Death at the Falls

Book 7: Gilded Age Mystery

by Rosemary Simpson

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

October 1890: As Prudence and Geoffrey settle into the most elegant hotel in Canadian Niagara, they observe a popular tourist area torn between natural beauty and industrial power. Also attracting their attentions are the antics of daredevil Crazy Louie Whiting, determined to be the first person to navigate the falls without drowning. Crazy Louie sends a specially designed test barrel containing a sheep over the falls. But when the barrel is retrieved and opened, the battered body of a local Tuscarora Indian spills out.



When Geoffrey and Prudence learn of the dead man's suspicions about rampant bribery among greedy land developers and local officials, they wonder if there's a connection to their client, Rowan Adderly. The land she is due to inherit could be worth millions—and inevitably the sharks have come feeding.



In a move to block Rowan's inheritance, her greedy grandmother has declared Rowan to be the illegitimate offspring of an illicit affair between her son and a seductive Irish songstress. As Prudence and Geoffrey dig deeper into the region's undercurrent of opportunistic greed, their investigation is impeded at every turn by murder and attempted murder. They will have to work quickly to solve a convoluted case before a determined killer sends one of them on a fatal plunge . . .

Release date: November 29, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Prudence MacKenzie stared out the window of the train she and her partner had boarded in New York City’s Grand Central Depot early that morning.

“It’s magnificent, Geoffrey. I had no idea how glorious they would actually be.”

Hundreds of thousands of gallons of whitewater cascaded down Horseshoe Falls, American Falls, and Bridal Veil Falls while far below the steel suspension bridge spanning the Niagara River, a child’s toy of a boat pitched its way through swirling waters and a brilliant rainbow. Passengers on the Maid of the Mist wore slick oilskins to protect them from the heavy sprays churned up by the action of the falls and dozens of spiraling whirlpools; they counted a voyage aboard the Maid a highlight of their Niagara experience.

For exceptionally adventurous souls not content to marvel from the dry safety of the river’s banks and bluffs, the guidebook Prudence cradled in her lap recommended a foray into the Cave of the Winds beneath Bridal Veil Falls. She’d marked everything the author described as either too exciting or too dangerous for ladies to attempt.

“Look behind us,” Geoffrey urged as the train passed the midpoint of the river and entered Canadian territory. “Look back at the banks on the American side.”

Streams of filthy wastewater gushed down high cliffs as far as the eye could see. Brick chimneys jutting up along the banks of the river like a forest of unnatural trees belched out clouds of dark smoke. Piles of rotten lumber, stacks of rusty metal, and small mountains of indistinguishable debris teetered on the edge of the precipice. As they watched, fragments of rubble tumbled down into the water below, swept away by the swift current.

Prudence rubbed at the car’s window with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Those must be the factories we read about.”

The New York Times had run a series of articles on the efforts of Frederick Law Olmsted and the Free Niagara movement to eradicate the area’s worst industrial development in favor of preserving its natural beauty in a free public park. Bitter controversy and rancorous opposition had delayed the project for years until the Niagara Reservation Act was pushed through the New York State Legislature and signed into law by the governor in the spring of 1885. Five and a half years ago.

“I hadn’t thought it would take so long,” Prudence mused, facing forward again, folding the now-grimy handkerchief into a tiny square.

“What you see is the power of money,” Geoffrey commented. “Those mills and manufacturing plants are ugly and probably stink to high heaven if you get too close, but operations like that make their owners wealthy. They’re not giving them up without a fight.”

“Is that why we’re here? To wade into a dispute between the Free Niagara people and the factory owners? I wish Aunt Gillian had been more precise in her letter. ‘My dear friend Ernestine Hamilton needs your help. She knows you’ve passed the bar. I’ve told her you’re on the way. Don’t dawdle. Be discreet. ’ And then she blithely hies off to Scotland for the grouse shooting and doesn’t mention whose estate she’s visiting so we can’t contact her. Typical, typical!”

“Lady Rotherton is predictably unpredictable,” Geoffrey said. The corners of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. He’d realized very soon after meeting her that there was no defense against Prudence’s very British and formerly American aunt. Much simpler to go along with whatever schemes she dreamed up and hope her attention would be diverted before too much damage had been done. “At least there’s still an ocean between you again.”

“I think she convinced herself I’d sail back to England with her last spring.”

