by Allison Lane
“What has he done?”
“Possibly nothing.” Before Terrence could probe further, he named his other suspects, then added, “And my instincts fear this is urgent.”
Terrence froze, then nodded. “Damn your instincts. The last time they acted up, I wound up riding ventre à terre to Somerset and nearly killed myself.” He blew out a breath. “Anything else?”
“Yet another antiquities agent named Jasper. Last heard from in Paris, headed for Rome. I think his life is in danger.”
“Small problem, my ass,” grumbled Terrence. “I need details, Alex. I not a magician or a mind reader.”
“Check with his secretary.” He added the direction, again ignoring the request for details. If someone was stalking those interested in Sarsos, he wouldn’t add Terrence to the list.
Terrence frowned. “Oakdale can’t be involved. He was a connection of my mother’s who died last week.”
“My condolences.” Alex sighed. “I heard he was ailing, but didn’t think it was grave.”
“It was no surprise. He’d been getting weaker for months and ceased recognizing faces some time ago, so it’s just as well his misery is over. Mother is the one who is grieving – she always liked him. Personally, I never enjoyed visiting. He collected Egyptian artifacts and had a mummy that scared me witless when I was twelve.”
“You’ve recovered well.”
“Not well enough to manage another of your lightning investigations,” he muttered, then shook his head and finished making notes. “Where can I send reports?”
“Ridley Park. Leicestershire.” Knowing that Terrence’s curiosity would get results faster if it remained unsated, Alex headed for the door. But he opened it to find Sidmouth’s secretary raising one hand to rap.
Alex suppressed a frown. This was why he’d hesitated coming here. He didn’t want to see Sidmouth. The Home Secretary had been urging him to return to work, unwilling to believe that Alex’s investigative career was over.
So why are you here? taunted his conscience as he docilely followed the man to Sidmouth’s office.
It was a question he was unwilling to answer.
Though Sidmouth’s hair had receded another inch, he looked better than the day Alex had tendered his resignation. The deep lines that had clustered around his eyes were fading.
“You look rested,” said Sidmouth as his secretary departed.
“And content.” Alex met his gaze.
“I don’t believe—” He cut off the words with a sigh. “I won’t reopen our debate, though we will always have a place for a man of your talents, Portland.”
Alex relaxed.
“But your timing is perfect, as always. I was just writing to you. The Regent will award you a barony for service to the crown – he can’t be more specific, as you well know. The articles of patent go to Parliament next month. The bill should pass easily enough. England needs heroes to counter this growing unrest.”
“This isn’t necessary,” he managed.
“It is.” Sidmouth forestalled another objection with a raised hand. “Arrangements are out of my hands. Plan to be in town the first week in May. But don’t talk about your cases.”
“Of course not, sir. But—”
“That wasn’t a slap on the wrist. You are the best. Always have been. Call here when you return.”
Alex found himself in the hall with little memory of how he’d got there. His head swam.
A barony?
A week ago he would have accepted it as his due, but now the very idea hurt. His reputation had been founded on lies. He had not solved his first solo case with panache and acumen. He had botched it quite thoroughly, even reversing the roles of the principal culprits. Never mind that both men had died. Such sloppy investigative work was not acceptable.
And it raised the question of how many other mistakes he’d unwittingly made. Was he a complete fraud, so arrogantly sure of his own infallibility that he’d turned into another Stratford?
His stomach churned. If his accusations had sent men to an undeserved death, then he must refuse any honor from the crown. He would not live a larger lie.
Incompetent … worthless…
His only choice was to reopen the Marlow case from the beginning. Publicly. The Regent must know the truth.
Stopping at the porter’s desk, he penned a note to Terrence requesting a copy of his official report, then checked the court roster for Sir Michael’s direction.
Chapter Nine
Sir Michael’s butler ushered Alex and Eden into a small study, closing the door quietly behind them.
The room was decidedly masculine, with leather chairs flanking the fireplace, deep green paneling, thick carpet, and shelves holding a plethora of well-thumbed volumes. A portrait of Sir Harold hung above the mantel, easily recognizable because of the scar below his left ear. While examining the body, Alex had wondered how it felt to have so visible an imperfection. Four years later he’d acquired the first of his own.
Now he turned away from the painting, too aware of the bloated corpse Sir Harold had become. To avoid the brown eyes that seemed to reproach him for myriad mistakes, he concentrated on Sir Harold’s son.
Sir Michael strongly resembled his father. Only a smaller nose and lack of a scar proved the portrait did not depict him. Everything else was the same – dark hair, bushy brows, high cheeks, cleft chin.
“Mr. Portland?” Curiosity lit Sir Michael’s face, momentarily lightening his irritation at being interrupted.
“Thank you for receiving us,” Alex replied, then introduced Eden, omitting her remote kinship. He had warned her to say nothing and ignore anything he said. She’d showed great presence at Peterson’s, so he trusted her to behave. Another oddity. He’d never completely trusted any female. Not even Helen.
