The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Merciful heavens!”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “Who’s hurt?”

  “Why can’t we see? We might be able to help!”

  “Sir Arthur!” said Mr. Cecil. “Take these ladies back to the house.”

  “Why? What do you mean to do?”

  “Go to the church. Get the Reverend. Send someone for Doctor Selkirk. And Constable Cooper too.”

  “The constable!” echoed Miss Cecil. “Why, Edward, how bad is it? Do you mean…?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Cecil, his voice a little overwrought. “I do mean that. Now, ladies, please, back to the house, and I will tell you all when I know more.”

  Part Two

  15

  Eliza sat down carefully on the sofa in the drawing room and breathed deeply while the other ladies congregated in the hallway expressing their confusion and dismay in hysterical tones. Mr. Cecil had refused to tell them the nature of the accident, but the matter could not long remain a secret. The first of the stragglers coming back from the aborted hunt shouted something about “the duke” as he dismounted and ran up the steps. A frowning Hayward begged him to step aside and lower his voice, but after the butler had learned the particulars, he ascended the stairs with a rapidity never before seen, on a quest to find the Duchess of Brockenhurst.

  A quarter of an hour later, the carriage which had been driven by the silent groom Martin wheeled into the driveway with a flurry of riders surrounding it. Eliza swallowed and rose from the sofa, hurrying to the window with the other ladies. Henry was up in the box alongside the groom, and it was he holding the reins. He pulled the horses to a stop and then jumped down, waving aside the footmen and yanking open the carriage door himself. “Hayward, a blanket!” he called out, and within seconds a large wool coverlet had materialized.

  Mr. Cecil stepped down, along with Mr. Turold, and together they lifted an inert figure out of the carriage. The blanket was covering the head and most of the body, but Eliza knew, even without catching a glimpse of the red hair, that it was Rufus. And she knew, even before the doctor arrived a half hour later, that the doctor would be no help. Rufus Rowland, the Duke of Brockenhurst, was dead.

  The constable arrived shortly after the doctor and took a look at the body laid out in the morning room. The Duchess of Brockenhurst was sitting beside Rufus, holding his lifeless hand, her face as gray as ash. Most of the men had gone back outside and were talking together loud and fast. Miss Cecil and Miss Bertram stared at each other like frightened deer uncertain where to run. Adele seemed frozen, ever since the body had crossed the threshold. Eliza put her arms around her and settled her on a bench in the hallway. Tears began to streak down Adele’s cheeks, and Eliza laid the girl’s head against her bosom and let her sob out her grief. Mr. Blount, standing nearby and fidgeting anxiously, offered his handkerchief.

  There was no time for Eliza to examine her own feelings. No, that would come later, in the quiet of her room. But now, she must remain unshaken, a pillar of strength for those who needed her.

  Henry and Mr. Cecil re-entered the house as the constable exited the morning room.

  “An accident, you say?” said the constable gravely. His bushy gray sideburns reached almost to the sides of his mouth.

  “I believe so,” said Mr. Cecil. “Here is the weapon.” Using two hands, he presented a pistol to the constable. From across the hallway, Eliza recognized it as the same pistol Mr. Turold had been holstering in the stable yard.

  “Oh dear,” said the constable, clucking underneath his breath. “Oh dear, oh dear. And of course there is the possibility that it was not an accident….”

  “What is to be done now, constable?” Henry inquired forcefully.

  “Normally I would carry the case to the magistrate to start an investigation, but the magistrate is….” The constable waved a hand to the door of the morning room.

  “Quite,” said Henry. “But old Cecil was the secondary magistrate in my father’s time, which means that you”—he turned to Edward Cecil—“are next in line to investigate the matter.”

  “Yes, Lord Henry, that is as it should be,” said the constable.

  Mr. Cecil raked a hand through his black curls. “I fear I have never been involved in such an undertaking before. I hardly know where to begin.”

