The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  Pevensey shut the cellar door behind them as they waited for Mrs. Forsythe to return with her keys. “Because by the time you get to the end, you’ll know which questions are the ones you ought to be asking.”

  * * *

  “I thought I made myself clear,” said Lady Malcolm stiffly. Eliza had been herded into her mother’s sitting room and made to sit.

  “Yes, Mama, you did.”

  “Apparently not clear enough.”

  “I was not intending to encourage him,” said Eliza miserably.

  “Not intending? Did he force you to take his hand?” Lady Malcolm’s voice was cynical. “No, I thought not. A lady can always find a way to refuse unwanted attention. You did not. So clearly, the attention is not unwanted.”

  “Mama, that is unfair—”

  “What has come over you? In London, you were as shy as a primrose. And now? You make eyes at men over your fiancé’s dead body.”

  Eliza turned white with anger. “How dare you!” She jumped up from her seat. “I never wanted to marry Rufus Rowland. It was all Papa. And you! You said it would be for the best, and I went along with it, despite my heart.”

  “And where is your heart?”

  “With Henry Rowland. Oh, Mama! If only you could come to know him. He is kind. He is gentle. He understands me as no one ever has.”

  Lady Malcolm’s face was as taut as the strings of a violin. “Child,” she said, “sit down and listen to me. When I was your age, I thought the same. I met a man who was warm, and tender, and more wonderful than any I had ever known. I had no mother’s counsel to guide me, and what do you think I did? I married him.”

  Eliza fell back against the cushions of the chair and stared. Was this her father that her mother was speaking of?

  “I married him in haste, and repented—yes, repented—it at leisure. Your father is faithful to me now, and we rub along together after a fashion, but our early years…oh, our early years were difficult. There were many dark nights of the soul where I did not care whether I lived or died. I would not wish that on you, child, and so I counsel you with all my soul against this Henry Rowland.”

  Eliza clutched one of the cushions convulsively. The revelation of her father’s infidelities was astonishing to her, but so was the comparison that her mother was trying to draw. “How do you know that Henry is like Papa? He is not! He is nothing like him.”

  Lady Malcolm gnawed her lower lip. “Ollerton has made some inquiries among the staff about him. Something you said spurred her on to do so. It seems that the housekeeper has forbidden the maids to speak to him. They did not say why, but they mentioned a girl named Jenny with whom he was friendly on his last visit. After he left, she disappeared suddenly and took a coach for London. She has not returned.”

  Eliza’s breath came more quickly. “A coincidence!”

  “Is it?” said Lady Malcolm. She gave a sniff. “I can think of only one explanation for such an occurrence, but perhaps you are too innocent to understand. Now is not the time for innocence but for shrewdness. Think back to all you have observed of him—is there nothing that gives you pause?”

  It was Eliza’s turn to gnaw on her lower lip. It was almost as if her mother knew—knew about that nagging doubt in the back of her mind, that sordid memory of Henry Rowland stroking the blond maid’s arm and giving her his handkerchief. It was a memory she had dismissed—a memory too inconvenient and inconsistent with her own desires to be true. But now, with this further news from Ollerton, her suspicions seemed to be instantly and irrevocably confirmed.

  “Oh, Mama!” she moaned and, without offering an explanation, burst suddenly into tears. It was a complete and utter surrender.

  “There, there, my child,” said Lady Malcolm, coming near and putting her arms around Eliza. She lifted Eliza’s chin and brought her eyes on a level with her daughter’s. “Then we are agreed, yes? You will stay clear of Henry Rowland until we can remove ourselves from this house?”

  “Yes,” said Eliza dully. “I will do as you say, Mama.”

  “See that you do this time,” said Lady Malcolm, and letting go of her daughter’s chin, she leaned over to the table and found a book of sermons for them to read aloud.

  * * *

  Pevensey arranged three chairs around a table in the morning room while Cecil secured some ink to take notes in a little book on the process about to unfold.

