There was an old, serviceable lamp upon the desk—a large one of the sort clerks favored, that shed a wide pool of light when lit. The glass lamp-well was half full of oil, and the wick was charred, needing to be trimmed. There was hardly any dust anywhere. The room appeared to be in frequent use.
The desk, with its well-padded revolving chair behind it, sat halfway into the room, its back to the shelves covering the wall the room shared with the main body of the house. Letitia glanced back; the wall with the hidden door in its center was likewise covered in shelves, outside the space of the door itself. The wall opposite, abutting some deeper part of the house, was also covered in shelves.
The fourth wall—the one facing the desk—was the one of most immediate interest to them all. Both sides housed more ledgers, but between were two narrow windows flanking a wooden door.
They’d all been standing silently, pirouetting as they took it all in. Their gazes came to rest on the closed door. Christian walked forward, grasped the knob and turned; the latch clicked.
“Well, well.” Opening the door wide, Christian walked through.
The rest of them followed, emerging into a small walled yard. Less than three yards wide, it ended at the lane wall. To the left, in line with the study-side wall of the secret room, a plain stone wall ran across, joining the lane wall. That wall was high—so high none of them could see over it, and no one in the area along the house’s front could see into the yard where they stood.
Opposite, another stone wall ran from the house to the lane wall; again, it was sufficiently high so no one below, in the yard beside the kitchen, could see in, and they couldn’t look over and down.
But they could hear voices floating up and over the wall; a few seconds of listening told them two maids were hanging out some washing.
The length of the yard from the front to the back matched the length of the secret room. Turning as one, they looked back at the house, at the way the roof line concealed the existence of the little room. Shaking her head in amazement, Letitia nudged Hermione back toward the door.
Christian made to follow, but Dalziel hung back, then turned and walked in the opposite direction, to the wooden door set in the lane wall. From where Letitia paused by the door into the room, she could see the heavy lock on the lane door. But when Dalziel grasped the handle and turned it, the door swung open—as easily and noiselessly as the door to the study.
Leaning out, Dalziel looked up and down the lane. Letitia knew what he would see—a cobbled lane too narrow for carriages, with a procession of wooden garden doors opening onto it. Unless one counted and watched the roofs at the same time, the unexpected door wouldn’t appear out of place.
Drawing back, Dalziel closed the door. Turning, he waved them ahead of him back into the room. Once the room’s outer door was shut and there was no chance of the maids below hearing them, he looked at Letitia and Christian. “I believe we’ve solved the mystery of how Randall’s murderer came and went.”
They were all silent for a moment, imagining it.
“I doubt Randall would have left those doors unlocked.” Letitia wrapped her arms around herself. “He was always careful of windows being left open.”
“The doors—all of them—would have been locked, but his murderer was a friend, one he was expecting.” Christian reviewed the events of that night in his mind. “Randall wasn’t expecting Justin that evening—no reason he wouldn’t have made an appointment for a friend to call.” He looked around. “Not just any friend, but one he did business with.”
Dalziel nodded. “He unlocked the doors, and left them unlocked because he assumed his friend would shortly be leaving by the same route.”
“Which he did,” Christian said. “After he’d killed Randall.”
Nodding again, Dalziel turned to consider the shelves.
Hermione had already wandered over to them. Tilting her head, she peered at some stacked papers. “No wonder he spent so many hours, so many nights, locked in his study.”
Dalziel glanced up the steps. “It might be best if we lock the study door.”
“I’ll do it.” Hermione headed back into the study.
Letitia exchanged a look with Christian, then they joined Dalziel in staring at the shelves.
She shook her head. “I can’t see any obvious place to start.”
Christian sighed, walked to a shelf, and pulled down a ledger.
Within ten minutes they’d confirmed they were looking at the records of the Orient Trading Company. Encouraged, they spent the next twenty minutes wading through files, documents, and accounts.
Dalziel looked up, glanced at the ledger Christian held. “I have income, you have expenses, but all the entries are in some sort of code.”
Frowning, Christian nodded. He and Dalziel had a more than passing familiarity with codes. “I don’t think it’s a keyed code.” Glancing at Letitia and Hermione, he explained, “A code where there’s a defined key—so once you have the key, you can read the code.”
He looked again at the entries in the ledger. “This looks more like initials of things.”
Dalziel grunted. “If so, then there’ll be a pattern somewhere, if we look long enough.” He looked up at the towering shelves of papers.
They all mentally groaned.
A clock chimed in the study. Letitia blinked, then reluctantly shut the ledger she’d been perusing. She looked at Christian. “If we want to catch Trowbridge this afternoon, we’ll have to go.”
Dalziel cocked an inquiring brow. Letitia explained, “I received an invitation to an afternoon exhibition of garden sculptures at Lady Hemming’s house in Chelsea. Trowbridge is one of the critics her ladyship has invited to grace the event and proffer opinions on the works. I’d thought to approach him there, in a social setting, rather than call formally.”
“An excellent idea.” Dalziel looked at Christian. “I’ll continue here, but we should send for Trentham. He knows more about importing and shipping than I do—he might see something in these”—with a wave he indicated the walls of records—“I’ll miss.”
