Henry, with a glass of the whisky Riley had intended to consume in his hand, sighed. ‘I needed to get away,’ he said.
Riley digested this rather enigmatic statement as his poured himself a generous measure of the same whisky and took a chair. ‘Too much sadness?’ he asked, not without sympathy.
‘Something of that nature.’
‘How’s Cabbage?’
‘You really ought to stop calling Sophia by that silly name now that she’s grown.’
Riley smiled. ‘It’s a sign of affection. Anyway, hopefully she’s a comfort to her mother in her hour of need.’ Always supposing her mother recalls that she has a daughter.
‘Nothing can comfort Celia. She’s beside herself with grief and takes comfort only in her religion.’
‘Ah, well in that case you will allow Cabbage to return to London after Christmas, I hope. If her mother doesn’t need her…’
‘I shall come back myself for a while. I’ll bring her with me.’
Riley hid his surprise behind the rim of his glass by lifting it to his lips. ‘She will like that.’
‘Hmm.’ Henry’s preoccupation was starting to wear upon Riley’s nerves. He’d had a long day and whilst he felt great sympathy for Henry’s situation, his patience was not limitless.
‘Celia isn’t only upset because of Jasper’s death, I imagine,’ he said, attempting to force the conversation along. ‘She has known for a long time that the day would come.’
‘Well no. Of course she is heartbroken about Jasper, but takes comfort from the knowledge that his suffering has come to an end. It hasn’t been easy for any of us.’ Riley acknowledged the point by inclining his head. ‘My wife will never admit it, but she’s envious of what you and Amelia have.’
‘She’s what?’ Riley almost choked on his whisky.
‘Well, there you have it. I know what you’re thinking. It’s none of her damned business and she ought to be pleased that you’re happy. Sophia doesn’t help matters by talking constantly about the wedding preparations. Mother has extended the guest list, so I’m told.’
‘That worries Celia? She thinks it inappropriate?’
‘Not if Mother has suggested it.’
‘Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll foot the bill for the reception.’
‘Ah, yes. Thank you.’ Henry rubbed his chin and looked away. ‘I didn’t want to ask.’
‘I am sorry if Celia resents our happiness,’ Riley said into the ensuing silence.
‘Oh, face it, Riley, she has never liked you.’
‘She has certainly never approved of me. She tends to share our mother’s view regarding my profession. What I have done to make her actively dislike me is less easy to understand. I have absolutely nothing against Celia.’
‘You refused to toe the family line and allow Celia to reign supreme, I suppose.’ Henry took a healthy swig of his drink and fell silent. Riley left him to his cogitations, aware that whilst Henry’s marriage had never been a union of hearts and minds, he had never openly criticised his wife’s behaviour before either. ‘She imagined that our mother would join forces with her and try to persuade you against taking another man’s widow. When she did not and gave no reason for her change of heart, Celia felt slighted.’
Riley had no intention of explaining the circumstances which had caused that change of heart. ‘What is it that you really came up to town for, Henry? It was not, I suspect, to discuss my choice of a wife.’
‘Absolutely not. Envy you myself as a matter of fact. I’ve always liked Amelia.’ Whatever had brought Henry to London required him to stand and refill his glass, without waiting to be invited to do so, before getting to the point. ‘About this murder you’re investigating.’
Riley elevated one brow. Whatever he had imagined Henry wanted to talk about, it had not been that. ‘Woodrow? What about him?’
‘Well, the fact of the matter is that Celia knew him.’ Henry cleared his throat and buried his nose in his glass. ‘Rather better than I realised.’
Riley was so shocked that he almost dropped his own glass. He hastily placed it on a side table before the heavy hand-cut crystal came to grief. Celia, his holier than thou sister-in-law who gave the impression that she disapproved of anything the slightest bit frivolous, had not been immune to Woodrow’s charm. If he hadn’t heard it from Henry’s own lips he never would have believed it.
‘How so?’ he asked calmly.