  The servants came in by turn, with either feigned trepidation or obvious curiosity. “Where were you yesterday morning?” was the first question Pevensey asked each of them. “And who can corroborate your story?”

  Three of the footmen had been engaged in laying out the luncheon tablecloths and centerpieces under the temporarily erected pavilion near the rose garden. The butler Hayward vouched for their presence since he had been directing them.

  “Did you know of any unpleasantness between the duke and Mr. Turold?”

  None of the three had seen or heard anything of the kind. Pevensey expected that when it came time for the housemaids, they would prove more imaginative.

  A fourth footman, the loquacious Frederick, informed Pevensey that he had been absent the day of the hunt. He had gone a half a day’s walk north of the village to his mother’s house to celebrate his sister’s wedding. She had married the baker from the village, and Frederick was looking forward to free buns from his new brother-in-law.

  “And was this your usual day off?” Pevensey asked.

  “No, sir,” said Frederick. “I had special permission from the duke to be gone on Wednesday. I heard the sad news on the road late last night while I was on my way back to Harrowhaven.”

  “Prior to this, had you heard of any unpleasantness between the duke and Mr. Turold?”

  “With Mr. Turold? No.”

  Pevensey caught Cecil’s eye. Here was something to be explored.

  “Perhaps some unpleasantness between the duke and someone else?”

  Frederick shuffled his feet. “I might have been listening when I oughtn’t, but when I walked past the study on Tuesday night, I heard voices arguing.”

  “Whose voices?” asked Cecil, leaning forward with interest.

  “The duke, for one.”

  “And the other?” said Pevensey.

  “I wouldn’t stake my mother’s life on it, but I think ’twas Mr. Curtis.”

  “And what did you overhear?”

  “The man who sounded like Mr. Curtis was saying, ‘By God, you have to give me more time. This is unfair!’ And the duke said something like, ‘You’ve had time enough. I intend to take possession of the place tomorrow.’”

  “And did Mr. Curtis say anything else?”

  “I couldn’t quite hear it all, but I thought he said something about how even a Jew would be kinder.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I heard Mr. Hayward coming and took to my heels so he wouldn’t see me neglecting my duties and eavesdropping on my betters.”

  Cecil was scribbling notes furiously while Pevensey, notebook close to his chest, sketched a cheerful profile of the footman with his ear against a door. After discerning that Frederick had no more information, they dismissed him and bade the butler in the hallway wait a moment before sending in the next servant.

  “What do you make of that?” asked Cecil. His black eyes were alive with interest.

  “Robert Curtis is the half-brother, you said?”

  “Yes, the Duchess of Brockenhurst’s son by a previous marriage. He’s not at all like the other brothers—a preening peacock if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “Was the duchess’ first husband untitled?”

  “Yes, untitled, but he left Robert a pretty estate in Kent, a few hours’ ride from here.”

  “Was Mr. Curtis indebted to his brother Rufus?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” Cecil rubbed
his chin thoughtfully. “It looks like we are beginning to see which questions we ought to ask.”

  Pevensey beamed. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet, Cecil.” He was still irritated with Sir Richard for forcing him to ride out to Sussex in the August heat, but he must admit that this case was proving more interesting than he had expected, and he had never realized before what a pleasure it would be to disciple such an apt pupil in his unusual trade.

  * * *

  Henry retreated to the study to take his mind off the events of the past hour. Not only had Lady Malcolm forbidden him to go near her daughter, but the investigator also suspected him of involvement in Rufus’ death! Growling under his breath, he began to tidy up the papers on the desk. This was his room once again, and here at least he could have things the way he wanted them. He squared up the inkwell and a neatly trimmed pen on the right corner of the desk. Next, he found the seal with which he had stamped the letters only yesterday and placed it on the middle finger of his left hand.

  “Your grace,” said Hayward with a gentle knock on the open door. “Reverend Ansel is here to see you.”

