“I see.” Thinking that the upper classes certainly had their intrigues, Yancey returned to the letter, reading a few lines silently. “Oh, look here. Now it’s all coming together. Apparently my Englishman—named John Bartholomew, it turns out—and Thomas Almont, the train robber, had actually met in the past in a saloon and became boon companions. And met up yet again several months ago at the, uh, house of ill repute where Clara works. You remember Clara? Yes, well, at any rate, evidently she told Mr. Pinkerton all this. So the two chums met up again there, had a conversation, and Thomas Almont happened to tell this Englishman about me. And that was when my Englishman realized he had another Sarah Calhoun in the same city. He had to wonder if he’d killed the correct one.”
She again looked up at Sam. “I’m sorry. That was crass. Are you all right?” Sam nodded, and she continued reading. “That’s when this man evidently began following me.” She sought Sam’s eyes. “Do you believe that? Some detective I am. I was being followed and didn’t know it.”
Sam smiled at her. “I think you’re the best detective who ever lived.”
Loving warmth suffused throughout Yancey. “You’re just saying that because you love me.”
“I do love you. But it remains true: you are the best detective who ever lived.”
Suddenly shy, she took up the report again and poked a finger at the next paragraph. “Oh, Sam, I was right. The Englishman I killed was the same one who bribed the doctors at the asylum. Mr. Pinkerton turned them over to the police and they confessed, even describing him and saying the man who’d paid them to turn Sarah out was English. Ha.”
Suddenly remembering the implications of all this to Sam, she looked up to see how he was faring. He’d crossed his arms and was frowning, giving the impression of listening and sorting facts. “I wonder that the doctors didn’t allow your John Bartholomew to simply slip inside the asylum to … do his dirty work. It would have been more easily covered up. I would certainly have never known anything but what they told me. Nor would the police.”
Yancey considered that a moment, trying to reason it out. Then she believed she had it. “That makes perfect sense, Sam—except for the fact that Sarah was not a run-of-the-mill patient. She was prominent, a duchess, and you had money. You could have made tremendous trouble for them. But this way, as Mr. Pinkerton says, they tried to convince him that she escaped and the rest was a tragedy. God’s will.”
Sam snorted. “Black-hearted bastards. The police and God can deal with them. But what about Roderick? Is there anything in there about him?”
Yancey sorted the pages of the letter. “Not so far. But there is another page here. Let me see if it sheds some light on that.” She read silently and then looked up at Sam. “Oh, Sam, yes. Mr. Pinkerton writes that Clara told the agents that Thomas Almont, who was her sweetheart, said his friend Mr. Bartholomew had bragged last autumn that he was pulling a double-cross on a duchess who’d secretly hired him to find her daughter-in-law. He says the woman’s nephew, a duke, paid him to send the woman a false report, which he did, including my address to throw her off. His own bit of genius, no doubt. And then he was paid to … kill the real duchess.”
Sam covered his face with his hands and breathed raggedly. Finally, he lowered them and exhaled. “Why in God’s name would he want Sarah dead? What threat was she to him?”
“I don’t know, Sam,” Yancey said quietly, although she had her suspicions on that score, as well. Jealousy. Ambition. Gambling debts. She thought about the baby Sarah had been carrying. A legitimate heir would be a threat to a man trying to eliminate all the heirs to a fortune that he saw as a quick fix to his problems, wouldn’t it? She wondered again if she should tell Sam about the baby. But decided that no, not today. Today was fraught with too much sorrow already. Later, perhaps another day, when he was stronger, she would tell him.
But then she decided that one quick question was needed. “Sam, tell me, how long before you left for England had you had Sarah committed?”
“About a year. Why? Is that important?”
She shrugged. “No. I’m just trying to leave no stone unturned.”
A year. Yancey could hardly believe that Sam would demand his conjugal rights of an insane woman. The child was not Sam’s. Not an heir to Somerset at all. There’d been no need to kill Sarah and thereby the baby. But the much sadder truth was that Sarah had been terribly misused by either another inmate or someone on the staff. What awful knowledge. Sick to her soul, Yancey fought to keep her emotions off her face.
