “Why are you not writing this down?”

“Because we know exactly who this woman is,” said a stolid voice from the doorway. “And we have already surmised who is responsible for her death.”

Mercy whirled to find an average, if incredibly sturdy, man in a billycock hat and matching grey morning suit. He strode into the solarium with his coat lackadaisically draped over one arm. A square chin framed a nose that could have been unflatteringly likened to a potato. Eyes spaced too close together gleamed with improper interest as he conducted a thorough and disrespectful examination of Mercy’s person.

He was at least fifteen years her senior and wore a wedding band on his left finger.

Marriage didn’t stop men from ogling her, Mercy had found. Most possessed a weakness for a young slim woman with pale ringlets and a passably attractive face.

That was all they saw when they looked at her with the same desire she witnessed now. Her smooth, unblemished youth. Her diminutive shape and sparkling blue eyes.

She could disarm just about anyone with her winsome charms.

Until she opened her mouth.

Then their desire melted into anything from dismay to disgust.

As Mercy’s father often said, she’d make a perfect wife, if only someone could relieve her of her wits and her willfulness.

Or at least her tongue.

Her charms, as it happened, were only skin-deep.

Ah well, c’est la vie.

Fingers the size of breakfast sausages curled around her gloved hands as the newcomer bowed over her knuckles. “I’m Detective Inspector Martin Trout, at your service, Miss...”

Trout. A more apropos surname was never given.

“You know who did this?” Mercy plucked her hand away, blithely stepping around his subtle press for an introduction. “You know who murdered Mathilde?”

“That’s a relief. I was beginning to think it was her.” Constable Jenkins gestured toward Mercy, his brass buttons catching on the afternoon light streaming in through the windows from the back gardens.

One such window, Mercy noted, was open.

In February?

When even the fire blazing in the hearth wasn’t enough to ward off the moist chill in the room.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jenkins,” Detective Inspector Trout said, sidling closer to Mercy. “Our division is very familiar with this household. Mrs. Archambeau was unquestionably killed by her ham-fisted husband, Gregoire.”

Mercy deflated instantly. So much for the police being any help. “No, Detective Inspector, that is where you are wrong. It had to have been someone else.”

“Wrong?” The man echoed the word as if he’d never heard it before as shadows passed over his ruddy features.

Mercy nodded. “Mathilde and I had someone follow Gregoire onto a ferry to France where he was to conduct business for a week at least. You see, while he was away, she was going to leave him, due to the aforementioned mistreatment of her.” At this, Mercy’s brows drew together as she speared the man with her most imperious glare. “Which begs the question, Detective Inspector Trout, if you were aware that Mr. Archambeau was a cruel man, why didn’t you arrest him or at least take measures to keep poor Mathilde safe?”

Ah, there it was.