Eden confirmed his instincts by uttering nothing beyond the standard greetings. A footman hurried in with a tray. Once Eden was unobtrusively sipping tea by the fire, Alex turned to Sir Michael.
“I am investigating a recent theft, which has a nebulous connection to several rumors. To sort out the truth, I must speak with everyone who has evinced an interest in Sarsos.”
“Who the devil is Sarsos?” Sir Michael scowled.
“You mean what. It was an island that sank into the sea.”
“I thought that was Atlantis.”
“Atlantis was another one. There were several.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Belligerence sharpened his tone.
Alex worked harder to look harmless. “I am aware of that. But your father did.”
“Sir Harold?” His shock was evident. “He’s dead.”
“True, but before he died, he evinced interest in artifacts from Sarsos."
“First I’ve heard of it,” grumbled Sir Michael.
Alex bit back a sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you can direct me to someone more familiar with his interests. I understand he died when his ship capsized?” He must be careful how much he revealed. Sir Michael knew nothing of Sir Harold’s crimes. Marlow’s demand for secrecy had prevented Alex from speaking with Sir Harold’s family or mentioning Sarsos.
Sir Michael was shaking his head. “Rum luck, that. Put out in poor weather and paid the price.”
Alex nodded. “Why didn’t he wait for fair sailing?”
“It was planting season, so he rushed his business.”
“What business?”
Sir Michael’s face hardened. “What concern is it of yours?”
“I must speak with anyone he saw on that trip. It is the only way to learn whether his interest in Sarsos is relevant to my current investigation or whether it is a coincidence I can safely ignore.”
“I can’t believe that something ten years gone can possibly be relevant.”
“In which case, why not answer the question? It is ancient history for you, too.”
“In truth, I don’t know the answer. I was in the Caribbean studying a plantation that was up for sale. Sugar can be qui
te lucrative, though that place was poorly run and would have needed an influx of cash to get back on its feet. I had to decline the purchase.”
Alex ignored the attempt to change the subject. “No one mentioned his business when you asked about his death?”
“No. He made that journey several times a year. As do I. Spring is a chancy time to sail, but one cannot always wait for fair weather.”
Alex nodded. “What happened to his antiquities after his death?”
Sir Michael stared. “What antiquities – or do you mean those old blunderbusses? They’ve been in the family since an ancestor drove off the Irish three hundred years ago.”
“That’s odd. Several antiquities dealers claim he was a regular customer who was particularly interested in Sarsos.” It was a lie of the sort that often prompted admissions. But not this time.
Sir Michael shrugged. “They probably mistook the name. Some confused Father with Sir Harold Ingleside.”
“Perhaps.” He dropped the subject, though there was no confusion about which baronet had stayed with Higgins during those crucial two weeks. But unless Sir Michael was a gifted actor, he knew nothing of interest – not even his father’s state of mind before that final journey. “One last question. The harvest before his death was poor. Many men feared that the following one would be worse. If Sir Harold had heard of a way to improve yields, would he have rushed out to learn more?”
“No.” His voice was positive. “There were many ideas making the rounds then, some of them quite good. We argued the subject often. But Father insisted that the old methods were perfectly suited to our land. Nothing would convince him to try what he called newfangled folderol. It was too late to change anything the year he died – I didn’t return until July. But I instituted modern methods the following year, with good results.”
“And he had no interest in history or collections.”
“None.”
Alex nodded. “Thank you for your time. It is obvious that he had nothing to do with my puzzle.”
“What is your puzzle, if I might be so bold?”
“Stolen antiquities, but if he had no interest in the subject, he would have paid no attention to rumors about it. I had hoped that he might have jotted them down or mentioned them to acquaintances.”
“I doubt it.” Sir Michael relaxed. “But I can ask my mother – she would know.”
“Do that. I can be reached at Ridley Park, Leicestershire.”
Alex excused himself and left, knowing that further pressure would raise suspicions. Sir Michael did not need to know that his father had seduced and killed Christine.
With luck, Lady Iverson might know something of interest. Even ignorance would be useful, for it would support the notion that Higgins had been the force behind the plot. He would then have to decide whether Higgins had lured Sir Michael into the scheme or if Sir Michael had traveled to Leicestershire for other reasons and been corrupted after he arrived. Had there been a third man involved? Higgins didn’t show up in Peterson’s book, either.
* * * *
“How can he claim that Sir Harold knew nothing of Sarsos?” demanded Eden the moment the carriage pulled away from Sir Michael’s house. She’d bit her tongue throughout the interview, remaining silent despite his strange approach, but now she needed answers. “He convinced Christine to steal the staff, then killed her.”
“But Sir Michael doesn’t know that.”
“Doesn’t know?” She twisted to stare at him.
“Exactly. Sir George demanded absolute secrecy. Thus when Sir Harold’s ship foundered, we said nothing to the family about his crimes.”
“You sound disgruntled.”
He sighed. “There were questions I was not able to ask because of Sir George’s demands. Sir Harold’s death ended the case.”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think so at the time, but now we have another Sarsos relic stolen from another Marlow, leaving another dead body behind. I don’t like it.”