She watched as Sam took the few steps over to his desk and, turning, leaned against it, crossing his legs at the ankles and bracing his hands to either side of him. He now faced Yancey. “It’s all so casually evil, Yancey. And, as you said, chance. Luck. Good intentions on my mother’s part. Hard to take in all at once. But that’s it, isn’t it—all our answers?”
She hated to remind him, but … “Except for who killed Roderick. And why.”
Sam exhaled sharply, looking away from her and shaking his head. “I’d already forgotten about Roderick. And after this letter, I can hardly say I care who did it. Bravo for them.”
“I know you don’t mean that. And you’d best care. The killer could still be in your home. And we don’t know what his … or her … motivation is. Or who might be next.”
Sam exploded. “Christ Almighty, Yancey. If it’s not you or my mother or Nana, then it has to be one of my staff. There’s no one else left. I give them everything, you know. Pay them more than the going rate. Give them more suits of clothes than is required. Feed them better. Furnish their rooms above standard. Give them liberal time off. And for what in return? Good service and loyalty. Is that so much to ask—that they don’t go around killing off my family?”
These questions didn’t require answers, so Yancey wisely said nothing.
Sam eyed her angrily, then exhaled gustily and seemed to settle down. “I’m sorry. Go on. What do we do now?”
“I begin my individual questioning of your staff. But Sam, I’m sorry that I’m the one who must expose all these awful plots and dark motivations to you.”
“I appreciate that, Yancey. I’d much rather you be the one telling me all this as opposed to being the one killed by all this plotting. The fact remains that Roderick was in your room for no good reason. And it’s my guess that the knife plunged into his back was originally meant for you.” Sam stopped talking. His breathing sounded labored. “My God, it all but stops my heart just to talk about such a possibility, Yancey.” He held a hand out to her. “Come here.”
She went willingly. Standing between Sam’s legs, she hugged him fiercely, lowering her head to rest it on his shoulder. She’d never felt so warmed and protected, so safe. God, how she loved him.
Sam kissed the top of her head and held her tightly. “When all of this is done, Yancey, what are you doing to do?”
She stilled. She knew what he meant, but she didn’t have an answer for him, not one he’d like or even one she liked. So she chose to act as if she’d misunderstood him. “Why, report back to Mr. Pinkerton. Thank him for dropping the review of my past cases. Thank him for his timely letter. And let him know what’s happened here.”
Pressed so close to Sam that she could feel his heart beat under her hand, Yancey waited for his response. He said nothing but kissed the top of her head again and held her tightly. She felt she could go on forever like this … holding Sam and knowing he loved her and that she loved him. Why couldn’t it be enough? And who was to say it wasn’t?
Yancey frowned, thinking about that and feeling she was moving closer to some truth she needed to realize … a glimmer … a tiny light in her heart getting brighter, telling her—
The door to the study suddenly opened. Gasping, Yancey broke away from Sam, reaching around him for her gun. Sam just as quickly grabbed his up. Along with him, and in one motion, she cocked hers and whipped around, aiming her gun, as Sam did his, at—
Mrs. Edgars. Gasping her shock, the woman pulled up
short, her dark little eyes rounded as she put a hand to her chest, over her heart. “Dear God, don’t shoot. I am so sorry. I only came to tell you that Her Grace, your mother, is in her rooms and asking for you, sir. She sent me to get you. Her carriage is being readied, as you know, and she says she wishes to discuss with you what she should tell her sister.”
Sam pulled his gun up, released the hammer, and held the Colt down at his side. Shaking his head, no doubt trying to recover from the fright they’d just had, he instructed, “Tell my mother I will attend her momentarily.”
Yancey had lowered her gun, too, but gave the woman no quarter. Mrs. Edgars seemed awfully calm and collected for someone with two guns trained on her. Her reaction was more that of someone who’d turned a corner and accidentally bumped into another person she hadn’t expected would be there. But at least this time, she hadn’t screamed and fainted.
