The question was, what should he do now that he knew Niven was responsible? Win considered the matter, nodding along without listening as Mr. Baillie went on at length about the great age of a yew in his churchyard.
“One account says the tree was already old when the monks who built Belryth Abbey settled here...”
He would have to take the matter to Mr. Channing in his capacity as magistrate. There was no question about that. Niven would have to resign as Belryth’s solicitor and estate agent, and likely give up his practice completely. Still, Win would give him a chance to explain himself, and to offer to make restitution if that was possible, before he approached Mr. Channing. Perhaps there was some explanation Niven could offer that might mitigate his wrongdoing.
Across the room, the butler entered and whispered something to Lina. Apparently dinner was served.
As Dyson bowed himself away, Win extricated himself from his one-sided conversation with Mr. Baillie and slipped up beside Lina. “I know who’s behind the discrepancies in the account books,” he told her in an undertone. “I mean to have a word with Mr. Niven before we go in to dinner. Would you mind covering for me for a few minutes?”
She threw him a look of surprise, but answered readily enough. “Not at all.” Turning to address the room, she cleared her throat and spoke in a voice loud enough to attract the company’s attention. “Shall we go in to dinner, everyone?”
The group sorted itself into order.
Mr. Niven made to join the procession filing into the dining room, but Win caught him by the arm. “I’d like to have a word with you for a moment.”
The lawyer turned a wary look his way. “If you wish.”
Win waited to be sure the others were out of earshot before speaking. “Did you think I wouldn’t go over the abbey accounts, Mr. Niven? I know you’ve been keeping two sets of books.”
Niven went pale, though his expression of cool complacency soon resurfaced. “Really, Colonel Vaughan, I have no idea what you mean.”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, denying what’s all too easy to prove. I can’t say where you keep the doctored books you showed the trustees, but it’s clear why the set here was kept locked away—no one was meant to examine the accounts too closely. I didn’t know that, and I blundered my way into the library cabinet. It’s evident that for years now, large sums have been disappearing from one quarter to the next.”
Niven stared back at him defiantly for a moment. Seeing the implacable look on Win’s face, his defiance melted into a sigh. “Very well. I’ll concede that I may know something about the matter. But I have information that will be of even more interest to you, valuable information.”
“What kind of valuable information?”
Niven’s silver-blue eyes darted to the dining room. “Before I say any more, I insist we bring Mr. Channing in on this conversation. He can substantiate much of what I have to tell you, and in any case you’ll want the magistrate present. I know a great deal about what’s been going on here, and you’ll be most interested to hear what I have to say, I promise you.”
Win hesitated. He hadn’t expected the answer to the abbey’s financial irregularities to be so obvious or Niven to give in so readily. Though he’d intended to call in Mr. Channing soon enough, this wasn’t the best time or place—already, the other guests were probably wondering what was keeping them. On the other hand, he could scarcely go in to dinner and continue the evening with Niven as if nothing was amiss.
There was also the matter of Mr. Channing. How far could he trust the magistrate? Win still wasn’t sure why Channing had met with Dr. Strickland on the night after Lina was nearly trampled in Malton.
But he didn’t have much choice. He knew now that Niven was responsible, and he’d have to deal with it now. He’d have to involve Channing, too, since embezzlement was a matter for the law. Besides, it sounded as if the information Niven promised could have some bearing on the threats to Lina.
“Come with me,” Win told the solicitor. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He herded Niven toward the dining room.
They stopped on the threshold. The rest of the party was already seated, though obviously waiting for them. Ten pairs of eyes turned their way expectantly, and Lina’s held a question.
“I’m afraid you must excuse us for a few minutes,” Win said to the entire company, directing a swift look of apology Lina’s way, “though I beg you to begin without us. And—I’m sorry, Mr. Channing, but I really must ask you to come with us.”
Channing scowled but rose at once. “Where are we going?” he asked as he joined Win and Mr. Niven in the doorway.
Win turned and led the way through the abbey. “The study will do.” It was private enough, and had a businesslike feel.
They wove through the house and into the study, Channing bringing up the rear.
The brandy tray stood on the corner of the desk, and Niven made a beeline for the bottle and poured himself a generous drink. “A little oil to grease the wheels,” he said darkly, raising his glass in an ironic toast. He took a deep breath and then a healthy swallow.
“What is this about?” Channing demanded.
“Those questions I was asking earlier about the account books?” Win said. “The answer was apparent enough, once I spoke to you and the other trustees.” He nodded at Mr. Niven. “Shall I tell him, or would you prefer to make a clean breast of it?”
Niven put down his glass. Despite being caught, even cornered, he turned an ingratiating smile Win’s way. “Now don’t be so hasty, Colonel. I happen to have some information I’m willing to trade for a little clemency—information you’ll both find not merely of interest, but helpful in the extreme. Perhaps even life-saving.”
“What kind of information?” Channing said, looking from Niven’s face to Win’s. “What’s he talking about?”