  Mr. Blount, who had been listening quite earnestly, cleared his throat and took a step towards the trio. “If I might be so bold, I know a man—or rather, I know of him—a Bow Street Runner who came from London and was able to sort out some business for my father this past winter.”

  “You mean that business with the Earl of Anglesford?” said Henry.

  “Yes, that,” replied Mr. Blount. “The man’s name was Pevensey. Jacob Pevensey.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Cecil, “there could be no harm in calling in some reinforcements. I daresay Constable Cooper and I would be glad of the help. Henry, could you arrange it?”

  “Of course,” said Henry. “I’ll send my valet to town with a message, and perhaps the man can even be here by nightfall.”

  Mr. Blount returned to take up his position as auxiliary comforter. When Adele reached out for his hand and pulled him down to the bench on her other side, Eliza found that her ministrations were no longer needed. She folded her hands and gazed quietly at the three men across the hallway.

  “I’ll need to take his statement,” said Constable Cooper, fumbling in his pockets for a notebook.

  “Henry,” said Mr. Cecil. “I’m sorry.” He clapped the broad-shouldered man on the back.

  “Thank you,” said Henry, “but we were not exactly…close.”

  Mr. Cecil shook his head. “I think we all know that. But still, man, he was your brother. One feels such things, no matter the level of estrangement.”

  “Certainly,” said Henry. His eyes flicked over to where Eliza sat and met her own. “One feels such things. Most deeply.”

  Eliza looked away. She could not decipher what she felt. She was numb. She was dreaming. They were bringing in a Bow Street Runner to unravel the events of the day. A pity he could not also unravel the tangled web of her heart.

  * * *

  Henry showed the constable outside to where Walter was waiting, arms folded and brow furrowed. “This is Walter Turold,” he told the constable. “Walter, he wants to take your statement.”

  “In private?” asked Walter in a guarded tone. His long hair had come out of its queue and hung in lank strands about his face.

  “If you wish,” said Henry coolly, “but I must confess that I am eager to hear your statement as well.” What he felt about his brother’s death was of little consequence, but what Walter felt? That would tell volumes. He had already asserted in the forest that the shot had come from his gun. That was not the plan they had discussed in the stable.

  “I have no qualms about stating it in front of you. It was an accident. I saw movement. I thought it was the stag. I fired my pistol.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said the constable, jotting down notes as fast as his pencil could write. “I’ve had the same happen myself. Almost clipped the wing of my cousin one day—thought he was a pheasant!” He started to chuckle at the thought, then seemed to think better of it. “And was there any ill feeling between yourself and the duke?”

  Walter looked at Henry. “No.”

  Henry’s nostrils flared. He would not call him out on that lie. Not yet.

  “That’s all I need then,” said the constable, closing his notebook. “The Runner will doubtless want more from you. It goes without saying, I think, that you must not leave the premises.”

  “Of course,” said Walter, inclining his head. “I shall keep to my room until I’m needed. I am truly sorry for this regrettable accident.” That last sentiment was directed to Henry. “He was my friend, you know.”

  The constable drifted away to consu
lt with the housekeeper about where the body should be kept prior to the inquest.

  “I am aware of that,” said Henry dryly. “I also know that if I were to accidentally kill my friend Stephen Blount, I would be doubled over vomiting until the shock of it passed, and then on my knees before God begging His forgiveness.”

  “Not everyone handles tragedy the same,” said Walter in a monotone voice.

  “Or perhaps not everyone believes that Rufus’ death was a tragedy.”

  “I can only assume you are speaking for yourself.”

  “You can assume all you like—I have a letter to write.”

  Henry walked back inside. Eliza had disappeared. What was she thinking right now? What was she feeling? Relief that she was freed from marriage to a rake? Shock at the suddenness of the event?

  In truth, Henry did not know what he himself felt. Rufus was dead, and under very suspicious circumstances. Did he believe Walter’s claim that it was an accident? Not at all. And yet, he had never known Walter to be a dishonorable man. A hard man, an unforgiving man, but not a liar.