She didn’t like it, either. “So what do we do next?” She kicked herself the moment the words were out, for the question sounded too suggestive.
But he ignored the blush rising to stain her cheeks. “We need to check on everyone Sir Harold met during that period. Especially those with whom he might have discussed Sarsos. Like your father.”
“Papa?” She stared at him.
“Higgins was a scholar interested in the classics. Who better to talk to?”
“I don’t— I never thought—” Her mind whirled so fast she nearly fainted. Before she knew it, she was clamped against his side. Only when he made no attempt to arouse her did she relax, letting the black spots swirling before her eyes dissipate.
“Who was better qualified to understand his interests?” he repeated.
“Of course. But I never considered the possibility before, for it frankly seems unlike him. After Mother died, Papa often lectured me on his studies, but he never once mentioned Sarsos.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. I would have recalled the name the moment John first raised the subject. Papa never mentioned it.”
Alex frowned, then slowly nodded. “So if Sir Harold had raised the subject, your father would have found it fascinating. Scholars love learning new things.” He paused. “You were gone when Sir Harold arrived?”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. Thinking about those days always left her weak. But he was right to suspect a connection. “I hadn’t even known he was expected.”
“Were there others in the parish who shared his interest in the classics? Men he might have spoken to after Sir Harold left?”
Eden frowned, thinking back ten years. “The squire’s main interest was hunting, but Papa tutored his sons before they left for Eton, and he took Sunday dinner at the manor most weeks. Then there was Major Baggot. He and Papa often argued world affairs, but I can’t recall if they touched on other topics – I generally left the room when the major arrived, for he always shouted, a consequence of being rather deaf. Another friend was old Mr. Hinshawe – retired solicitor. They took tea together twice a week, alternating houses.”
“Did you stay in touch with any of them after you married John?”
“No.” Between perfecting her manners and keeping Olivia out of John’s way, she’d had no time to consider former acquaintances, most of whom had stepped firmly away lest they be tarnished by her father’s suicide. “Mr. Hinshawe is likely gone by now. The major, too. He was past seventy when I left.”
“Did any of them describe your father’s final days?”
She shuddered.
Alex pulled her closer, stroking her arm – purely in comfort. The realization let her dig through the memories of that awful week…
“Olivia and I had spent a month in York with friends. We’d postponed our return until dry weather because the stage dropped us three miles from home. Olivia was fragile as a child, and I didn’t want her walking in the rain.”
“No one met you?”
She shook her head. “No. Papa had little concept of time. And even if he’d known the date we would return, he didn’t like asking someone to send a carriage for us. We kept no horse.” She sighed at the reminder of how little money they’d had. “The moment I pushed open the door, I knew. The smell—” She clamped her lips together as her stomach heaved. Thank God John’s body had been outdoors…
“Don’t think about that part,” murmured Alex, dropping a light kiss on her hair.
“I sent Olivia to fetch the squire even before I went inside. Squire was shocked – there’s no other way to describe it. Not just at the body, but that Papa, of all people, would do such a thing. If only I’d been there.”
“Don’t torment yourself. You could have done nothing. Did the squire describe his last meeting with your father?”
“Yes, not that I remember all that much – it was as if someone had packed my head in cotton wool. He swore that Papa seemed his usu
al self at services the day before, but had declined dinner at the manor, citing urgent studies.”
“That sounds odd.”
“Not at all. That was his standard excuse for avoiding duty whenever a new book arrived. Some weeks I could barely pry him from his study long enough to read services.” She shuddered. “Yet he must have killed himself almost immediately after arriving home. The squire judged him a full day gone when I found him Monday afternoon.”
Only after Alex’s arm tightened convulsively around her did she recall that he’d interviewed her father a short time before his death, so must have arrived shortly after services. Yet that still couldn’t explain why her father had shot himself. She was wondering how to ask for more details on their meeting when he again spoke.
“What about the condolence calls? Did anyone describe new interests? Perhaps Sir Harold mentioned a treatise on Sarsos or put him in touch with someone interested in the subject. Since Peterson didn’t know about Sir Harold’s interest in Sarsos, his source must have been another collector.”
“I’m sorry, Alex. That week is lost in a haze of pain, horror, and terror. People called, but I don’t recall who. And I’ve no recollection of anything we might have discussed.”
“Everything is a fog?”
“Not quite. I recall the duns all too clearly – Papa had no head for figures, so he was always in debt. There was the letter from the new vicar announcing his imminent arrival and his expectation that the vicarage would be empty. He made it clear that we were not his concern. And there was John, arriving unannounced to offer for my hand. When he swore he’d raise Olivia as his daughter—” A sob broke free.
“Easy, Eden.” He swung her into lap, letting her hide her face against his shoulder. His arms closed protectively around her, again offering only comfort. She’d not cried after finding her father’s body, but now the terror of those days flooded back, intensified by the relief that John had rescued Olivia from a brutal life in the workhouse.
As the emotion gushed out in a flood of tears, her heart lightened. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to hide distress. Alex would never hold it against her, though how she knew that was a mystery.