Win wasn’t about to let the lawyer take control, especially if life-saving meant he could avert some threat to Lina. “Mr. Niven here has been embezzling from the estate.”
Channing’s jaw dropped. “Embezzling? But I told you, I went over the account books myself.”
“He’s been keeping two sets of books.”
“What?” Mr. Channing said, his voice rising.
Win threw a dark look in Mr. Niven’s direction. “He took advantage of the late earl’s inattention. He maintained a fraudulent accounting to show you and the other trustees, while his personal set of books show he pocketed a large sum every quarter. Radbourne never bothered to check his bank receipts against the quarterly proceeds.”
“Now, gentlemen, I may have managed the accounting, but I’m not the only person who—” Niven broke off with a choking sound. His face flushed. He clutched his stomach and sucked in his breath with a disturbing snort.
Win stared. “Mr. Niven?”
Niven doubled over. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward on the carpet. His whole body began to jerk.
“My God!” Channing stared in horror. “What’s wrong with him?”
“It’s some kind of paroxysm.” Win dashed for the door. “I’ll get Dr. Strickland.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Channing shouted after him.
“Don’t give him any more brandy!” Win called back.
He raced through the abbey, zigzagging right and then left. Niven’s collapse had been no act. Win had never seen anyone’s complexion change hues so dramatically.
He burst into the dining room. “Doctor, come at once. Mr. Niven is suffering some kind of attack.”
Once again, all eyes turned his way. Dr. Strickland leaped up from his place at the table and followed without question.
Win took to his heels, Strickland just behind him.
In the study, Mr. Channing was on his knees beside Mr. Niven. The solicitor was twitching from head to t
oe, his eyes staring at the ceiling and his face cherry red.
Dr. Strickland likewise dropped to his knees beside the patient. He loosened Niven’s cravat and pressed an ear to his chest. “What brought this on?”
“I suspect he was poisoned,” Win said.
“Aye, he’d taken a swallow of brandy only a few seconds before he went into a fit.” Channing leveled a look at Win. “Your brandy, Colonel Vaughan.”
“Brandy to which he helped himself. Any one of us might have drunk it. I did drink some of it earlier this week, in fact, though clearly it hadn’t yet been tampered with.”
There was a commotion in the corridor. A moment later, every one of the people they’d left behind in the dining room—Mrs. Channing, the two remaining trustees and their wives, Sir John Blessingame, Lina and her sister, Freddie—crowded into the doorway, gaping at the tableau they presented.
Lina lifted a hand to her throat. “What is it?” she asked, staring at Niven’s twitching form. “What’s wrong with him?”
From his place on the floor, Mr. Niven’s bulging eyes swiveled toward her. Dr. Strickland was trying to take his pulse, a thumb on his wrist, but Niven yanked free of the doctor’s grasp. With a stiff, jerking motion, he raised his right hand and pointed to the onlookers crowding the doorway before his twitching arm dropped back to his side.
“What is he trying to say?” Freddie asked, blinking hard. “Why did he point at me?”
“He wasn’t pointing at you,” Win said quickly. “His hand is shaking so badly—”
Miss Douglass’s face was white. “He pointed at Lina.”
Niven gurgled and went still. A stunned silence settled over the room.
Dr. Strickland sat back on his heels with a bleak look. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for him now.” He sighed. “Nothing anyone can do.”
“Oh, God.” Lina turned her face away.
Despite his shock and the crowd of witnesses present, Win longed to go to her and take her in his arms. It took conscious effort to resist the urge.
From the doorway, Mr. Baillie offered up a prayer. Win listened with only half his attention. Niven’s eyes were open and staring, his normally suave appearance a grim spectacle of rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. He’d pointed to one of the onlookers, but which one? Was it Lina, Freddie, or someone else entirely? And had that accusing finger meant he knew the identity of his killer, or did it have some other meaning?
Baillie finished the prayer, and Win joined mechanically in the chorus of “Amen.” His gaze strayed to the brandy bottle still standing on the desk. It was pure chance that Niven had poured himself a drink.
That poison had been meant for him.
* * *
Prussic acid. That was Dr. Strickland’s conclusion, based on the swiftness of Mr. Niven’s death and the almond scent of the brandy he’d consumed. Someone had added prussic acid to the bottle, and at a high concentration.
Lina could scarcely wrap her mind around it—the awful sight of Mr. Niven in his last throes, the horror that had seized her when he’d raised his shaking hand and pointed accusingly in her direction, the realization that there was a killer in their midst and that, this time, his intended victim had almost certainly been Win.
They hadn’t troubled to return to the dining room. No one felt up to eating dinner. Mr. Pease and Mr. Baillie had both taken their distraught wives and gone, but the rest of the party sat huddled in the drawing room.
Or, rather, most of them sat huddled. Mr. Channing was pacing, while Win stood with his back against the closed door.
As they’d all left the study, Win had quickly and surreptitiously pulled Lina aside and whispered, “Courage. I’ll figure out who’s behind this. Tell me, if you were to give birth to a girl, and something were to happen to me—”
“Don’t say that.”