  The soft syllables of the Reverend’s name came as a sharp surprise. Henry started visibly before recovering control of his countenance. “I’m not at home, Hayward.”

  “Yes, your grace,” said the butler. It could have been Henry’s imagination, but he thought he glimpsed a fleeting glance of disappointment on the old retainer’s lined face.

  Henry swallowed. Not at home? It was the excuse Rufus would have used to avoid being harangued by the minister about his responsibilities to the parish. Henry had made enough of his own excuses while he was steward at Harrowhaven to avoid encountering Reverend Ansel. It was time to be done with such folly. He was the duke of Brockenhurst now. He must take his fears and look them in the face.

  “Hayward!”

  The retreating butler turned around. “Yes, your grace?”

  “I was mistaken. You may show him in.”

  Hayward bowed his head perfunctorily, but Henry could see that he was pleased.

  Within seconds, Reverend Ansel came barreling through the study door, the energy in his red face permeating the room like the heat from a fire. He sneezed a few times into his sleeve, great, herculean sneezes that shook his large frame, and blinked back the tears forming in his eyes, the product of a summer’s cold.

  “Henry!” he said, pumping the young man’s hand. “It has been too long. My curate tells me you were at services on Sunday, but I missed seeing you.”

  “Yes, a pity,” said Henry, his voice catching in his throat as if he were still a young lad growing into a man. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  “I’m so very sorry, my boy,” said Reverend Ansel, taking the chair opposite the desk. “So very sorry about your brother.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry.

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “Walter Turold asserts that he fired accidentally, mistaking Rufus for a stag in the bushes.”

  The Reverend pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Dear me.” He blew his nose loudly. “What will happen now?”

  “There’s an investigation pending—a man up from London to help Cecil and the constable look into things. They need to evaluate if it was in fact an accident. If so, I expect things will go no further, and the matter will be laid to rest with Rufus.”

  “And…Walter?”

  “Will simply have to carry the burden of mistakenly ending my brother’s life.”

  “Poor soul,” said Reverend Ansel, shaking his head. He blew his nose again. Henry noted that the clergyman seemed deeply distressed about the matter—that, or deeply distressed by his malady.

  “The shooting took place quite near the church,” said Henry. He leaned forward on his elbows.

  “Yes, that’s what I hear,” said the Reverend. “I went up the road to Dealsby Cross to perform a wedding there yesterday. I preach there once a month since the post is vacant. My curate is hopeful the living will fall to him, but we shall see….”

  Henry’s curiosity finally got the better of his reticence. “I hope no one else in your household was too alarmed by the shot?”

  “No, no, not at all,” said the Reverend. “We hear poachers shooting quite often in our part of the woods…although I probably ought not to be saying that to you, the new duke!”

  “Never fear. I am not as jealous of my sport as my brother was. It is rather fitting, in a way, that he should leave this world while riding out to hunt.”

  “May the Lord have mercy,” said the Reverend quietly. He rose from his chair. “I shall offer my condolences to your mother, if I may. And then…is it permitted that I visit Walter Turold? The man must be beside himself with grief.”

  “He is keeping to his room, but he is not in confinement. His grief, if it exists, must be a stoic one, for he shed no tears yesterday following the event.”

  “The absence of tears does not necessarily mean the absence of sorrow,” said the Reverend. “A heart can brim with remorse on the inside while the outside man remains silent.”

  “Very true, Reverend,” said Henry, a catch in his throat. He stood up in respect as the Reverend quitted the study. Then, alone again in his sanctum, he sat back down in his chair and leaned back to stare at the ceiling, acutely aware that Reverend Ansel’s last statement could have been talking about him just as much as about Walter Turold.

  20

  As the maids entered to be interviewed one by one, the housekeeper stood by the threshold of the room to exhort each maid to mind her tongue and answer the gentlemen’s questions with no silliness.

  “If you please, sir,” said the first maid, a pretty, young blonde, “Mrs. Forsythe asked me to give you these.” The girl handed over a wrinkled pile of clothes to Pevensey.

