by Allison Lane
Sir Richard broke eye contact first. “Yes, you cocky bastard. I must acquit you of gossip.”
“Describe the scene of your brother’s death.”
“John was set upon by a highwayman while out for his morning ride – not the first such incident I’ve dealt with; too many soldiers won’t do honest labor.”
“It is a problem,” agreed Alex neutrally, though in truth it was a lack of jobs rather than laziness that left so many unemployed.
Richard seemed about to pontificate, but caught himself and continued. “That he died was his own fault. He rode horses so spirited that few could control them. I begged him to be sensible, warning him such recklessness would bring him to grief one day. And so it did. When the highwayman jumped out, he startled the horse, which shied and knocked him down. His pistol discharged as he fell, killing him and spooking the horse even more. John fell, smashing his head on a stone.”
“I presume the horse then fled back to its stable,” said Alex.
Richard frowned. “No. We found it grazing nearby.”
“A horse so high-spirited that no one could control it?”
“Horses are as prone to shock as people.”
“Did you recognize the beast?”
“I hadn’t seen John in some time and never rode with him.” His fingers drummed on the desktop. “What does it matter? John is dead. If I’d had my way, the beast would also be dead.”
“What matters is that your tale and Mrs. Marlow’s agree on few points.”
“The woman is vulgar beyond belief, a light-skirt who parlayed a few tears into a life of leisure, a hen-wit who throws emotional fits over the least thing. I still can’t believe John was stupid enough to marry her – and him but a week widowed! Poor Christine would have wept to see her bed defiled – and so unworthily.”
Poor Christine? Interesting.
Sir Richard continued to vent his spleen, finally winding down with, “She will twist facts until they fit what she wants to believe, never considering that her feeble brain is incapable of comprehending subtlety. Half the time, she ignores even obvious evidence!”
Which was exactly how she’d described Richard. “I don’t know her well enough to judge,” lied Alex. “But I must defer to her on one point, for she did recognize the horse. It is a docile beast used with the housekeeper’s gig. It is not a horse John would ride.”
“A prime example of how she twists facts.” His chin came up. “She couldn’t tell one horse from another if her life depended on it. The girl is a greedy nobody who insinuated herself into our station. And don’t tell me she is cousin to a baronet,” he snapped when Alex opened his mouth. “Connection to the bastard who killed Christine is no testimonial. She’s as mad as he was.”
Alex gazed speculatively at Sir Richard. Eden hadn’t exaggerated his character. His hatred would prevent him from offering help, no matter how venal it made him appear in the public eye. And he was stupid. John’s grooms would have identified the horse had he asked – something a competent magistrate should have done when faced with conflicting claims. And why was a man who eschewed emotion exhibiting so much of it over a ten-year-old death? Did he know more about the earlier case than he’d admitted? The possibility didn’t fit the image Alex had formed ten years ago, which demonstrated how superficial that investigation had been. But it gave him a place to start.
In the meantime, he must soothe ruffled feathers or risk having Sir Richard throw him out. “I am fully aware of her breeding, my lord. But justice is not restricted to the upper classes, so I must investigate her charges. Did you identify the highwayman?”
“No, and don’t expect to. He wasn’t local, and he carried no identification.”
“Not even discharge papers from the military?” Even the worst scoundrels kept those close at hand, for desertion could send them to the gibbet for treason.
“No, but not all scoundrels are former soldiers,” he admitted. “He wasn’t wearing a uniform, which most of them still do.”
“What was in his pockets?”
“The usual.” He paused. “His effects are still here. We keep them for a year in case someone comes forward to identify him.” He led Alex to the strongroom where he kept official papers, pulled a box from a shelf, and extracted a filthy bundle.
Alex spread the contents on the table. The clothes were tattered, but of good quality – not that quality mattered since they’d likely come from a used clothing dealer. Blood soaked the front of both shirt and coat. It also soaked their right sleeves. Smaller drops flecked the left coat sleeve.”
