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message at approximately eight o’clock this morning. It is now two-thirty. Six and a half hours is simply not sufficient for the sort of inquiries you wish to be made. I shall have more to offer in a few days.”
    “Bloody hell. My fate is in the hands of the Wicked Widow and all you can tell me is that she has a habit of murdering her husbands.”
    “One husband, not several,” Leggett said in his maddeningly precise way. “And the tale is based on gossip, not fact. I would remind you that Mrs. Deveridge was never considered a suspect in her husband’s death. She was not even questioned, let alone taken up on charges.”
    “Because there was no proof. Only speculation.”
    “Indeed.” Henry glanced down at his notes. “According to the facts that I was able to learn, Renwick Deveridge was alone in his house late at night when a housebreaker entered. The villain shot Deveridge dead, set a fire to conceal the murder, and made off with the valuables.”
    “But no one in Society really believes that is what happened.”
    “It was no secret that Deveridge was estranged from his spouse. Mrs. Deveridge had moved out of the house within weeks of the marriage. She refused to return to live with her husband as man and wife.”
    Henry paused to clear his throat. “She is said to be somewhat, ah, headstrong.”
    “Yes. I can vouch for that.” Artemas tapped the letter opener against his boot. “What can you tell me about the unfortunate husband?”

    Henry’s bushy gray brows bunched together as he consulted his notes. “Very little, I’m afraid. As you know, his name was Renwick Deveridge. No family that I could discover. He appears to have spent some time abroad on the Continent during the war.”
    “What of it?” Artemas gave him a knowing look. “So did you.”
    Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I think it safe to say he was not gadding about spying on Napoleon.
    In any event, Deveridge returned to London approximately two years ago. He made the acquaintance of Winton Reed and soon afterward became engaged to Reed’s daughter. Madeline Reed and Deveridge were married a short time later.”
    “Not a long engagement.”
    “They were, in fact, married by special license.” Henry rattled his papers in a disapproving manner. “As I noted, the lady is said to be somewhat rash and impetuous. As it transpired, within two months of the wedding night Deveridge was dead and the gossip began to circulate that she had murdered him.”
    “Deveridge must have proved a very disappointing husband indeed.”
    “In point of fact,” Henry said deliberately, “there was talk that, before Deveridge was so conveniently dispatched, Mrs. Deveridge’s father, Winton Reed, had instructed his solicitor to make inquiries about the possibility of an annulment or formal separation.”
    “An
annulment.”
Artemas tossed the letter opener onto the desk. He sat forward abruptly. “Are you certain?”
    “As certain as I can be with the limited facts at hand. Given the great difficulty and expense of obtaining a divorce, an annulment, although time-consuming, no doubt seemed the simpler approach.”
    “But hardly a flattering one for Renwick Deveridge. There are very few grounds for an annulment, after all. In this instance I would assume that the only ones that would apply would have involved an accusation of impotence against Deveridge.”
    “Indeed.” Henry cleared his throat again.
    Artemas reminded himself that Henry was something of a prude when it came to matters of physical intimacy. “But even with the aid of skilled solicitors, it would have taken years for Mrs. Deveridge to establish a case for impotence.”
    “Undoubtedly. The assumption of nearly everyone in the Polite World is that she lacked the patience to go through the legal proceedings.” Henry paused. “Or perhaps she discovered that her father could not afford the cost.”
    “So she took steps to end the marriage in her own fashion, is that