by Candace Camp
“Inca treasure?” Frank Mulcahey cast a significant look at his daughters.
“Yes. Oh, yes. We had heard tales of Inca treasure from Thurlew even before we left England.” He shrugged. “Just legends, you know.”
“What sort of legends?” Megan asked.
Barchester shrugged. “Oh, the usual sort of thing. I don’t know how much you know about the Incas, but they had an enormous empire, centered in Peru but stretching throughout much of the Andes and up to Central America.”
“They were very sophisticated, weren’t they?” Megan asked, trying to remember some of the things her brother had told her. Dennis had been fascinated by the history of South and Central America. “Had a system of roads…”
“Administratively, they were quite advanced. But not able to withstand European weaponry. Pizarro and his lot came in and took the Inca emperor captive. Demanded a huge ransom from all his subjects. Of course, they killed him anyway, but gold and gems and all sorts of tribute poured in from all the outlying areas. Naturally, there are legends about the treasures—that there were Incas who hid the gold or part of the gold on their way to free their king. The natives said that the ancient gods were angry about what amounted to looting their temples. Much of their gold work, you see, was in the temples—statues of the gods and vessels for the priests and so on. So, of course, there are legends that the treasure is protected by the ancient gods, and that whoever finds it will be subjected to punishment by the gods. That sort of thing.”
“Did you find any treasure?” Frank asked.
Barchester let out a short laugh. “No. Of course not. Julian found a few things—an ancient cup, a small statue, but no treasure trove, believe me. But the natives were scared—always talking about the land being protected by the old gods and all that. Just fear, really, I think, of going any deeper into unknown territory. But some of the natives stayed—we offered them more money. And we still had provisions. We wanted to see as much as we could. It was such an opportunity—an untouched land. But then…” He looked at them uncomfortably. “Then Lord Raine and Dennis…”
“What happened, Mr. Barchester?” Megan asked. “Exactly.”
“They quarreled. And Raine…” His eyes flickered uneasily over to Deirdre again. “Well, Raine killed him.”
“How?”
The man looked startled by Megan’s blunt question. “What do you mean?”
“How did Lord Raine kill Dennis? Did he shoot him or—”
“He stabbed him.”
A hush fell on the room. Megan had heard many sad and wrenching stories in her line of work, but she was unprepared for the stab of pain that went through her at Barchester’s words.
“I’m sorry,” Barchester said, looking wretched. “I should not have said that so bluntly.”
Megan shook her head, shoving down her sorrow. “’Tis not your fault, I assure you.” She paused, struggling to put herself back into her reporter’s role. “You said they quarreled. About what?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t—” He paused, again with an anxious glance at Deirdre. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Could it have been over something Dennis had found?” Megan asked.
Barchester frowned. “Found? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, you said that Mr. Coffey came upon some artifacts. Had Dennis found anything? I don’t know—some sort of object? An artifact? Even a jewel or something like that.”
“Oh, well, yes, I suppose he could have. But if he did, I never knew of it.” He paused, frowning. “But you know…now that I think of it, there was something in Raine’s possession that he was rather secretive about.”
The Mulcaheys glanced at each other, then back at Barchester, their interest clearly aroused. “Something?” Frank repeated.
“Yes. A pendant of some sort, I believe. I didn’t really get a good look at it. As I said, Lord Raine was secretive about it. But as we were traveling back, I noticed that he was wearing something around his neck. It lay beneath his shirt, and I saw him pull it out once or twice to look at it. I never saw it up close. He didn’t offer to show it to me, and I did not ask. I—we—well, obviously things were quite strained between us at that point. We did not speak much beyond what was necessary.”
“Didn’t you talk to him about the murder?” Megan asked in disbelief. “Didn’t you ask him why? Didn’t you put him in restraints or anything?”
“Of course we talked to him!” Mr. Barchester looked shocked. “Theo claimed it was an accident. And I, well, at first I believed him. I mean, I had never seen anything to indicate that he would do something like that. I thought surely it must have been an accident. It was only later that I began to realize the story didn’t quite add up. Raine was evasive in his answers, and I could see that he was not telling me the truth. He was clearly uneasy, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His story didn’t really make sense.”
Again sorrow tinged Barchester’s features. “It was very hard for me, for both Julian and me, to accept that Lord Raine had murdered Dennis. We had grown to like him so, to think that he wasn’t like other aristocrats we had met. But, finally, I could not deny any longer that he was lying. Julian and I talked about it. We didn’t know what to do. As I said, we were miles from civilization, not even sure where we were. It was a matter of our word against his, and the Morelands are quite powerful. I—there was nothing to do but return.”
His gaze went from Frank to Megan, then lingered on Deirdre’s face. “I pray you will not think too badly of me. If I had had any idea what would happen, if I could have done something to stop it…”
“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Barchester,” Deirdre assured him in her usual kind manner.