Christian nodded, closing the ledger he’d been examining. “I’ll send a message—and I’ll also see if Jack Hendon’s in town. If we need to know about importing and shipping, no reason not to go to the source.”
“Indeed.” Dalziel looked at the shelves again. “I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
They arranged for Hermione to wait in the study, from where she could look out and keep watch on the street. When Tristan arrived, she would allow him into the study, then show him the secret door.
“One last thing.” Dalziel set down the files he’d been perusing. “Let’s find out how to open the door from this side…assuming it does open from this side.”
Leaving Hermione in the study, they shut the secret door, then hunted. It was the work of a few minutes to locate the catch; the door did indeed open from both sides.
Letitia was about to leave the secret room when she recalled that both outer doors were unlocked. She mentioned it, along with, “So anyone who’s ever seen Randall open the secret door from this side—his murderer, for example—has free access to the rest of the house.”
Both she and Hermione wrapped their arms around themselves and shivered.
Dalziel exchanged a look with Christian.
Who looked at Letitia.
Just as she remembered. “I know where the keys are.”
Spinning around, she climbed the steps into the study. Going to the desk, she opened the middle drawer and pulled out a small ring with two keys. Returning to the secret room, she headed for the outer door. “Barton found these when he searched the desk. Neither he nor I had any idea where they fitted—he tried them in all the locks in the house.”
One key operated the lock on the door to the small yard. Unlocking it again, she opened the door and silently crossed to the laneway door. The second key locked it.
Relieved, she returned to the secret ro
om, locked the outer door, then tossed the keys to Dalziel, now sitting in the chair behind the desk. “Leave them with Hermione if you leave before we get back.”
He sent her a look—he didn’t take orders at all well—but then saluted her and gave his attention to another ledger.
She turned to Christian. “Now we can go.” She headed for the steps to the study. “Come on, or Trowbridge will have left before we get there.”
After exchanging a resigned look with Dalziel, Christian turned, nodded to Hermione, and followed Letitia back into the house.
Throughout the journey to Chelsea, Letitia was uncharacteristically quiet, her silence punctuated by an occasional muttered, “I still can’t believe it.”
Christian understood her difficulty, and her consternation. If it ever became common knowledge that she, Lady Letitia Vaux, an earl’s daughter, had married a farmer’s son, she, and the Vaux in general, would never live it down. Despite Randall having deceived the entire ton, she, even more than her family, would bear the opprobrium. As dangerous secrets went, that certainly qualified.
She, of course, realized that; as the carriage rattled into Chelsea she fixed him with a tense look. “Who else might know of Randall’s background? What about the alumni of Hexham Grammar School?” A hint of hysteria colored the words.
“I doubt they’d know,” he answered evenly. “The school wouldn’t advertise the social standing of their governors’ scholars—the other boys would have imagined them impoverished gentry.” He paused, then added, “If any had known, you would have heard of it long since.”
She nodded tersely. “True. So!” She drew in a tight breath. “Who else needs to know the details?”
He’d anticipated that question, too. “The others who are helping us—Trentham, and Jack Hendon, if he’s here. Without knowing that, they won’t understand what we’re dealing with. But you needn’t worry about their discretion. They won’t say a word—I guarantee it.”
She searched his eyes. “You know each other’s secrets, I suppose.”
He nodded.
She softly humphed, and looked out of the window. “I’ll have to tell Agnes—she’ll need to know. But I’m not going to tell Amarantha or Constance. They’d have the vapors, and that would be just the start of it.”
“There’s no need to tell anyone who’s not helping us unravel this mystery.”
After a moment she said, “I’ll have to tell Justin.”
Given Justin’s feelings over Randall and her marriage, her reluctance was understandable, but…“Yes, he has to know.”
When she said nothing more, he added, “And at some point, you’ll have to tell your father.”
A moment went by, then, still looking out of the window, she murmured, “He already feels so guilty over me having to marry Randall…we’ll see.”
He left it at that, not least because they’d reached Lady Hemming’s; the carriage slowed, joining the line of vehicles drawing up before her ladyship’s front steps to disgorge their fair burdens. A survey of those alighting confirmed that this was another highly select event. To his relief, Christian noted a smattering of gentlemen among the female throng.
Lady Hemming greeted them effusively, thrilled to have Letitia grace her event. Randall’s death was still a point of interest for the ton’s avid gossips, and having Christian appear as Letitia’s escort only heightened expectations.
Yet as they strolled into the crowd—a sea of color constantly shifting about the sculptures set up on her ladyship’s lawn—Letitia’s cool grace proved sufficient to keep the curious, if not at bay, then at least within bounds. They nodded and exchanged greetings, eyed Christian with open curiosity, but did not try to detain them or engage them in discussion of the “distressing events surrounding her husband’s death.”
Christian overheard the phrase more than once during their perambulation, whispered behind hands, eyes following Letitia and himself. Like her, he ignored both the whispers and the eyes.
“That’s Trowbridge.” Letitia halted by a bronze of a scantily clad nymph. She pretended to study the statue, but with a tip of her head indicated a gentleman standing before the next sculpture along. He was surrounded by a bevy of ladies, both young and old, who hung on his every word as he passed judgment on the piece.