“Even when she was pushing hard for it, I couldn’t envision you stepping into the arms of a chinless English aristocrat with empty pockets, a moldering London town house, and a country estate with nothing to recommend it but the scenery.” He shook his head and then chuckled. “On second thought, Prudence, you might want to reconsider. You’d wear a tiara and a title very nicely.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Prudence had paid little heed to the bantering that had always marked their relationship and occasionally took on a sharp, quarrelsome edge until Geoffrey was seriously wounded on a train very like the one they were riding in today. The tension that had once reverberated between them like a taut violin string no longer tightened her jaw and etched frown lines across her forehead. She drew away from the brink of a quarrel now, mindful of words that could not be taken back, invisible injuries that were harder to heal than bullet wounds and broken bones.

Geoffrey had almost died. Prudence nearly lost him. And that had made all the difference. Edging her way cautiously toward a commitment she had been loath to make, Prudence was almost ready to let down her defenses. The verbal swordplay had lost much of its bite.

But not always and not entirely.

“ ‘Be discreet.’ I wonder what Aunt Gillian means by that,” Prudence mused. “We’re going to have to ask questions to find this mysterious friend of hers. At least we know she lives on the Canadian side of the falls.”

“If Ernestine Hamilton is embroiled in a land dispute in American Niagara, she may not want it known that two New York City lawyers have entered the fray.”

“I think of us less as lawyers than private inquiry agents. Don’t you?”

“Hunter and MacKenzie, Investigative Law. We’ve created something new,” Geoffrey said.

While the courtroom had always remained a possibility, most of the cases they’d accepted in the past two and a half years had been more investigatory than legal. He had thought that might change after Prudence became only the second woman to be admitted to the practice of law in New York State, but the clients she had been hoping for had not materialized.

Despite their best efforts, they hadn’t been able to quash rumors of the case that had taken them into the squalid streets of Five Points and the sordid world of sexual slavery. The notoriety of what they had discovered repelled a conservative clientele averse to newsworthy impropriety. For better or worse, private inquiry agents were often tarred with the same brush as the beleaguered individuals who hired them.

“You’ll never be able to walk away from your Pinkerton years,” Prudence said. She’d grown adept at interpreting the expression on Geoffrey’s face and reading his thoughts.

“I no longer want to. Now that I’ve come to terms with them.” He had accepted the fact that there would always be cases he could never discuss with anyone, incidents that tortured his conscience, nightmares against which there seemed to be no defense. He was counting on the passage of time to dull the memories and hoping to spare Prudence the worst of what it meant to battle crime and exploitation.

“We’ll check into the Clifton House, order tea, and see what a waiter or the desk clerk can tell us about our client,” Prudence decided. “Discreetly, of course.” When she smiled, her light gray eyes sparkled, and her face radiated a compelling beauty.

“Josiah claims it’s the finest hotel in Canadian Niagara.”

“He would know,” Prudence agreed.

Someday, their secretary would leave them to pursue his own interests, but not for the foreseeable future, she hoped. Josiah Gregory was as intrinsically important to the smooth function of their fledgling enterprise as either of the two principals. On more than one occasion, he’d proven to be a valuable operative as well as a skilled practitioner of shorthand and a master at keeping complete and orderly files. For this case, he’d bought the train tickets, made the hotel reservations, and secured the travel guide Prudence had been reading during the long ride from New York City. The one thing Prudence hadn’t thought to ask him to do was uncover who Ernestine Hamilton was and why Aunt Gillian had decided she needed the services of a newly minted lawyer.

“We’re pulling into the station,” Geoffrey announced, checking for items that needed to be returned to his pockets and the briefcase he never allowed a porter to carry.

Prudence secured the pins of her elaborately befeathered hat, tugged down the jacket of her pinch-waisted traveling suit, and inspected the tiny buttons of her gloves. The drab secretarial garb she wore when she wanted to be unnoticed and unobserved lay packed in her valise. Any friend of Lady Rotherton would expect Gillian’s niece to present herself suitably and fashionably attired. So would the staff of the Clifton House Hotel. Sometimes being discreet meant playing the role that was expected. A practice at which Prudence had long excelled.

Their trunks and valises loaded into one of the open buggies dispatched by the Clifton House to meet every incoming train, Geoffrey and Prudence breathed in the clear, crisp October air and listened to their top-hatted driver’s welcoming spiel. Within minutes of beginning the ride up toward the bluff that gave the three-story hotel the finest views of any of the tourist establishments in the area, they learned that it had been built in the 1830s and then become so popular that it more than doubled in size to 150 rooms. Every person of note who visited the falls sought accommodation at Clifton House, he informed them, including Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale, and a Prince of Wales. It had even been the site of abortive peace negotiations between North and South during the war.

