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  Blue Blooded

  Lord & Lady Hetheridge Mystery Series Book #5

  Emma Jameson

  Copyright © 2018 by Emma Jameson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my dear friend and fellow mystery author Cyn Mackley, who held my hand every step of the way. Thanks, Cyn!

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  From the Author

  Also by Emma Jameson

  Chapter One

  Anthony Hetheridge, ninth baron of Wellegrave and former chief superintendent for New Scotland Yard, welcomed the spring. In January, he’d been forced out of his distinguished career by old enemies who’d long been sharpening their knives. In February, he’d returned to the Yard as a consultant, a role that allowed him to do things heretofore only dreamt of: bill by the hour, ignore internal politics, and go home each day at five o’clock. In March, as daffodils sprang up all over London and pink camellia trees spilled over wrought iron fences, Tony had paid the £300 fee, took the “Fit and Proper Person” test, and passed the competency exam necessary to receive his private investigator’s license. Now it was April—warm, sunnier than usual, and full of surprises.

  On April fifth, his brother-in-law, Ritchie Wakefield, had modified the shape of a Lego brick by heating it with a cigarette lighter. In the process, he’d set ablaze a two-hundred-year-old French mahogany sofa. This had caught the nearby Italian silk brocade curtains on fire, which went up like tissue paper. Half of Tony’s ancestral London home, Wellegrave House, had been burned out.

  Thankfully, no one was injured. As his wife Kate raged, his assistant Mrs. Snell tutted, and his manservant Harvey wept, Tony decided that he, too, would abandon British reserve and vent his true feelings on the matter. Specifically: relief. Ringing up an interior design company recommended by his friend Lady Margaret Knolls, he’d authorized its head decorator to chuck out what was ruined, sell what remained, and chase away the ghosts of Hetheridges past.

  No more living in a museum, he thought, smiling as he poured himself a cup of tea. He was still a newlywed, in the process of adopting a son, and “only” sixty, as he’d begun to think of it. Once, he’d viewed sixty as the beginning of the end. Now he saw it as the end of the beginning. This second volume of his life was like a sequel that surpassed the original: higher stakes, deeper valleys, and the capacity to surprise him.

  On April twelfth, Tony and Kate had moved into Westminster’s newest high rise, One Hundred and One Leadenhall. Its kitchen, all quartz and stainless steel and web-connected mod-cons, flowed like mercury into the slate blue living room, which was both comfortable and elegantly modern. Tony felt like it was designed especially for him. He spent each morning there. Sometimes he missed his view into Wellegrave House’s walled garden, but living in the city center had its compensations. These included the living room’s floor-to-ceiling views of London: impressive by day and breathtaking by night.

  Lady Margaret had found the condo, which boasted three levels, five bedrooms, underground parking, and 24-hour porterage. Her friend, a prince based in Dubai, had purchased the townhouse as a wedding gift for his son and future daughter-in-law, only to be stuck with the fully-furnished, professionally-decorated property when the nuptials were nixed. The prince had been looking to sell at a profit, but by leaning on him, Lady Margaret had secured the Hetheridges a three-month sublet agreement instead. There was even an option for going month-to-month thereafter if the renovation of Wellegrave House, a Grade II listed building, dragged on due to strict regulations about approved materials. At over 6,000 square feet, the condo was far more than Tony and Kate required, but after the fire and all its attendant drama, the convenience of moving into a home they didn’t have to wait for was too good to resist.

  Within five minutes of entering the condo, Tony had felt at home. Kate had hated it on sight, and hated it still. Her underprivileged childhood had rendered her frugal, and not just with money. Tony’s former subordinate, Detective Sergeant Deepal “Paul” Bhar, called her condition “psychologically skint.” This he defined as the belief there wasn’t enough cash, trust, praise, or security to go around, inducing the sufferer to dig in her fingernails and cling to those things for dear life.

  There was some truth in Paul’s playful diagnosis, Tony thought, but it didn’t tell the whole story. No one was more generous with her time than Kate; no one was more willing to help those who couldn’t possibly return the favor. Many a career woman, after a decade of looking after her mentally disabled brother, would have given up after the fire and put him in an institution. Not Kate. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been offered the chance. Recently a pair of social workers, sent round to inquire how Ritchie got access to a cigarette lighter, had suggested she do just that, arguing that a professionally-managed clinical environment would better suit his needs.

  Kate had sent the social workers packing, kindly but firmly. According to her will, she’d named Tony as Ritchie’s primary guardian, should she die or become unable to make decisions for him. In the event Ritchie survived both Kate and Tony, he would likely spend his golden years in a group home. His childlike, semi-unresponsive nature made solo living impossible. But until death or illness separated them, Kate wanted Ritchie with her. Who could do a better job of looking after him? She knew him better than she knew herself.