Megan was not quite as forgiving as her sister, however.. It seemed to her that Barchester had given up all too easily in the face of Moreland’s denial. However, she could scarcely afford to take him to task over it. His account of the events was the only proof they had against Theo Moreland at the moment, and she did not want to antagonize him. Besides, she reminded herself, it would have doubtless been unwise for Barchester to confront Moreland with his knowledge, given that he had already killed a man. Moreland could have done in the other two men also, and returned to civilization with no one the wiser.
“This other man who was with you—Julian Coffey? I’d like to talk to him. See if there is anything he can add.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure that he could give you more details,” Mr. Barchester agreed. “Capital fellow, Coffey.”
“Is he still the curator at the Cavendish Museum?”
Barchester nodded. “Yes. Julian makes regular trips to South and Central America to acquire new pieces for the museum. He has built up quite a collection over the years. Lord Cavendish died a few years back, but he endowed the place amply in his will, and his widow still supports it, as well. In fact, Lady Cavendish is holding a ball to benefit the museum in just a couple of weeks, I believe. I could talk to him, if you’d like,” he added helpfully. “Set up something for you.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Megan assured him quickly. She preferred to talk to the man without his being influenced beforehand by Barchester. “I should set up an appointment myself. I’m not sure exactly when I will be able to see him. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Mr. Coffey.”
He looked surprised. “Naturally, if that is what you wish.”
“I find I get better results if I have the first thoughts out of one’s head,” Megan said by way of explanation. “You know, without their thinking it over a great deal. It’s no longer fresh then.”
“Of course,” Barchester agreed politely, though he still looked faintly confused.
And well he might, Megan thought, since her glib response was not precisely the truth. She had found that the more witnesses to an event discussed it, the more alike their accounts of the event tended to become, but she had also found that telling people that fact often insulted them.
In the same way, she also suspected that Mr. Barchester’s story had probably been somewhat different than it would have been if Deirdre had not been present. The man had been clearly smitten by her sister. Megan wasn’t sure how his story might have differed, of course; no doubt it was subtle. But she had also found that men were not inclined to be entirely honest when they were speaking in front of a woman they admired. She intended to arrange her visit with Coffey so that her father and sister were not present.
They stayed for a little longer after that, making polite chitchat with Mr. Barchester. He offered them tea and inquired about their trip across the Atlantic and their lodgings here, offering to help them in any way possible. He seemed a nice enough man, Megan thought, though a trifle bland. Her sister, however, seemed not to notice this defect, for she smiled and even, Megan realized, flirted with him a little.
For her part, Megan was barely able to sit still and be polite. She wanted only to go back to the house they had rented and talk over the tantalizing possibility of “treasure” that Mr. Barchester had raised. She could see, glancing at her father, that he was fairly twitching to discuss it, too.
Indeed, they had barely bade Mr. Barchester goodbye and walked a few feet from his front door before Frank burst out, “I knew it! Did I not I tell you? That murderin’ English bastard stole that pendant from Dennis. That’s what Den wants back, I’ll warrant.”
“Now, Da, we don’t know that,” Megan pointed out fairly.
“It’s as plain as the nose on your face, girl,” he retorted. “After Dennis was dead, that titled scoundrel was wearing this thing around his neck and being terribly secretive about it. How else did it suddenly appear? And why else would he have been hiding it?”
“It makes sense,” Megan agreed. “But we don’t know that Moreland took it from Dennis, or that he killed him over it. The truth is, we don’t even know what ‘it’ is!”
“A pendant,” Deirdre offered. “That’s what Mr. Barchester said.”
“Yes, but what sort of thing was hanging from it? A jewel or a golden medallion or what? And what was it hanging from? A golden chain or a simple string? It could even have been a little pouch hung on a bit of twine. His description was very vague.”
“Aye, that’s true. It might not have been a necklace,” Frank mused. “It could have been something small that he just carried close to him like that for safekeeping.”
“But clearly it was something ‘precious,’” Megan went on, emphasizing the word Deirdre had used in describing her brother’s loss.
“And clearly Moreland did not want anyone to know about it.”
“Well, at least it narrows down my search,” Megan said. “I know that it’s something small I’m looking for, probably a necklace of some sort.”
Excitement rose in her, as it always did when she was chasing down a story. But this time, there would be a far greater reward if she tracked down the truth. All the little doubts that had been teasing at the back of her mind—the liking she had felt for the duchess and the twins, and her reluctance at deceiving them, the strange feeling that had gripped her when she first saw Theo Moreland—all vanished now. Such minor things scarcely mattered.
Tomorrow she would start stalking her brother’s killer.
CHAPTER 5
Megan presented herself at her new job the next morning with firm resolve. She was there to find her brother’s killer, and she was determined not to be swayed by other feelings.
Barchester’s story had brought back vividly her own memories of Dennis, making his loss once again a fresh hurt. She could well imagine how Dennis’s imagination would have fired at the tales of the lost treasures of the Incas. She could picture his smile, his reddish brown eyes, so much like her own, lighting with eagerness. He had always been interested in the Inca civilization; she could remember him recounting with horror the bloody takeover of their lands and fortunes by the Spanish invaders centuries earlier.