Prudence cocked an eyebrow at Geoffrey, who shook his head and leaned slightly forward as if eager not to miss a word of the patently oft-recited monologue. A talkative buggy driver was not someone you could count on to be discreet. New York City hansom cabbies knew everyone and everything that went on in the city, including what they heard and saw in their vehicles that never made it into a newspaper or a society parlor. They were notorious gossips among themselves and willing tittle-tattlers if the price was right. Why would a Niagara Falls coachman be any different? She tamped down her impatience and concentrated on the scenery.

The buggy climbed a steep hill, their driver touching one forefinger to the brim of his hat as they met descending carriages and groups of Clifton House guests strolling the extensive grounds. The closer they came to the hotel itself, the more they became aware of the rumble of the falls. At first just a suggestion of sound, the soft roar gradually increased in volume and power until it was like listening to a sustained roll of far-off thunder.

“Wind’s blowing in our direction,” the driver remarked. “That’s why you’re hearing them so good. Some days it’s as quiet as a church up here. Then again, it’ll get so loud you can’t hear the person standing next to you.”

“Do you drive visitors around to see the sights?” Prudence asked.

“Used to, but not no more. Nowadays I work for the hotel, bringing new arrivals up from the station and taking them back down when they leave. There’s hacks on both sides of the river that do nothing but drive tours. You tell ‘em you want to go one place, they’ll take you to ten. They’ve all cut deals with the concessionaires.”

“I thought the Niagara Reservation was supposed to be a free park. That’s what we read in the Times,” Geoffrey commented.

“The park’s free, but that’s about the only thing you don’t have to pay for. That’s what the fighting was all about when Olmsted came up with the idea. Folks were making a good living charging to see the falls. They threw up wooden fences to block the view, then drilled holes in them you had to fork over a quarter to put your eye to. Nobody was too happy about the idea of a free attraction except the Parker family. New York State paid them half a million dollars for Goat Island.” The driver snorted and shook his head. “Eminent domain was what the government called it. Folks had to accept what they were offered or spend money they didn’t have going to court for a case they were gonna lose anyway.”

“That was on the American side,” Prudence remarked. “What about the Canadian?”

“Not much different. We passed by Queen Victoria Park down at the bottom of the hill we’re climbing right now. Clifton Hill. They opened it two years ago on Victoria Day, Her Majesty’s birthday.” He figured that Americans, judging by their accents, wouldn’t know what Victoria Day was unless he explained it to them.

“Which do you recommend?” Prudence asked.

“I’d see ‘em both. You can hire a buggy and guide on this side of the river and he’ll drive you across the suspension bridge to wherever you want to go.”

“We came across the suspension bridge today. By train,” Prudence protested.

“Yes, ma’am, you did. But underneath the train tracks there’s a passageway for carriages and pedestrians. It’ll cost you twenty-five cents to walk it, thirty-seven for a one-horse carriage. Like I said, nothing much in Niagara is free.”

“Except the view,” Geoffrey said. He shaded his eyes with one hand the better to see the falls in the distance and the Clifton House’s white painted verandas gleaming in the sunlight. The hotel looked to be as fine and no doubt as exclusive as anything to be found in New York City.

“Only from the parks,” the driver reminded them. “Anywhere else you go somebody will have a hand out.” True to his word, their coachman lingered over unloading their trunks and valises long enough for Geoffrey to dole out a sizable gratuity.

Josiah had arranged for a suite of two bedrooms separated by a comfortably large parlor on the side of the hotel that directly faced the falls.

Sharing a suite without adequate chaperonage was still unthinkable in most social quarters, but Nellie Bly had circumnavigated the globe without a female companion in tow and Clara Barton had become president of the American Red Cross. A vote on Woman Suffrage had been defeated in the U.S. Senate, but the movement for equality was regrouping and growing stronger by the day. Times and the way people lived them were changing.

The bellman who carried up their luggage opened the French doors leading onto the veranda, checked that the flowers, the fruit basket, and the champagne cooling in ice were satisfactory, accepted Geoffrey’s generous tip, and finally, blessedly, left them alone.