  And what if Walter was lying? Did Henry even care? Whether intentional or unintentional on Walter’s part, Rufus had been struck down by the hand of God. The mills of God had not ground slowly this time.

  Henry strode into the study. The sight of the dark leather chair, the mounted stag’s head, and the bearskin rug brought back a surge of memories that he thought had ebbed for good. He remembered pulling up a stool to sit beside his father at the desk while he went over the books with the steward. “You’ve a good head for numbers, Hal. A good head!” It was a piece of praise that Henry had treasured, for it was always Rufus who was the best wrestler, the best horseman, the best shot, having earlier grown into those physical qualities that William Rowland so much prized.

  “Very good, Master Henry,” the old steward had echoed—Mr. Hodgins was his name. “You must come collect the rents with me next time so you can see the faces that go with each number.”

  “What a bore!” Rufus had said when he heard Hodgins’ idea. “Visiting some sad-faced old men in their hovels? No thank you!”

  But Henry had gone, and he had listened, and he had learned….

  The Brockenhurst seal was lying there on the desk among the papers, a ring that Rufus had rarely, if ever, worn. Henry picked it up and traced a fingertip over the stylized “B” and the symbol of the oak tree. He had used this seal many times, closing letters on all the business he had transacted in Rufus’ name. And now it would no longer be Rufus’ name connected to that seal. He turned it over in his palm. It would be his.

  He set the seal down and scanned the desk for a clean piece of paper to write his letter. Underneath the most recent issue of The Sporting Magazine, he found a signed document with both his brother’s and half-brother’s signatures on the bottom. It was a promissory note, a loan of fifty thousand pounds to Robert with his house Fontbury as collateral in case he could not repay the loan in two years’ time. Henry’s eyes flicked over to the date of the document. The loan had come due last month. It was exactly as Robert had told him earlier that morning.

  Underneath that document was the blank paper. Henry scrawled a quick note to Jacob Pevensey, the Bow Street Runner that Stephen had recommended. He signed his name—Henry Rowland. He looked in the drawer of the desk where he knew pocket money would be kept and pulled out ten pounds to enclose with the letter for travel expenses. He folded in each side of the letter and tucked the bottom piece into the top.

  The seal still sat on the desk, beckoning him. Was it too soon for him to use it? No, it was his right. He melted a few drops of blood red wax onto the folded ends of the letter and stamped the ring into it with unnecessary vigor.

  He rang for Hayward and asked him to send down his valet.

  “Biggs, I need you to ride back to London for the afternoon. This letter”—he handed the sealed message to his valet—“goes to Bow Street. And then stop also at Maurice’s, and beg pardon from the old man. I must tarry a few more days in the countryside. If he has any urgent business for me, he can send it back with you, and I will transact it here.”

  16

  Jacob Pevensey stepped into the warm office of the Bow Street Magistrate. He was a Londoner, born and bred, and a good thing too, else he might resent the heat, and the fog, and the smell that meant summer in England’s largest city.

  He had just finished an inquiry into a theft—a pretty piece of jewelry that a doting doctor had bought for his young wife. The concerned husband had found it missing and blamed servants, tradesmen, even guests. It had never occurred to him that his darling wife, having run through her pin money, might sell the emerald necklace to finance her amusements at the gaming table. Pevensey, who had uncovered the real reason for the necklace’s disappearance, felt a little sorry for her. He was glad she was out of the house when he came to reveal the truth to her formerly indulgent husband.

  Pevensey had written up his own report of events to place on Sir Richard’s desk. The head magistrate liked to be kept apprised of all cases solved and unsolved. It was the only document that Pevensey had composed about the affair; he was notorious for storing all his notes for a case in the one place where nobody else could find them—his head. He had hoped to slip the report onto a vacant desk and edge his way back out of the office for an early end to the day’s work, but the desk chair was decidedly and masterfully occupied.

