No Pity For the Dead by Nancy Herriman Page A

exploded—had turned into a rather permanent absence. Although, if Celia truly believed her husband was dead, why did she continue to pay her investigator, Mr. Smith, to search for him? Did she think his reported death in a Mazatlán saloon was a terrible mistake, or a lie?
I never did trust Patrick, did I?
How easily charmed she’d been. But then, her husband had been extremely charming.
    â€œMa’am?” asked Hetty, breaking into Celia’s thoughts. “If you’re finished, I’ve got work to do.”
    â€œPardon my woolgathering. I have one more question,” said Celia. “Do you know what time it was that you heard Mr.Hutchinson?”
    Hetty screwed up her face in thought. “Ten? Yes, ten, I think.”
    Which left a gap of at least four hours between when he’d left work at six—if Jane was correct about his habits—and when he finally returned home. Sufficient time to dine and return to Martin and Company and attempt to dig up a body. But how would he have learned about Owen’s discovery so quickly? And why would he have wanted to remove the man buried in the cellar rather than alert the police? The only reason would be that he did not want the police to recover the body. If there was no body, there would be no arrest for murder.
    I cannot suspect Frank like this; it is simply not possible he is a murderer.
    â€œThank you, Hetty. You have been very helpful.” The girl held out Celia’s wrap, and Celia draped it over her shoulders.
    The front knocker sounded and Hetty went to answer it, leaving Celia standing in the entry hall, fastening the clasp of her mantle. When the maid opened the door, Celia wasn’t surprised to see who stood on the threshold.
    â€œIs Mrs. Hutchinson at home?” the man asked, looking past Hetty’s shoulder into the dim recesses of the house. He caught sight of Celia and frowned.
    â€œWhy, good morning, Mr. Greaves.”
    â€œWhat’re
you
doing here?” he asked Celia, and stepped forward to get past Hetty.
    The maid stood her ground. “You can’t come in without me knowing who you are, sir.”
    Nicholas Greaves reached into an inner coat pocket and pulled out a badge. “Police.”
    Hetty blanched. “We’re in trouble with the police now?”
    â€œHetty, you should fetch your mistress,” said Celia.
    The maid looked happy to do so and sprinted off without remembering to shut the door. Mr. Greaves closed it for her. Overhead, Hetty’s feet pounded along the carpeted first-floor hallway.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he repeated.
    â€œJane and Frank Hutchinson are my dearest friends.”
    His frown deepened. “You could’ve told me that before. Is there anything else you’ve decided not to mention?”
    Celia held his gaze as guilt twinged. “There is something I should tell you about Frank . . .”
    â€œOh!” Jane rushed down the stairs, her skirts hiked in one fist. She glanced between Celia and Mr. Greaves. “The police have come already, Celia?”
    â€œWell, that answers what you’re doing here, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “Interfering with an investigation.”
    Celia made introductions and removed her mantle again, handing it back to Hetty, who had descended the steps behind her mistress. At the top of the stairs, Grace looked down upon them, unhappiness etched upon her face.
    Mr. Greaves was staring at the girl. “My God,” he murmured. “It’s been that long.”
    Celia followed his gaze. He knew Grace? The girl turned and fled to her room, and he released a breath.
    â€œDo you know my stepdaughter, Detective Greaves?” Jane asked.
    Mr. Greaves didn’t answer, instead looking over at Celia. “There’s no need for you to stay, Mrs. Davies.”
    â€œI expect that Jane would like me with her.”
    â€œPlease permit her to stay, Detective,” said