“It looks like the telephone has come to Niagara,” Prudence said, picking up a thin directory. Its cover boasted a photographic print of one of the famous winter ice bridges that froze portions of the falls and tempted foolhardy young men out onto the river’s dangerous surfaces. She thumbed through its meager pages. “I don’t see an Ernestine Hamilton listed. And I don’t know her husband’s given name or if some other family name or title would be used. Aunt Gillian didn’t see fit to provide us with that information.” She flung down the useless booklet. “No Hamiltons at all.”

“I doubt many private homes have a telephone,” Geoffrey said. “Except for a few business owners who want the connection with their offices. The bigger hotels, of course.” He pulled out his gold pocket watch to check the time. “Electricity will be next. As soon as some genius of an engineer figures out how to harness the power of the falls. I have a feeling that if what we’re here for is a land dispute, it’s because either Thomas Edison or George Westinghouse is angling to ensure that only one of them holds the power monopoly. Electricity is the future, Prudence, and it could prove to be even more lucrative than Carnegie’s steel mills, Rockefeller’s oil fields, or Vanderbilt’s railroads. My money, for what it’s worth, is on Nikola Tesla’s alternating current.”

“I’ve been looking forward to a decent cup of tea for hours now,” Prudence interrupted, moving toward the suite’s entry hall. Once Geoffrey started rambling on about the scientific mysteries of electricity, power grids, and the conflicting claims of alternating versus direct current, there was no stopping him. She’d heard the arguments many times before. “And some tiny, crustless sandwiches. Petits fours or scones perhaps. We are in Canada, after all.”

With a final, speculative glance out the French doors toward the unharnessed power of the falls, Geoffrey picked up his briefcase. “Don’t leave anything here or in your room that would mark us as private inquiry agents. And lawyers,” he warned. “We don’t know yet what we’re walking into.”

“The dining room first,” Prudence said, nodding agreement. “Or maybe a table on the veranda.”

“Are you sure you don’t want Lady Rotherton to make an Englishwoman out of you?” Geoffrey teased. “Then you’d have all the tea and scones you could wish for.”

“Not worth the price,” Prudence said. “And even Aunt Gillian complains about the London weather.”

They decided on a table that overlooked the falls from the hushed elegance of the Clifton House dining room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the view, while starched white linen, monogramed silver, and crystal bud vases ensured that afternoon tea would be as elaborate a ritual in Niagara as it was in London.

“I want a taste of everything,” Prudence decided, ordering the cream tea that included three varieties of finger sandwiches as well as scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. “Darjeeling, please,” she told the beardless waiter who looked hardly old enough to be a kitchen boy.

Geoffrey’s preferences ran to thick, chicory-laced New Orleans-style coffee, but he’d learned to substitute a strong black India tea. “Assam,” he ordered. “And I’ll also have the cream tea.” He smiled across the table at his partner, wondering not for the first time how tightly corseted women managed to eat and drink anything at all. Prudence would consume all of her sandwiches and scones and probably some of his as well. It was always that way during the first days of a new case, as if she were squirreling away energy for whatever lay ahead. It was one of the charmingly odd quirks about her that he cherished.

“We’ll have to ask the maître d’ about Ernestine Hamilton,” Geoffrey said as they waited for their tea to arrive. “I assume townspeople as well as guests frequent the hotel restaurant.”

“From what we saw on our way here, there isn’t anything on either side of the river to rival the Clifton House. So if Niagara does have a sophisticated population, I imagine this is where they congregate,” Prudence agreed.

In New York City, deals tended to be brokered over elaborate meals at places like Delmonico’s, the Astor House, or the private dining rooms of the Fifth Avenue Hotel where Geoffrey leased an apartment. She didn’t imagine that Niagara’s important men conducted themselves any differently. “‘Be discreet,’ ” Prudence said, quoting Lady Rotherton’s letter. “I think that one word intrigues me more than anything else she wrote. Nothing my aunt has ever done could be called discreet.”

They fell silent as the waiter rolled a serving cart to the table. Triangular crustless sandwiches lay stacked on a three-tiered silver serving stand, fronds of bright green parsley nestled among them. Another tiered stand held plain and currant scones, and a third boasted bite-sized cakes and delicate pastries. Everything testified to the presence of a skilled master chef in the Clifton House kitchens.

As the waiter poured their first cups of fragrant Darjeeling and Assam tea, Prudence quirked one eyebrow at Geoffrey, who gave an infinitesimal nod. Might as well, he seemed to say.