“He must have held the pistol in his right hand,” Alex said, pointing to the stain.
“True. He retained his grip even as he reached out to break his fall. Stupid with it cocked like that, but intelligent men don’t turn to highway robbery.”
“He caught himself only with his right hand? Or were both hands under him.”
“Just the right.”
“So only the pistol hand was scraped from hitting the road.”
Richard frowned, as if he’d seen what Alex had. A falling man would catch himself with his empty hand, not the one holding a cocked pistol. At the very least he would use both. “Both were undamaged.” His brow suddenly cleared. “He must have landed on his right forearm, trying to keep his pistol trained on John even as he fell. The left was likely unusable. Had a fellow like that hanging about last month. Wanted work, though his right arm wouldn’t move. What did he think he could do, maimed like that? I soon sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. Cripples shouldn’t bother decent folk.”
Alex gritted his teeth, but kept his face placid. “It seems odd that his left sleeve has blood on it if that arm did not land beneath the body.”
Sir Richard muttered an imprecation. “Don’t they teach you anything at the Home Office, you young jackanapes? The pistol fired before the body came to rest. Blood, bits of flesh, and God knows what else escaped before he hit the ground. That’s why spatters were on the road and John’s clothing.”
A telling admission. Alex hid a smile as he examined the rest of the man’s effects. Sir Richard’s observations belied the man’s own conclusions. Why would blood be on John’s clothes if John had been on a rearing horse when the gunman went down? The gunman’s body would have blocked any spatter except near the ground. And Sir Richard’s reconstruction did not explain why the gunman had landed on his stomach atop John.
But he couldn’t antagonize the man until he no longer needed his cooperation. So he merely nodded, turning the coat this way and that for closer examination. No mud or hair marked where a restive animal might have struck. In Alex’s experience, it was impossible to come into contact with a horse and not wind up covered with hairs.
Laying the coat aside, he examined the pistol. Eden was right. It was one of Manton’s.
The remaining effects were as interesting for what they didn’t contain as for what they did. Aside from the pistol, which anyone familiar with weapons should know could be traced, the man had carried nothing that might identify him. Nor had he carried anything a man living rough would need. No blanket. No pot or cup or tinderbox. No balls or powder so he could reload his pistol after using it. No other weapon. No receipt or key from an inn. No money.
What he did have was a bent piece of wire that Alex recognized as a lockpick. So this was indeed Eden’s thief and probably John’s killer.
Then there was the penknife. Few highwaymen could write. Fewer had any need to do so. A penknife was useless for any task but sharpening pens. His instincts were right. This was either Emerson or Barclay, an educated man acting under instructions from his employer. Obedience had cost him his life.
“Did you find his camp?” he asked.
“No, but it will turn up eventually.” Sir Richard shrugged.
“I see.” What he saw was Sir Richard’s bullheadedness. Having decided the death was an accident – which excused him from wasting time on an investigation – he ignored everything that
screamed otherwise. A highwayman might have attacked a lone horseman, though dawn was an odd time to look for victims on the High Toby. But he should have had a camp set up nearby or kept his pack handy so he could make a swift retreat.
“There is nothing here that a highwayman should have,” he said, hoping Sir Richard might join him in considering the anomalies.
“Of course not. The peasant who found the body robbed it before fetching me. I’m keeping my eye on him, though. The moment he retrieves his bounty, he’ll pay for interfering in the king’s business.”
Alex sighed. Sir Richard was hopeless. Maybe he needed the satisfaction of correctly predicting John’s fate. Or maybe he was terrified that another family murder would tarnish his image and somehow call his competence into question.
“I will send the pistol to Manton for identification,” he announced, pocketing the weapon. “Mrs. Marlow will rest easier knowing who was responsible for John’s death.”