  “Not been through the lye yet?” said Pevensey with excitement.

  “No, sir, though I did put some lemon juice on the bloody patches.”

  Pevensey gave the girl a rewarding smile and walked over to a small table to spread out the clothes. “Mr. Cecil, if you would be so good as to conduct the interview while I examine these.”

  “Certainly,” said Cecil. Pevensey had been afraid that he would hem and haw over being thrust into the helm so soon, but the man was a quick study and confident in his own powers. “What is your name, miss?”

  “Constance,” replied the maid.

  Pevensey examined the dark spots on the clothing where the blood had seeped onto the shirt and the jacket. There were no powder burns on the jacket, indicating that the bullet had been fired from at least a few yards away. The majority of the blood was on the back of the clothing, but when Pevensey saw the front, he noted something curious.

  “Did you notice anything unusual on the morning of the duke’s dea—”

  “Cecil!” Pevensey interrupted. “Did you drag the body on the ground when you moved it to the carriage?”

  “No,” said Cecil, his black eyebrows lifting in surprise. “There were plenty of men there by that time. They lifted him onto his horse and we led it to the road.”

  “Hmm…very interesting,” said Pevensey. He pulled out his notebook and began a sketch. “Carry on, carry on,” he said to his assistant.

  “Of course,” said Cecil, recovering his aplomb. “And now, Constance, was there any unpleasantness between the duke and…well, and anyone?”

  The maid hesitated. “I don’t know as I could say, sir. But I’m sure if there was, it was entirely the duke’s fault.”

  Pevensey’s ears perked up as Cecil continued the questioning. “It seems that you did not care for your master, Constance. Any particular reason why?”

  There was a pause. “No, sir,” said the maid, her tone verging on sullenness.

  “Very well then,” said Cecil. “Anything else from you, Mr. Pevensey?”

&
nbsp; “No,” said Pevensey, “that will be all. Thank you, Constance.” He watched the maid bustle out of the room and drew a quick sketch of her profile. She was a pretty young woman—the kind that sometimes attracts too much attention from an employer. Pevensey drew a shadow lurking behind her.

  “Was there something important about the clothing?” asked Cecil, breaking in on Pevensey’s thoughts. He was fingering the jacket and had stuck his finger through the bullet hole in the back of it.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Pevensey, his eyes looking back over the dead man’s garments. While the back of the coat was covered with only a soft spray of dust, the front of the coat was caked with a thick layer of red dirt.

  * * *

  Dismissed from her mother’s room at last, Eliza returned to her own room. She sat down hard on the sofa and felt a book beneath her. From underneath her skirt, she pulled out Pamela and threw it against the wall. It fell open on the ground, its pages fluttering in the air like a wounded butterfly. Eliza turned her face away. She would not indulge in self-pity. She must control herself.

  From the door came a timid knock. “Eliza? Are you there?”

  Eliza choked back the tears that were starting to form and, instead of weeping, opened the door. Adele was standing in the hallway, her own face streaked with tears. “Oh, dear! Come in,” said Eliza, putting her arm around the girl. Apparently the shock of losing Rufus had not worn off yet.

  Eliza led Adele over to the sofa where they sat down together. “I am so sorry, Adele. It must be horrible to lose a brother….”

  “Oh, yes….” Adele sniffed back some of her tears. She looked away from Eliza.

  Eliza swallowed. Perhaps this intrusion was the grace she needed to distract her from her own misery. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Well, I don’t know…the thing is….”

  Eliza waited.

  “It’s just that Rufus dying is so horribly inconvenient!”

  Eliza blanched. “Inconvenient?”

  “Yes! I shall be in blacks for six months or more—no parties or balls once the season starts up. And if Stephen did propose, we should have to postpone the wedding till we were out of mourning. And even more horrible—perhaps I won’t be allowed to marry him now? Rufus never cared what I did, but Henry will be much stricter. I don’t think he approves of me and Stephen.”