Had Mrs. Edgars been listening outside the door? Yancey wondered. Had she been there this whole time? Obviously she’d shaken Scotty somehow. And could her intention now be to separate Sam from her with this story of his mother asking for him? If she were right, Yancey believed, then Sam would be in no danger because Mrs. Edgars, for whatever reason, wanted her, Yancey, alone. Yancey’s instincts said so. It was she Mrs. Edgars wanted. Not Sam.
Well, that was fine with her, Yancey thought, pronouncing herself ready. Right now, given that they’d started their day with a murder, she was also ready to suspect even the little dog, Mr. Marples, and his tormentors, the cats Mary, Alice, and Jane, of treachery.
Sam dismissed the woman and she left, closing the door behind her. He immediately turned to Yancey. “What do you think?”
She eyed the door and then looked up at Sam. “I think you should go see about your mother.”
“And what are you going to do, my beloved Pinkerton?” He pulled her to him for a deep, lingering kiss that raced Yancey’s blood through her veins and weakened her knees.
When he finally released her, she held on to his shirt and tried to regain her balance and her breathing. “Don’t do that, Sam, when I’m holding a gun. It’s liable to go off, darling.”
“It’s not the only thing,” he said archly, tucking his Colt into his waistband.
Frowning, Yancey teased, “Be careful placing that gun there, my love. Really.”
He winked at her. “I know what I’m doing.”
She curtsied. “I can vouch for that, Your Grace.”
Chuckling, he swaggered over to the closed door of the office. Though she thoroughly enjoyed his performance, Yancey eyed him soberly, worrying. But by the time he had his hand on the knob and turned to her, she had her teasing expression back in place. But it faded in light of the look Sam sent her. A wealth of emotions shone from his wonderful gray eyes. A world of love and gratitude and understanding … all sent her way from his heart. All she had to do was reach out and take it, it suggested.
Sam cleared his throat, ending the quiet moment of communion between them. “Thank you, Yancey, for everything you’ve done and for everything you’re going to do. This would be impossible without you.”
Warmed to her toes, and embarrassed, Yancey said, quietly, “You’re welcome.”
Sam nodded, still holding her gaze. “When all this is over, I’ll mourn, Yancey.”
He meant for Sarah. Yancey felt tears prick at her eyes. She couldn’t have loved him more than she did at this moment. “I know you will, Sam.” Then she thought of the baby. “So will I.”
Sam cleared his throat and became all business. “Now, where did you say you’d be?”
“I didn’t. But I need to question your staff. Someone may have seen or heard something. Whom should I question first?”
Sam nodded. “I have an answer for you. But first let me say that you are to take your gun, be very careful, and trust no one.”
What a darling man. “Do you realize, Sam, that you are beginning to sound like me?”
He ducked his chin in acknowledgment. “Your good influence, no doubt. Now, may I suggest you start with the kitchen staff? I’ll need Scotty for a bit, to help with Mother … and Roderick. But then I’ll tell Scotty to be at your disposal. He can fetch the staff to you. Why don’t you use the dining room? Hopefully, you can quickly eliminate the cooks—despite their ready access to sharp kitchen knives—so that we may have a meal sometime today.”
“How practical of you. Then the kitchen staff it is.” Perfect. Yancey had her own plans for what she intended to do, but she wasn’t telling him. “Now, I don’t expect to be interrupted by you, Sam, while I am talking to your staff behind closed doors. They won’t speak up in front of you, I daresay.” Before he could protest, she waved a dismissive hand at him. “See about your mother and, by all means, keep your nana at your side. Oh, one last thing? If I may avail myself of your writing materials? I need to make a log of answers.”
“Yancey.” His gray eyes caressed her face. “What’s mine is yours. You’ll find everything you need in my desk. Take whatever you desire.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He was such a kind, generous … and easily duped … man.
Chapter Twenty-two
Alone now, Yancey strode purposefully through Stonebridge manor. She regretted having to lie to Sam, but it couldn’t be helped. Hang the kitchen staff was her opinion. And the rest of the staff, too. Let them all stay where they are. Though confined to their rooms, they were also safe and, more importantly, not in her way. She hadn’t thought it a necessary step to begin with, sending them to their rooms … at least, not so far as isolating a suspect went.