Laying her copy of The Humbugs of Niagara Falls Exposed on the table where its title could be easily read, Prudence smiled encouragingly as the waiter managed the tea pouring without spilling a drop on the immaculate tablecloth. “Are you familiar with this guide?” she asked. “It’s a fascinating read, but I’m not sure what to believe.”

“Mr. Young might exaggerate a bit sometimes, but we do recommend his book to all our guests.”

Prudence plunged on. “It’s not a complete guide to Niagara Falls, though, even though it claims to be.” She ran a manicured finger across the book’s secondary title. With A Complete Tourists’ Guide. “For one thing, it doesn’t include the information I wanted. Nor are its maps at all comprehensive.” She made a clicking sound of dissatisfaction. “Geoffrey, do you have that address we were looking for? This young man might be able to help us.”

“I don’t believe I brought it down with me.” Geoffrey patted his coat pockets, doing his Pinkerton-trained best to look befuddled and forgetful.

“That’s rather bothersome,” Prudence said. “Never mind. We’re hoping to spend some time with a family friend whom I’ve never actually met.” She fluttered her eyelashes and looked appreciatively at the laden table. “Mrs. Ernestine Hamilton. She might take tea here from time to time.”

“Lady Hamilton?” The young man glanced toward the entrance to the dining room, where the maître d’ kept his reservation book and a watchful eye on the staff. “I don’t think I can be of any help,” he mumbled, running a crumb scraper over the pristine linen cloth, fidgeting with the tiered serving trays. “Enjoy your tea, sir and madam.”

“That was peculiar,” Geoffrey commented as he watched the discomfited waiter make a beeline toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchens. He sipped the Assam tea appreciatively and took a bite from one of the cucumber-and-chive sandwiches.

“Lady Hamilton.” Prudence stirred a few drops of milk and a scant spoonful of sugar into her Darjeeling, then helped herself to a currant scone and liberal portions of clotted cream and strawberry jam. “Delicious,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t be surprised that Aunt Gillian’s friend is titled. I doubt she’s acquainted with anyone in London who isn’t.”

“We still don’t know where Lady Hamilton lives or how to go about contacting her,” Geoffrey took another of the tiny sandwiches.

“But she is here somewhere.” Two pieces of frosted seed cake disappeared rapidly from Prudence’s plate. She cast a quick look toward the falls. “We have at least an hour of daylight left, according to the Complete Tourists’ Guide. Shall we have another cup and then stretch our legs after that long train ride?”

“We’ll try the maître d’ on the way out, and then the desk clerk or one of the doormen if all else fails,” he agreed.

Prudence poured Darjeeling for herself and Assam for her partner. The sandwich and cake trays were nearly empty.

“Neither of them wanted to give up any information,” Prudence commented as she and Geoffrey made their way down Clifton Hill on one of the hotel’s well-maintained paths.

The maître d’ had kept a blank face when Geoffrey asked about Lady Hamilton, but the rapid blink of his eyes told a different story. He’d refused to say any more than that the lady was an occasional honored guest in the Clifton House dining room. They’d done better with the desk clerk, who begrudgingly revealed that Lady Hamilton lived in Niagara’s most exclusive residential neighborhood, located not far from Clifton Hill. An easy and enjoyable walk, the clerk admitted, accepting another circumspectly folded bill in exchange for directions.

“Your aunt’s friend appears to be well-known in the city,” Geoffrey said. “But nobody wants to talk about her.”

“It could be Lord Hamilton who puts people off. Maybe he has a vicious temper. Or he’s a rake and a gambler. Aunt Gillian was very closemouthed in her letter. It’s not like her.” Gossip, scandal, and rumormongering were staples of society on both sides of the Atlantic.

Prudence shuffled through the few brilliantly colored leaves that had escaped the Clifton House gardeners’ rakes, delighting in their crunch beneath her shoes. Walking always helped focus her mind, never more so than when a mystery beckoned. She warbled a tiny hum of satisfaction.

They found Lady Hamilton’s stone mansion exactly where the desk clerk had directed them, at the end of a street of impressively large homes atop another of the high bluffs overlooking the falls. White cedars, black walnut, and spectacular tulip trees protected the area from the worst of the fall and winter winds described in the Tourists’ Guide yet did not entirely obscure the view.

