"Lord Barbury mentioned a Mr. Inglethorpe."

Grenville looked uncomfortable. "Yes, Simon Inglethorpe. He lives in Curzon Street."

The name meant nothing to me. "Who is he?"

"No one of particular importance. A gentleman of much money and leisure time. He enjoys social gatherings."

I shrugged. "So might many a man."

"Lately, he has taken to the new sort of gas that leaves one feeling euphoric. He invites ladies and gentlemen to partake of it in his upstairs rooms. Interesting that Lord Barbury decided to take Peaches there."

"Might she have gone there the day of her death?"

"That is possible. Let us hope so. If she'd had some of Inglethorpe's magic gas, she might not have felt the blow that took her life."

I did not understand how that could be, but I didn’t comment. "She might have made some acquaintance there, who could help us discover her movements yesterday."

"It is worth a try," Grenville agreed.

Inglethorpe in truth might have nothing to do with Peaches death, but I wanted to leave no stone unturned. Peaches might have made a friend at Inglethorpe's gatherings, someone who possibly could tell us where she'd been the day she'd died and what she'd done. Also, she might have gone to this Inglethorpe's home and met someone there, gone away with them, and died by their hand, for reasons unknown. Perhaps Inglethorpe himself had killed her.

"Shall we speak to Mr. Inglethorpe then?" I asked, lifting my glass of ale.

Grenville nodded. "He had gatherings on Monday and Wednesday afternoons. I will write and ask him to admit you to the gathering tomorrow."

My glass paused halfway to my lips. "Will you not be attending with me?" That seemed unlike Grenville, who was usually adamant to be in the thick of things. "Another appointment with porcelain?"