Letitia continued to study the nymph, allowing Christian the opportunity to feign boredom and idly survey the group before the next statue.
Trowbridge was on the tall side of average, his hair an artful tangle of mousy brown locks, one of which fell artistically across his forehead. His features, while pleasant enough, were undistinguished, lacking the sharp angles and planes common among the aristocracy, but it was his dress that caused Christian to mentally raise his brows.
Trowbridge had elected to wear a coat of bold green, ivory, and black checks. His waistcoat was a perfectly matched spring green, the buttons on both coat and waistcoat large gold disks; his trousers were black. Instead of a cravat, he wore a floppy ivory silk scarf knotted about his throat.
Together with his gestures as he discoursed on the sculpture to the assembled ladies, the vision he presented made Christian wonder….
“I seriously doubt he has the slightest interest in any lady—other than the statue, of course.”
The dry comment from Letitia had Christian glancing at her. Then he looked back at the group around Trowbridge. The ladies, one and all, appeared to be flirting outrageously with the man, while Trowbridge responded to the top of his bent. He frowned. “Do those ladies know that?”
“Of course.” Slipping her hand onto his arm again, Letitia murmured, “That’s why they flirt with him so openly—no matter how he responds, his preference for men makes him perfectly safe.”
Christian’s brows rose higher. “I see.”
They circled, holding to their own company but keeping Trowbridge in view. Eventually some of the ladies drifted away, then, having expounded at length on the points of a statue of a satyr, Trowbridge stepped back, allowing those left a moment to reflect.
Letitia and Christian exchanged a glance, and moved in.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Trowbridge.” Letitia gave him her hand. “I’m Lady Letitia Randall. We met at Lady Hutchinson’s event.”
Trowbridge smiled delightedly and with an extravagant flourish bowed over her hand. “Enchanted, my lady.”
“Allow me to present Lord Dearne.”
Christian exchanged a circumspect nod with Trowbridge.
“I wished to speak with you”—Letitia glanced at the ladies still studying the satyr—“to ask your advice on the relative merits of the pastoral style of works”—a wave indicated the pieces studding the lawn—“versus the humanistic style, from the viewpoint of long-term investment.”
Trowbridge blinked.
Turning away from the satyr—and the other ladies—Letitia started to stroll slowly down the lawn toward the river wall that marked its far end.
Trowbridge necessarily kept pace. “I…er, don’t really advise from an investment point of view. My interests are more on the artistic side—the skill of the artist in capturing his subject, his technique, the quality of execution. Sadly, investment value is more driven by what becomes popular, rather than by artistic merit.”
Contrary to Christian’s expectations, Trowbridge didn’t halt, ready to part from them and return to his bevy of admirers. Instead he continued to stroll beside Letitia, his gaze on her face. Waiting.
She glanced swiftly back, confirming they were out of earshot of all other guests. “I see. Regardless, Mr. Trowbridge, I have something I wished to discuss with you.”
“Yes?” Trowbridge’s tone was frankly expectant.
Christian had fallen back, strolling a pace behind Letitia’s shoulder, leaving Trowbridge’s interrogation to her—at least to begin with. He drew closer as she drew breath and said, “I daresay you’ve heard about the murder of my late husband, and that the authorities suspect my brother of the crime.”
&nbs
p; Trowbridge’s face blanked.
Glancing up, Letitia saw, waited. When he said nothing, simply stared at her, she went on. “I believe you knew my husband rather well—you and he were close friends, were you not?”
Trowbridge halted. “Ah…no. Not close. Not anymore. Not for many years.”
Halting, too, Letitia raised her brows. “Indeed? Then it will come as a surprise to you that he left you a bequest in his will.”
“He did?” Trowbridge was either an excellent actor or was truly surprised. “But I thought…that is to say, we’d agreed—” He broke off altogether. After a moment of staring into space as if seeking clarification, he refocused on Letitia. “I really don’t know what to say, Lady Randall. Randall and I hadn’t been more than passing acquaintances socially for…well, the last decade.” He frowned. “What did he leave me?”
“You’ll no doubt hear from his solicitor in due course. It was an antique clock—he said you’d admired it.”
Trowbridge’s face lit. “The Glockstein?” When Letitia nodded, he rattled on, “Indeed, it’s a very fine piece. He came across it years ago and was wise enough to pick it up. I was always envious. He even said it was knowing my taste that spurred him to buy it. Such ornate work on both the face and the hands. I’ve always—”
“Trowbridge.”
Christian’s deeper voice jerked Trowbridge back to blinking attention; he caught the man’s gaze. “How did you know Randall?”
Trowbridge’s eyes widened. “How?”
Christian felt his face harden. “Through what avenue did you first meet him? It’s a simple enough question.”
“Yes…but why do you want to know?”
“Because for obvious reasons we’re hunting for Randall’s killer, and a necessary part of our investigation is considering all who knew him well. He mentioned you in his will as a longtime friend, and if, as you intimated, you were green with envy over his acquisition of the Glockstein clock, then—”
The Edge of Desire Page 24