  Ritchie had been rescued from the Wellegrave House fire without burns or significant smoke inhalation, but the conflagration had thrown him into what the family called “meltdown mode.” The social workers, after meeting Ritchie for the first time and watching him vacillate between sobbing, hiding, and pacing in circles, had suggested new meds and a week of residential care. Kate, who’d spent a lifetime witnessing those meltdowns, had ignored their suggestion in favor of her own treatment plan: Burger King, ice cream, doughnuts, and a full day at LEGOLAND Windsor. It had worked brilliantly; Ritchie was back to normal, the fire forgotten. But Kate still checked the smoke alarms twice daily and woke up gasping from nightmares about a second fire, one from which there was no escape.

  Maybe she finds this condo as stressful as the fire itself, Tony thought, cup and saucer in hand as he surveyed the view. He liked to get right alongside the picture window, so close that his wingtips tapped the glass. From such a vantage point, it was rather like hovering above London.

  He suspected Kate found living at “One-oh-One,” as the residents called it, a blow to her cherished self-image as a scrapyard dog among pedigreed poodles. After years of mocking exclusive communities for adverts promising “grandeur and prestige,” not to mention refuge from the rabble, she’d wound up sleeping with the enemy. It was tough to trot like a rawboned mutt
while taking a private lift from living room to master bedroom.

  She also worried that Ritchie and Henry might do serious damage to their temporary surroundings. If not by another fire, by their usual bag of tricks: Sharpies, unwashed hands, ground-in crisps, melted Cornettos, and vomit. These concerns had led Kate to consign most of the owner’s fine possessions to a storage unit. Now the condo’s walls were bare, its shelves bereft of knickknacks, its rooms furnished with wobbly particleboard furniture from IKEA.

  Assembling those modernist pieces had turned out to be a pleasant way to spend a family weekend. Kate had partnered with Ritchie, who was a natural. Their finished tables and chairs were the strongest and best-looking by far. Tony had worked with Henry, who did well when he focused and made ruinous mistakes when he didn’t. The wardrobe they’d assembled for his bedroom was cracked in two places where he’d overtightened the screws. After Tony’s warning fell on deaf ears, he’d allowed the boy to err without intervening. Why? For the same reason he’d occasionally let his detectives blunder forth unto the breach after ignoring his expert counsel. Henry would learn a lesson about following directions, Tony hoped, from putting up with a lopsided wardrobe that didn’t close properly. Or maybe he wouldn’t. But at least he’d receive the opportunity. No child could learn from a mistake an adult corrected ahead of the consequences.

  Harvey and Mrs. Snell had also participated in the mass furniture assembly, though they had declined to work as a team. Harvey had invented reasons why he needed to go it alone, all of them calculated to make him sound selfless. Mrs. Snell had done a slow burn, throwing the manservant occasional contemptuous looks through her thick magnifying specs. Harvey, who’d worked for Tony for more than twenty years, believed his territory had been invaded. Mrs. Snell, who’d worked for Tony at Scotland Yard for over thirty years, believed she was rubbing elbows with a rank amateur. Some men, finding themselves the object of a loyalty pissing contest, would be flattered. Tony wanted to knock their heads together. He suspected he would, if they didn’t achieve détente soon.

  This morning, April twenty-fourth, Tony had the condo almost entirely to himself. Kate was at work, Henry was at school, and Ritchie was off with his paid carer, taking in the sun at Regent Park’s bandstand. Harvey was at Wellegrave House, as he was every day, micromanaging the rebuild. Even Paul had texted only once, which was an improvement. Apparently, he found the loss of his old guv difficult to accept. Texting Tony was his chief coping mechanism.

  Poor Paul, Tony thought. Over the years he’d had many subordinates, but with the notable exception of the one he’d married, Paul was his favorite. He’d had a rocky time of it at the Yard. Golden in his didactics and brilliant in his first months on the job, Paul had made several ethical lapses during the Sir Duncan Godington triple murder case. In the process, he’d lost the girl of his dreams, Tessa Chilcott, and the Crown had lost the case.

  Tony had saved him from the sack, though he’d never admitted as much, and never would. He still believed Paul could right the ship and become the fine detective he was meant to be. But first he needed to regain his confidence, to bury the past once and for all. It hadn’t happened yet.

  Today, only Mrs. Snell was present. She occupied the condo’s first-floor reception room, which they’d rearranged slightly to serve as his temporary office.

  He was calling the agency “Hetheridge’s.” Kate didn’t like it. She thought Hetheridge’s sounded like a haberdasher or a bespoke chocolates shop. She was pushing him to adopt a stern industry-standard name like “Vigilant Investigations” or “Encompass Intelligence Ltd.” When Tony had remarked that calling anything “Intelligence Limited” was asking for trouble, Kate had cordially invited him to do two things, one of which was think up something better.

  On the day they moved into One-oh-One, Tony had believed he could call his agency “Manky Monkey on a Stick” and it would have done just fine. At the Yard, he’d routinely shaved in his office, answered his phone in the men’s room, and spent Christmas Day catching up on paperwork. The job never stopped. But as April dragged on and Mrs. Snell sat alone at her reception room desk, fielding those rare phone calls that led to nothing, he’d realized that life in the private sector would be altogether different. If he wanted to attract clients, rechristening his agency would be a good first step. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that Kate was smugly awaiting his capitulation.