“I can’t think why. She cared nothing for him, wasting his money on fripperies, then expecting me to support her when he died in debt. He should never have wed the chit. Everyone knows that installing peasants in a genteel household is begging for trouble. She belongs in the workhouse. I can’t believe he left his estate to her instead of to me. She must have cast some spell over him to distract him from his duty.”
“That is not my affair,” said Alex stiffly, fighting the urge to plant a fist in that arrogant face. “My job is to investigate his death.”
“Waste of time,” he barked.
“So you have said. I will let you know when I discover the highwayman’s identity.”
He left before he forgot himself and called Sir Richard out. The man had not improved with age. If anything, he was worse.
And he must find an acceptable way to help Eden. Sir Richard never would. Alex could dower Olivia as a way to repay John’s aid, but Eden would never accept help with her mortgage. Nor would she sell him John’s collection at an inflated price. Her honor would rebel at the very notion.
The problem ate at his mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Alex dispatched the pistol to Terrence by post, then returned to Ridley, deep in thought. Sir Richard’s tirade bothered him more every time he thought about it. The man was treating Eden worse than a dishonest servant. Granted, she was several steps lower than a baronet, but she had been a lady even before her marriage. Vicars were gentry, no matter how far removed from a title.
The sins of the fathers…
Was that Sir Richard’s problem? Her father had been involved in the theft that had killed Christine and broken Sir George’s spirit. Was Richard punishing her because her father was out of reach? Or was he angry because Sir George had welcomed her to Marwood? Sir George had long favored John because of their shared interests, widening the rift between the brothers.
But that theory didn’t feel right. Richard’s hatred was too strong to have grown from a quarrel with John. And it was too overt to be aimed at Higgins or based on Eden’s breeding.
Whatever the cause, the feud must end. With John gone, Eden would be at the mercy of the Marlow family. Unless Sir Richard accepted her presence, she would be ostracized by her neighbors, leaving her isolated and alone. Repairing the breach was another way Alex could repay his debt to John. Not that he hoped to do more than convince Richard to leave Eden alone. Richard was too bullheaded to ever welcome her.
Richard’s animosity might stem from John’s collection, of course. But even that could not explain his hatred of Eden.
Which brought him to Christine.
Christine had taken several lovers. Alex hadn’t compiled a list, for Sir Harold had clearly killed her. But if Richard had been one of them, he would have seen her elopement as a betrayal. Guilt over an incestuous relationship could explain his current behavior. That Christine had been a promiscuous thief made the sin worse. And if he’d loved her – a likely scenario, for nothing less than love would have pushed him to take her – then John’s remarriage would have seemed an even worse betrayal.
It made sense. Now all he had to do was prove it. Eden should not be a scapegoat for Richard’s guilt.
* * * *
Dinner was nearly ready when Alex returned to Ridley. He barely had time to change before joining Eden and Olivia in the dining room. Olivia took advantage of his presence to practice her coquetry.
The girl was pretty enough, with Eden’s light brown hair and delicate face. Her eyes were more blue than green, and she retained an innocence that Eden had long since lost. It spoke well of Eden’s care that Olivia had weathered the tragedies she, too, had endured.
He didn’t like flirts as a rule – prattle hid character, making it difficult to know the real person – but for tonight, he set aside irritation. Sir Richard’s antagonism meant Olivia would have had little opportunity to practice the skills most girls learned in the schoolroom. It couldn’t hurt to teach her how to flirt more naturally. And if he learned something of her interests, it would be easier to find her a good husband. It was small price to remove some of his guilt. The botched Marlow case had left her an orphan, and the most spectacular success of Alex’s career would not have happened without John’s tip. It made his debt all the larger.
“Eden tells me you no longer live in London,” Olivia said over the fish course. “Do you miss it?”
“At times,” he admitted. “It is unlike any other place on earth. But there is much to be said for country life, too. It is more peaceful.”
“Yes, I imagine that London can be quite exhausting.”