After all, no one was guarding them upstairs in their rooms. So, if any of them were guilty, he or she could easily enough have slipped away. But not a one of them would feel the need … because not a one of them was guilty. Yancey thought she knew who was, though. And that was the one she sought. If this went well, then the master of Stonebridge and his staff would not miss their noonday meal. She hoped only that she would be among the living at that time and could join them at the table.
Yancey moved as silently as possible in and out of each room on the first floor. The conservatory. No. The front parlor. No. Looking, always looking. No need to check the study. She and Sam had just been in there, so her prey wouldn’t be. And she wasn’t in the dining room, either. Yancey stood there, thinking and staring at the ornate centerpiece in the middle of the impossibly long table. Where next?
The drawing room. She exited the dining room and went back down the hall toward what was, with the exception of Sam’s bedroom, perhaps her favorite room in the manor. As she walked, though alert for any sudden noise or movement, she smiled a diabolical smile. Wasn’t it interesting that she knew where every single person inside the manor house was … except one?
Sam, his nana, and her nurse, Mrs. Convers, were with the dowager duchess, as were the mourning woman’s army of personal maids. The dowager had vouched for each of them and had insisted that they remain with her. Yancey wanted no trouble from Sam’s indomitable and distraught mother and had quickly consented to that arrangement—as long as they stayed in her suite. But the remainder of the staff, including Robin now, was sequestered. And Scotty, soon freed by Sam, would lumber slowly up the interminable stairs, up to the highest reaches of the house, a sort of fourth floor under the manor’s eaves, to retrieve for Yancey some hapless soul for her ostensibly to question.
By her best estimate, she had about thirty minutes before Scotty got back with a servant in tow. He’d find the dining room empty and would—no doubt, still holding the arm of the poor wretch he’d brought with him, if she knew her man—go find Sam and alert him that she was missing. She didn’t want it to go that far, so she had to move quickly.
Mrs. Edgars couldn’t have disappeared into thin air. And although Yancey was exercising every precaution, she didn’t really believe the woman was actually hiding. What good would that do her? She couldn’t stay crouched behind a door or piece of furniture forever. Ridiculous no
tion. In truth, and well Yancey knew it, all the housekeeper had to do was go about her business and say nothing—and she would get away with murder. The biggest mistake most murderers made was they told someone and left themselves vulnerable. In her employment as a Pinkerton, Yancey had had to figure out whom the suspected robber or murderer might have told of their crime, then disguise herself and go question them.
Simple but effective. However, in this case that wasn’t possible. The murderess already knew Yancey was a Pinkerton. The murderess probably also figured that Yancey knew she’d killed Roderick. And the murderess also knew she had an eyewitness—Her Grace Nana. A very unstable situation, at best—one that caused Yancey great distress.
Still, because her search of the rooms was proving fruitless, Yancey supposed the woman could have guiltily slipped away, now that Scotty wasn’t dogging her every step. In fact, Yancey had given the housekeeper free run of the manor to see if she would leave. But she hadn’t. Not that she was innocent. It was more likely that the woman knew she might escape the house, but given that the manor sat up on a hill, she would have been visible from any window. But if she did escape everyone’s notice, she wouldn’t have got far on foot. She would need a horse or a carriage and team to make good her escape.
Yancey was willing to bet that the housekeeper didn’t have the authority to order one herself. And even if she did, the men were busy preparing the coach and carriages for the dowager and her entourage. Yancey found it hard to believe they would abandon those efforts to take orders from the housekeeper. At the very least, the stablemen would have questioned her or sent word to the manor for verification that her request was approved.
So, essentially, though the woman had freedom to move about the manor, the scene of the crime, she was also held prisoner here by her very secondary social status. She wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t. But she would make Yancey seek her out. So this was a game of cat and mouse. Right now, though, not knowing where the woman was, Yancey felt more like the mouse than the cat. Or the fox, she quickly reminded herself.
The Marriage Masquerade Page 33