‘They met in London last season apparently. Jasper was having a good spell and so I persuaded her to come up to town and discharge a few of her social obligations.’
‘I remember the occasion. She took every opportunity to lecture me upon my responsibilities.’
Riley had been obliged to attend endless family gatherings when he had been working on particularly difficult cases. In those days he had yet to consolidate his position within Scotland Yard as a detective who put duty before his social position. Celia’s timing always caused him the maximum possible inconvenience. Celia, in Riley’s opinion, had ruthlessly exploited her son’s illness and her own tragic situation as a grieving mother as she waited for her son’s death to get whatever she wanted. And what she wanted was Riley dancing to her tune. He remembered the one and only time he had ever obliged her, and then only for Sophia’s sake. He could see how rudderless his beloved niece had seemed—looked upon as an irrelevance by her father and totally ignored by her mother, who seemed jealous of her youth and prettiness. Someone needed to guide and protect the lively and inquisitive child, and Riley had assumed that role a little too efficiently. Cabbage now looked up to him. She admired him with a devotion that moved his heart. In return, Riley would do just about anything to ensure her happiness.
‘Seems Woodrow caught Celia crying, sat and talked to her and gradually won her trust. I was so shocked when she told me that it took me a while to insist that she explain everything. The upshot is that she was a little too forthcoming about…er, certain family matters and left herself exposed.’
‘He blackmailed her?’
Henry’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘How did you know?’
Unsure how much of their conversation Henry would repeat to his wife, Riley exercised caution. ‘How much and how long for?’ Riley asked briskly.
‘Fifty guineas.’
Riley let out a low whistle, wondering why Celia’s initials hadn’t appeared in Rod’s notebook. Perhaps because it had been intended as a one-off payment, as opposed to a regular arrangement. In that case, Riley wearily wondered how many other “one offs” there had been. ‘Where did she acquire that much without your noticing?’
Henry gave an evasive shrug. ‘It was a difficult time for us all. Jasper, you understand.’ Riley nodded. ‘I wasn’t keeping a close watch.’
‘He came back for more, I take it.’
‘Last week. He said it would be the last time. Celia told him she wouldn’t pay. Woodrow said in that case certain indiscreet remarks she had made about family members—’
‘Me?’
‘You. Those remarks might find their way into the gossip columns.’
Riley gave a grim smile. ‘I hope she did not fall for that one. Such scurrilous gossip cannot harm us. Celia knows nothing to my detriment because there is nothing to know. She dislikes me but that is hardly headline news. Unless…’ Riley fell momentarily silent. ‘She would not have paid him to keep quiet about unguarded comments made in private that couldn’t be substantiated. I very much doubt that she said anything to Woodrow that she hasn’t said, or implied, to my face.’ Riley absently stroked his chin as he thought the matter through. ‘No, he has to have had something more damaging to hold against her.’
‘Well look, the thing is…’ Henry paused to scratch his neck, seeming embarrassed and looking everywhere except at Riley. ‘I’ve been far too lenient with Celia, I’ll grant you that much. I discovered soon after we married that I’d…well, that I’d made a monumental mistake. I didn’t enjoy your freedom of choice, as well you know.
Celia kept her true nature concealed until she had my ring on her finger. I made the best of it, looked elsewhere for my pleasures and let her do more or less as she pleased. What I’m saying is, the blame is partly mine.’
‘Just tell me what she’s done, Henry,’ Riley said, sighing. ‘She would not have made her admission to you, much less have allowed you to discuss it with me, unless she had a compelling reason that she thought I might stumble upon.’
‘Right. You see, she and Woodrow corresponded for a while. She assures me there was nothing more to it than that, but she thought you might come across her letters. If you do, obviously I assured her that they would not form a part of your enquiry and need never come to light. Family loyalty, and all that. Celia couldn’t possibly have killed Woodrow. She hasn’t left Chichester for weeks, so nothing needs to be said about her letters, does it?’