“Imagine what this will look like once winter settles in,” Prudence said. “Christmas here must be like living in a child’s wonderland.”

“You’d probably be risking your life trying to get up and down these hills in a carriage,” Geoffrey said. “A horse could easily break a leg.”

“You sound like Josiah,” Prudence chided. “Always practical. I prefer letting my imagination wander.”

“Then by all means, don’t let me interfere.” Geoffrey shifted the cane he didn’t really need and patted the hand Prudence had slipped into the crook of his arm as the ascent grew steeper. His partner’s mix of hardheadedness and fanciful flights of creativity never failed to delight. He suspected that the only time she gave unrestrained voice to the softer side of her nature was in the nightly journal entries every well-bred young lady had been trained to compose. And perhaps not even there, if the self-protective side of her nature warned that someone else might read what she had written.

The desk clerk had not provided an address, but he’d given a detailed description of Lady Hamilton’s house. “You can’t miss it,” he’d said.

“It looks like a wedding cake,” Prudence murmured, taking in the soaring turrets, round-topped dormer windows, and gabled roofline. New York City’s older mansions, like Prudence’s own, tended to be austere cubes of dark red brick, brownstone, or gray granite. The string of imitation châteaux being built along Fifth Avenue by various Vanderbilts and Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred bore no comparison to this whimsical architectural creation.

A dozen stone steps led to porticoed double doors flanked by three stories of bay windows, all set in blindingly white stone embellished with intricately carved trim. Prudence stepped back from the elaborately curlicued iron gate to allow Geoffrey to open it.

“Shall we?” he asked when they’d mounted the steps and caught their breath.

At Prudence’s nod, he rang the bell.

Lady Ernestine Hamilton was taller than the average woman, slender, and so graceful in her walk, that she seemed to glide effortlessly across the parlor into which Geoffrey and Prudence had been ushered by a dignified elderly butler. Arms outstretched to welcome Lady Rotherton’s cherished niece, Lady Hamilton broke all rules of social restraint by clasping Prudence’s fingers in her own and bending forward to lightly kiss each cheek. “My dear child, I am so grateful that Gillian was able to persuade you to come,” she said, only releasing Prudence to allow Geoffrey to bow over one delicate hand. “You look so much like dear Sarah. Same lovely hair, same wonderful eyes.”

“You knew my mother?” Prudence asked.

“We were debutantes together, Gillian and I. Sweet Sarah was the baby sister I never had.” Lady Hamilton shepherded her guests to a pair of green silk French Empire-style armchairs, then sat down opposite them. “She took it very hard when Gillian married her English lord. And then I followed less than a year later. The letters we wrote! Every week without fail, back and forth across the Atlantic. Gillian and I were never so happy as when Sarah told us about meeting your father. We knew right away he was the one. She married for love, and that was rather rare in those days in social circles like ours.” She smiled at Geoffrey. “I hope this family history doesn’t bore you, Mr. Hunter.”

“Not at all, Lady Hamilton. I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Rotherton two years ago in London and then again last winter when she came to New York.”

“We’re both widows now.” Lady Hamilton smoothed the black silk skirt of her mourning gown.

“My condolences,” Prudence said.

“Thank you, my dear. Lord Hamilton had been in ill health for a good many years, so when the time came, it was both a release and a blessing.”

Stock phrases spoken without any real emotion, Prudence decided, glancing at Lady Hamilton’s long, exquisitely tapered fingers. She wore beautiful black star sapphires and carved onyx in gold and silver settings, but no wedding ring.

“I wonder, Lady Hamilton, if you could tell me why Aunt Gillian was so insistent that I travel to Niagara. All she wrote was that you knew I had been admitted to the bar and that you urgently needed my help.”

“Canadian women haven’t won that right yet, although not for want of trying.”

“I can’t practice law in Canada, Lady Hamilton. I can’t represent you here. In fact, I’m not sure it would be ethical for me to give you any legal advice at all.”

“I don’t need a Canadian solicitor or barrister. The suit I intend to fight will be brought in an American court,” Lady Hamilton explained. “What do you know about having a child declared illegitimate?”

“Are the parents living or dead?” Prudence asked.

“Mother dead, father absent. Not yet declared dead but I suppose that’s next.”

“How old is the child we’re talking about?” Geoffrey asked.

“Are you a lawyer, too, Mr. Hunter?”

He handed her a HUNTER AND MACKENZIE, INVESTIGATI