  I could still prove her wrong, he thought, crossing to the picture window’s opposite end. From there, he had a better view of a new Westminster skyscraper. This one would alter the London skyline and even obscure 30 St. Mary Axe, better known as the Gherkin. After an all-too-brief run, the beloved landmark was being eclipsed.

  I know how it feels. I need a case before I disappear, too.

  Recently, Tony had visited two PIs he knew slightly, infrequent snouts for the Yard, to see how they approached the business. Both operations were one-man hole-in-the-wall affairs; windowless offices with peeling paint, lino floors, and electric fans instead of air conditioning. PI number one owned a cheap metal desk, a laptop, and a mobile. PI number two had that, plus a well-worn London A-Z map, a bottle of Maalox, and a pile of empty takeout boxes. Neither had adopted the stereotypical fedora or trench coat, but chain-smoking was apparently still in fashion in the gumshoe world, as was informality. Both men had swilled coffee and snacked behind their desks while Tony quizzed them.

  “You’re hung up on hands-on investigating, but it’s all databases now, innit? Databases and mobile records and CCTV footage until it’s all I dream about, guv,” PI number one, a pasty man called Dennis, had said between spoonfuls of curry. “I used to get out and about. Knocking on doors. Ringing up tossers and saying they’d won a prize so they’d cough up their current address. Back in the day I’d mix it up a little, too. Get in a lad’s face or crack heads.”

  Still chewing, Dennis had mimed a left hook. “Now all the debtors and missing daddies got mobile video. They scream ‘I know my rights,’ don’t they, while their mates film the dust-up. A poor bugger like me is as much at risk of being banged up for brutality as you wankers at the Met. No offense.”

  Tony had taken none, which was good preparation for his chat with PI number two.

  “Save yourself, mate,” PI number two, a sad-eyed man called Raj, had said. He was working his way through a packet of Tim Tams, and unlike his colleague, saw no reason to speak only between bites.

  “Preserve what faith in humanity you have left. This is a job for people who like to be the bearer of bad news.” Demolishing a Tim Tam in two bites, he said around a chocolate-colored mouthful, “‘Oh, yes, Mr. Jones. About that charming young man you’d like to hire. He faked his references and he’s spying for your competitor. What’s that, Ms. Smith? Your new boyfriend? He’s got a wife and kiddies. Another girlfriend, too.’

  “Last week,” Raj had continued, “a geezer engaged my professional services. Wanted the name and whereabouts of the miscreant who robbed his daughter’s flat and made off with his cash gifts to her. I had to break the news that she robbed herself to pay her dealer. Figured her old dad was thick enough to give her the cash all over again. Bloody wanker cried. Then he paid me. Then he cried again and asked for his money back. I said I had my own problems and beat it. It’s a dirty business, mate. Life’s too short. Especially for a bloke with one foot in the grave. No offense.”

  Once again, Tony had taken none. It was hard to resent a PI who mainlined Tim Tams just to make it through the day. Perhaps one-man agencies were especially stressful? Tony had quite literally never worked alone in his professional life. He’d always had a partner, a guv, a department, or a staff of his own, ready and willing to take orders 24/7. In addition to Mrs. Snell, he expected to someday take on at least one junior detective, possibly two. Perhaps interviewing someone at a bigger agency would yield more pertinent information?

  He’d picked one, Wheelwright’s, via Google. A black cab had whisked him to a smartly-de
corated office on Earls Court Road. There was no sign or marquee, only the name painted on the glass door. At the reception desk sat a black woman with a cool, assessing gaze.

  “Booking?” Her tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly.

  “No. I’d like to speak to the person in charge, if he or she can spare a moment. My name is Anthony Hetheridge. Ninth Baron, Wellegrave. New Scotland Yard, retired.”

  That was what Henry called his “shock and awe” line, the bomb Tony dropped when he wanted something done quickly, with as little inconvenience as possible. The receptionist scanned him with her acute gaze, no longer quite so cool, and apparently decided he was the real deal. Without demanding credentials, she’d invited him to take a seat while she had a word with the boss. In less than two minutes, she was back, offering a professional smile so perfectly calibrated, she might have purchased it from Staples.

  She’d led him deeper into Wheelwright’s, which looked as stodgy as any Edwardian men’s club: oak-paneled walls, brass sconces, and oil paintings of the industrious-peasant variety. Given the office’s pronounced air of masculinity, Tony had been surprised when PI number three turned out to be a middle-aged woman with bobbed hair and lips as red as a banker’s power tie.

  “You came to the right place,” she said, rising to shake his hand as he entered the office. “I’m Cecelia Wheelwright.”

  There were no more niceties. She’d launched straight into answering his questions. “There’s no comparison between my agency and the pair you talked to. Independent operators pluck the low-hanging fruit. Your public records searches. Your who’s-the-daddy cases. Agencies like mine operate in a different universe. We offer a full menu of services. One menu for the typical English nuclear family. Infidelity, divorce, hidden assets, child on drugs. Another for businesses. Bug sweeping, corporate espionage, employee fraud. And one menu for in-depth investigations. Missing persons. Lost heirs. Even a cold case homicide, once in a blue moon.