Dennis would have loved to have found some piece of that empire, however small, some tangible link to that long-ago time. Megan felt sure that he had diligently looked for treasure. What if he had found it? After all, Barchester had said that Coffey had come upon some artifacts. Surely Dennis could have, as well.
Thinking back on it, Megan wished that she had questioned Barchester more closely about Mr. Coffey’s find. At the time, she had been more interested in digging more deeply into the quarrel that had set Dennis’s death in motion.
Well, she reminded herself, she could talk to the man again—or, better yet, she would ask Julian Coffey himself when she interviewed him. It was even possible that he might have a better idea about the pendant that Theo Moreland had kept hidden beneath his shirt.
In the meantime, she could begin looking for the necklace. At least now she had a better idea what she should be searching for.
When Megan arrived at Broughton House, she was taken in hand by the housekeeper, a short, stout, grandmotherly looking woman with snow-white hair pulled back into a soft bun. Her name, she said, was Mrs. Brannigan, though the members of the family called her Mrs. Bee, a name given to her by the first set of twins when they were children. It was clear, from the softening of her face and the faint smile upon her lips when she mentioned this fact, that the housekeeper was sincerely attached to the family.
“The ‘Little Greats,’ now, they can be a trial,” she said confidentially as she led Megan up the back stairs. “But you look like a sensible young woman. I think you can handle them.”
“The who?”
“Oh. That’s what Master Theo and Master Reed used to call them when they were little—the younger twins, Master Con and Master Alex. The ‘Little Greats,’ for their names, don’t you see?”
“Oh. Of course. Alexander the Great and Constantine the Great.”
“Aye, that’s it. Never was much of one for history, myself, but in this household you can’t help but pick it up. Lord Bellard, now, he’s a wonder—all those tiny lead soldiers. I don’t know how he keeps them all straight.”
Tiny lead soldiers? Megan remembered Theo Moreland mentioning something about an uncle Bellard. But what was he doing playing with toy soldiers? “Is he, um, getting on in years?”
“Oh, must be in his seventies, yes. Sharp as a tack, though I never know half of what he’s talking about. But shy, you see. His suite of rooms is on the same floor as the nursery—so he can spread out. Right now he’s working on Agincourt. Just got in a batch of knights the other day, don’t you know? He keeps the old battles here and the modern ones at the Park. Too difficult to move around, now, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Megan realized that the housekeeper must mean that the old man laid out his soldiers in re-creations of famous battles, not that he was living a second childhood with toys. Still, it seemed a rather odd occupation for a grown man.
“Here we are,” the housekeeper said, stopping at a door along a wide, elegant corridor on the second floor. “These are the family’s bedchambers. The duke and duchess are at the end of this hall.” She pointed to their left. “With Master Theo—Lord Raine, that is—next, and Lady Thisbe and Master Desmond across the hall. Then these empty rooms—Lady Olivia’s and Lady Kyria’s—but they only come to visit now, don’t they? They’re married, you see, and, of course, the St. Legers have their own house in town, and Mr. McIntyre has purchased one, as well, for when he and Lady Kyria are both here. But her grace is hesitant to make them over into guest rooms. Perfectly natural, after all, and when there are so many rooms here, it scarcely matters.”
“No, I’m sure not,” Megan agreed, not sure why the voluble housekeeper was telling her all this.
“So you are down here,” the older woman went on, going around the corner into a side hall. She stopped before the first door and opened it. “It’s a pleasant room, I think, though a bit noisier, as it looks down on the street instead of back on the gardens.”
Megan stopped on the threshold of the room, looking about her in aston
ishment. It was a spacious, well-furnished room, with a set of windows framed by heavy dark green velvet curtains. The dark green was reflected in the green-and-gold brocade cover atop the bed and the thick Persian rug that centered the room. A large wardrobe closet, vanity and dresser in mahogany, along with a small table and reading lamp beside a comfortable chair, completed the room.
The place was far larger and more elegant than Megan’s own room at home and certainly was not what she had expected of a room given to a tutor of the family’s children. An avid reader of the Brontë sisters and their successors, she had envisioned a cramped, dark room, sparsely furnished, among the servants’ quarters or perhaps off the nursery.
“But I—this is my room?” Megan asked.
The housekeeper smiled. “Well, the boys’ tutors usually stayed in a room off the nursery, but that wouldn’t be proper, now, would it, what with you being a young lady and all. So her grace directed me to put you in here. In general, you see, she doesn’t believe in separating the youngsters from the family.” She shrugged, indicating the closest thing to disapproval that Megan had seen in her. “All the others’ rooms have always been on this floor, and their governesses, too, when they were young.”
“I—I see.” A little dazed, Megan walked about the room, looking out the window at the view of the wide thoroughfare below and running a hand along the heavy bedspread. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it,” a masculine voice said from the doorway.
Megan started, her heart leaping into her throat. She recognized the voice even before she turned to look at Theo.
He lounged in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, his arms crossed, grinning at her. He was, she realized, every bit as handsome as she remembered him. She had been telling herself that her memory had endowed him with a more appealing face than he really had, but obviously that was not true.