“Never fear, I’m merely theorizing. If your child and I were both out of the equation, who would be next in line after Freddie to inherit the Radbourne title?”
“After him? No one. According to Mr. Niven’s researches, after you and your brother, the male line dies out.”
Win’s eyes had narrowed. “And what would happen to the title and property in that case?”
“It would revert to the crown.”
“All of it?”
“Well, everything that’s entailed—and it’s virtually all entailed, so yes.”
“Botheration.” At her questioning look, Win had whispered, “I had a notion that perhaps the next heir in line might know more of the family than I did, and could be lurking in the shadows somewhere, taking a hand in all this.”
She’d shaken her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come up with some other theory.”
Now she kept stealing looks at him, at his broad shoulders and strong, handsome features, wishing she could somehow set back the clock to a time when Mr. Niven was still alive and she and Win were alone together.
“Prussic acid?” Mr. Channing echoed with a scowl.
“It’s also known as hydrocyanic acid,” Dr. Strickland said. “That’s the medical nomenclature.”
Poor Dr. Strickland. When they’d removed to the drawing room, Cassie had seated herself in the middle of the sofa. The doctor had claimed the spot next to her—and then Cassie had moved down to the far end of the sofa to make room for Frederick Vaughan. When Mr. Vaughan had instead gone to a chair on the other side of the fire, the yawning space between Cassie and the doctor had become conspicuous in its emptiness. Reluctantly, Lina had claimed the spot, pretending for Dr. Strickland’s sake that Cassie had intended it for her all along. Now she was caught between the two of them, the poor smitten doctor and her oblivious sister, feeling like an unwelcome interloper.
Win looked in the doctor’s direction. “Prussic acid has a medical use?”
“It’s not a part of the recommended formulary here, due to its toxic effects. But some doctors do prescribe it, and hydrocyanic acid is in wide use in France and America, where it’s given in low concentrations for certain sthenic complaints.”
Lina raised an eyebrow. “Sthenic complaints?”
“Diseases of high excitement. Chronic or nervous cough, for instance. Recent cases in London show it may have some potential for treating painful spasms of the stomach as well.” He looked past Lina to Cassie. “I considered whether it might be of benefit in treating your asthma, Miss Douglass, but ruled it out as too dangerous.”
“Thank heaven for that,” Cassie said.
Mr. Channing turned to Win. “Is there some special reason you chose to bring Niven to the study, Colonel Vaughan?”
The slight stiffening in Win’s posture told her he found Mr. Channing’s tone—more accusation than question—objectionable, but he answered calmly enough. “It seemed a properly businesslike setting. Besides, given the delicate nature of the matter we had to discuss, the conversation called for some measure of privacy.”
“What matter did you have to discuss?” Cassie asked with a spark of interest.
“Cassie.” Lina gave her a reproving look, though she’d already surmised that Mr. Niven was responsible for the disappearance of the funds Win had been investigating. Win must have called in Mr. Channing as both trustee and magistrate.
“It should be obvious I would never have allowed Niven to drink any of that brandy if I’d known it was poisoned.” Win’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “I was eager for him to tell us what he knew.”
“What he knew about the estate accounts,” Mr. Channing said, stressing the last two words. “But he claimed he had other information he was willing to trade for special consideration. Perhaps you didn’t want him divulging that information?”
“I didn’t know that information. He could hardly dangle it before me as bait if I did.”
Mr. Channing frowne
d. “Aye, that’s true enough.”
“He said he had information I would find useful, perhaps even life-saving,” Win explained for the benefit of the others in the room. “I hoped whatever he had to say might shed some light on the recent threats to you, Lady Radbourne.”
Something about the way he said her name—or perhaps it was the way their eyes met briefly—brought warmth back to her cold hands. Even with a dead man only a few rooms away, she felt unaccountably safer, knowing Win was looking out for her. And though Lady Radbourne was her title and perfectly proper, something in his eyes invested the words with an added intimacy, almost as if they were the only two people in the room.
“What threats?” Sir John asked.
“Lady Radbourne’s recent fall in Malton was no accident.” Cool and commanding, Win pushed himself away from the door and went to stand in the center of the room. “And there was an earlier attempt to poison her with pennyroyal tea.”
Lina expected Mr. Channing to evince surprise at Win’s mention of the poisoned tea—certainly Sir John looked startled—but the magistrate merely nodded. “Aye, and the gamekeeper’s dog was poisoned too.”
It was becoming difficult to keep track of who knew what. Mr. Channing was obviously well acquainted with the recent happenings at the abbey, while Dr. Strickland appeared shocked to hear of Beauty’s death.
“And Mr. Niven didn’t tell you anything that might be helpful?” Cassie asked beside Lina, her forehead wrinkling in consternation.
Win shook his head. “No, he died too suddenly. I can’t even be sure what he meant by pointing at those of you who were watching from the doorway.”
An Heir of Uncertainty Page 19