Chapter Ten
Riley sent his brother on his way, too astounded by what he had just learned to offer him the definitive reassurances he sought. Instead he had prevaricated, assuring Henry that he would do his level best to maintain their family’s reputation in the light of Celia’s stupidity. Whether he would be able to make good on that resolve remained to be seen.
Alone, he refreshed his drink and let out a mirthless sigh. Celia was so self-aware that he would never have imagined her, of all people, falling for Woodrow’s charm. He hadn’t supposed that she took any interest in the opposite sex, other than to criticise men in general and disapprove of their wilder ways. It was a testament to Woodrow’s questionable talents that he had succeeded in breaking through her reserves.
Henry had hinted on several occasions that Celia found her marital duties repulsive, and invented excuses to avoid them once she had given Henry a son. Riley had thought that was Henry’s way of justifying the string of mistresses he’d kept over the years. But Celia’s willingness to bare her soul, and anything else she had chosen to reveal to Woodrow, threw Henry’s bedroom prowess into question and accounted for his determination to believe Celia’s version of events. Henry had insisted that Celia had not overstepped the bounds, but Riley wondered about that. If she was so infatuated that she risked writing to the man—an act of the most extreme folly that any woman with half a brain must have realised could come back to haunt her—then it wasn’t hard to imagine matters having gone beyond that point. Riley knew, but did not tell Henry, that enticing dissatisfied wives into his bed for his own financial advantage was Rod Woodrow’s modus operandi.
Riley leaned back in his chair, seriously worried about this unexpected turn of events. He had told Salter only that day not to treat Lord Durand differently to any other suspect simply because he was a man of consequence. The same rules should be applied to Celia, who would be spitting tacks since Henry had done the right thing and insisted upon telling Riley about her recklessness. She had feet of clay, just like everyone else, and would no longer be able to occupy the moral high ground in their unavoidable encounters.
If Riley had possessed a vindictive nature he would have revelled in Celia’s embarrassment, having lost count of the number of times she had turned disapproving eyes upon everything he did. Instead, he felt rather sorry for her. Henry would not have made an easy husband, Riley knew. He would always have put his own interests first. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Celia had felt lonely and isolated in that barn of a mansion in Chichester, with her ailing son withering before her eyes. It was partly her own fault, of course. She had never learned to behave graciously in her elevated position and insisted upon a distance being kept between herself and those she viewed as beneath her. Eventually her acquaintances had stopped trying to involve her in their activities.
Henry was right to say that she could not have killed Woodrow, but if he’d been attempting to extract more money from her, threatening to reveal their dalliance if she did not pay regularly, then she would have found herself on the horns of a dilemma. Henry maintained appearances and entertained lavishly, but Riley knew that the Chichester coffers were almost bare. She could not have found the money to pay Rod Woodrow and keep it from Henry. When boxed into a corner, there’s no saying what she would have done or whom she would have hired to rid the world of the threat that Rod represented in order to protect the reputation that meant so much to her. She still kept in regular contact with her own relatives, many of whom paid extended visits to Chichester to live off Henry’s largesse. None of them would have wanted a scandal to bring that situation to an end, so any one of them might have been persuaded to…
To what? Riley sipped his drink, telling himself that he was being fanciful. Even if Celia had swallowed her pride and tried to recruit a brother or cousin to do away with Rod, he would not have admitted a stranger to his private domain—a place that he jealously guarded.
Riley felt relieved to have exonerated Celia of involvement, albeit tenuously. Well aware that he sought justification to avoid an interview that would prove excruciatingly embarrassing for them both, he assuaged the objections thrown up by his conscience by telling himself that he would talk to her if all other avenues of enquiry failed. That prospect gave him an added incentive to solve the crime; and solve it quickly.
Stout entered the room to announce dinner.
‘You heard that, I suppose,’ Riley said as he walked to his dining table.