  “You have a letter,” said Sir Richard, exchanging the paperwork Pevensey handed him for another piece that threatened more work.

  Pevensey put a smile on his face, but inwardly he was groaning at his bad luck. “Who is it from?” He turned the folded packet over in his hands.

  “By the seal, I would say the Duke of Brockenhurst.” Richard Ford knew everyone in London, from the peers in Parliament to the actresses at the Drury Lane Theater. It stood to reason that he would recognize every seal that came across his desk.

  “Could you inform me of the contents as well?” said Pevensey, his freckled face lighting up with mischief.

  “Cheeky fellow,” said Sir Richard, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “Read it yourself and tell me what Brockenhurst wants.”

  Pevensey examined the contents of the letter. “Brockenhurst is dead.”

  “Strange that he should write you a letter then,” said Sir Richard, his lined face appreciating the irony of the matter.

  “It’s from his brother. The duke was killed during a hunt. Purported to be an accident but needs investigation. The local magistrate and constable are inexperienced and asking for reinforcement.”

  “Why you, Pevensey?”

  Pevensey had been asking himself the same question. “I suppose word’s got out about the Anglesford case. But that was a one-time affair. London’s my jurisdiction, Sir Richard. I can’t be gadding about Sussex when I have work here.”

  “But haven’t you just finished your last case?” said Sir Richard, looking pointedly at the report freshly placed on his desk. “The death of a peer is a serious matter and certainly deserving of a qualified investigator.”

  Pevensey cocked his head, his red sideburn nearly touching his neat collar on the left. “Are you ordering me to take this assignment, Sir Richard?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Richard, leaning forward and reaching into a drawer. “And I’ll even supply your travel expenses up front.” He handed Pevensey a bank note. “If you change horses, you can be there by nightfall.”

  Pevensey took a deep breath and made one last effort for a quiet evening. “Surely, tomorrow morning would be adequate.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sir Richard, waving Pevensey away as a signal that he desired no more argument. “It’s not as if Harrowhaven is all the way to Brighton.”

  “Of course, Sir Richard,” said Pevensey, forcing a smile and giving a curt bow on his way out of the office.

/>   As he turned into the corridor, he deposited Sir Richard’s bank note in his waistcoat pocket. Then, reaching into the letter, he pulled out a ten pound note and placed it in his pocket as well. It was always nice to be doubly reimbursed for travel expenses. But somehow, it did not quite make up for the prospect of an afternoon ride to Sussex in the wilting summer heat.

  * * *

  When Eliza went upstairs, she found her parents hidden away in their private sitting room discussing the impact of the day’s awful turn of events.

  “It was not the will of God,” said Lady Malcolm grimly.

  “Yes, Margaret. Clearly!” Sir Arthur threw his head back and sighed. “Apparently, it’s His will instead that we all beg for pennies outside the workhouse.”

  “Arthur! Don’t blaspheme.”

  Eliza’s father muttered underneath his breath.

  “Eliza, my dear,” said Lady Malcolm, rising from her seat. “You must be overwhelmed. Sit down.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” said Eliza. She was still wearing her green riding habit, and she adjusted the side train to drape properly on the seat of the wingback chair.

  “We should leave as soon as we can,” said Lady Malcolm, pacing the room with her hands behind her back. “Tomorrow.”

  Eliza’s heart took a little jump. It would be unfortunate to leave Harrowhaven so soon. But then, of course, it might not be pleasant for the family to have them stay.

  “Not possible,” growled Sir Arthur. “There’s to be an investigation.”

  “I thought you said it was an accident!”

  “It was. But when a duke dies, they do things thoroughly. We’ll be lucky to leave here by the end of the week.”

  Eliza rubbed a hand against her ear. Three more days here—maybe four. She wondered if the investigation meant that all the other houseguests would be staying on as well? Mr. Blount, Mr. Curtis, Henry Rowland….

  “How tedious,” said Lady Malcolm, “now that there’s nothing here worth staying for.”