“Even passing through London can be exhausting,” confirmed Eden before retreating into her thoughts. He wondered what new calamity kept her in thrall this evening, but couldn’t ask. An annoying facet of manners was the prohibition on discussing anything serious at dinner. But manners didn’t keep him from noticing how she blushed when the butler laid a spear of asparagus on her plate, or how she nearly choked when the second course included scalloped oysters. He could guarantee that she would never look at a dinner table the same way again…
He averted his eyes lest they prove that Eden felt as needy as he did. He could not betray her to Olivia.
Olivia questioned him closely about society’s denizens and the entertainments they enjoyed, “for I will likely never experience a Season for myself.”
Alex answered with light banter and humorous anecdotes, all the while downplaying the glamour so she wouldn’t pine for a life she might never know – and shouldn’t miss. A constant round of entertainments grew boring.
When the ladies finally rose to leave him to his port, he sighed in relief. “Please stay, Eden. I have a few questions.”
“Of course.” Her face paled as she waved Olivia away. The butler followed.
As soon as they were alone, Alex steepled his fingers under his chin. “What did John tell you about the theft of the staff – not the details you learned from Christine’s maid. Just what he said.”
“There wasn’t much,” she admitted. “You must know how painful he found the subject.”
“True.” While John had known about Christine’s affair with Sir Harold, he’d not known about the others, demonstrating how focused he’d been on the Marlow collection. Only Christine’s own carelessness after she’d decided to elope had revealed the last one.
Eden nodded. “So you know that he was reluctant to discuss it. He mentioned it only once – a year after her death. That was the first time I heard about Sir Harold’s involvement and that he’d stayed with Papa. The family was understandably reluctant to mention any of them. Guilt over Papa’s suicide drove John to offer for me. He felt he should have noticed Sir Harold’s deceit in time to save Christine, which would have prevented him from sweeping Papa into his plot.” She stared at her twisting hands, then met his eyes. “No one had told me why he killed himself. All I had was that damnable note. Forgive me…”
“If anyone was responsible for his death, it was I.” Despite his
earlier efforts to soothe her pain, she still blamed herself for being absent. He couldn’t reveal that Higgins might have killed Sir Harold, but his original conclusions might help her. “Your father was not directly involved in either the theft or in Christine’s death, and he may have known nothing of Sir Harold’s plans. As far as I know, all he did was offer shelter to a cousin and discuss the neighborhood with him. Sir Harold claimed that ill health made it necessary to take the waters at Oakham.”
“Then why—”
“—did he kill himself? I was less than diplomatic,” he admitted. “When he told me about Sir Harold’s ill health, I called him a liar, then reminded him that Sir Harold had seduced Christine, convinced her to steal for him, then killed her. No man as ill as Sir Harold claimed to be could have managed that. Higgins was shocked down to his toes.” A truth, though the shock had likely arisen from having his crimes exposed. “Before we could speak further, a messenger brought news that Sir Harold’s body had washed ashore. Rather than continue the interview, which might have convinced him he’d done nothing wrong, I left, vowing to return later. But he must have blamed himself for not controlling his houseguest. He shot himself that afternoon.”
“That seems an inadequate reason for suicide.”
“For you, certainly, but you are stronger than he was. He lived in a scholarly bubble quite out of touch with evil. When I jerked him into the real world, he lacked the skills to handle it.”
“That much is true,” she agreed sadly. “He was a dreamer, I’m afraid, too caught up in his studies to pay much heed to those around him. It was a defect I chastised him for on many occasions, so if he thought it had caused someone’s death, he might atone by taking his life. And it certainly fits his note. Forgive me… He uttered those words a dozen times a day and must have started half his correspondence with them. He was always forgetting appointments, or inadvertently insulting people, or ignoring his daughters for days at a time—” Her voice broke.
“And now it’s my turn to utter them. Forgive me for not concluding the interview before leaving. Another hour would have made no difference to my journey.” The admission intensified his guilt.