‘The gist of it, my lord. Most surprising.’ Riley managed a smile. Stout was the master of understatement. ‘And leaves you with something of a dilemma.’
Riley explained why he didn’t think Celia could be involved in Rod’s death.
‘I had reached the same conclusion, my lord,’ he said, spooning asparagus soup into Riley’s bowl and pouring him a glass of recently decanted claret. ‘But have you considered the question of the letters she wrote to Woodrow? If they were to come to light, there will be no concealing the marchioness’s involvement with the man.’
Riley gave a grim nod. ‘And the newspapers would have a field day.’
Stout’s expression remained sombre. ‘A highly irregular situation.’
‘We have torn Woodrow’s rooms apart and I am satisfied that we haven’t missed anything.’
‘Even so, in my experience ladies who are infatuated with a gentleman, especially one to whom they are not married, tend to put their feelings on paper. They cannot seem to help themselves.’
Riley sent Stout a speculative look, wondering if he had been the recipient of such letters and spoke from experience. Riley knew next to nothing about the manner in which Stout spent his leisure time. His faithful retainer cut a respectable figure, held a good position as a gentleman’s gentleman, had all his own teeth and probably had little trouble attracting female company when the desire took him. Be that as it may, they had never enjoyed the type of master-servant relationship in which they exchanged personal confidences, and Riley would not intrude upon his man’s privacy by asking him probing questions.
‘You imagine he kept their letters?’ Riley frowned. ‘But of course he must have! I must be going senile. I should have considered that possibility myself before now. They were the ammunition that ensured his victims continued to pay up. Because those I have spoken to still seemed half in love with Woodrow, I believed them when they said they paid willingly.’ Riley slapped the side of his head with the palm of his hand. ‘Stupid of me. Of course Woodrow held leverage over them. But where? He was a cautious man and didn’t keep them in the same place as his money.’
‘Woodrow House perhaps,’ Stout suggested. ‘He was still close to his father and called to see him regularly.’
‘If they are hidden in the master bedchamber in that establishment then we will never gain access to them.’ Riley felt a sense of dread about Celia’s missives falling into the wrong hands. ‘If William Woodrow did kill his brother and if he finds those letters then he will have the power to destroy a lot of leading families, mine amongst them.’
‘You would have to agree not to prosecute in return for those lette
rs,’ Stout said, tightly compressing his lips.
‘Either way, it would spell the end of my career. As a man of conscience, I could not feel able to continue with it if I allowed a murderer to walk free in order to save my brother’s reputation. And mine, for that matter. Mud sticks.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, my lord.’ Stout removed Riley’s half-eaten soup and served the fish course.
‘It would please Celia in a perverse sort of way. She has never approved of what I do, and once she feels assured that her letters are safe, she will congratulate herself upon being instrumental in bringing my detecting career to an end.’
Stout, whom Riley suspected of disliking Celia as much as he did, tilted his head in a considering fashion. ‘I cannot imagine that a man as cautious as Woodrow would risk hiding something so sensitive in the family home, where anyone might stumble upon it,’ he said reflectively.
‘Of course not!’ With a forkful of sole halfway to his mouth, Riley felt a load lift from his shoulders. ‘There is only one person Rod would have trusted with his most sensitive papers, and that is the woman he intended to marry. A woman no one knows he has any connection with.’
‘The young lady who came to see you?’
‘Exactly. First thing in the morning, Stout, drive me to Madame Elaine’s. I will speak with Alice before she commences her duties. I’m willing to wager that she holds a locked box on Rod’s behalf for safekeeping.’
Stout seemed dubious. ‘Would she not have told you about it when she came to see you?’ he asked, refilling Riley’s glass.
‘She was distraught. She’d only just heard of Rod’s death. It most likely slipped her mind. If I’m right, I should like to relieve her of it before her memory returns and she gets curious about its contents.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘How did you get on, tracing Kempton’s movements on the night in question?’
Death of a Scoundrel Page 14
