Giles’s head shot up. “What sort of conclusions?”
“There were lavender petals from her bath in her stomach and her lungs. The young apprentice said that she must have slipped down beneath the surface once she died, thus taking in some of the bathwater.”
Pinter cast David a veiled glance. “But recent experiments into drowning have proved that water will not enter a person’s stomach or lungs without being swallowed or sucked in by a living person. The coroner suspects she was drowned, and then her wrists were cut to make it look like a suicide.”
The deliberateness of such a thing made David’s throat close up. “Good God,” he said hoarsely.
Opening his little book again, Pinter said casually, “According to the inquest, you stated you had gone for a walk that night. Is that correct, my lord?”
Jumping to his feet, Giles stared the man down. “I do hope you’re not implying that my brother murdered his wife,” Giles growled. “He’s a respected member of the community and a peer of the realm. So if you think he’d be fool enough—”
“Sit down, Giles,” David said. “The man is only doing his duty.” He met Pinter’s gaze squarely. “I was here until shortly before ten o’clock.” He’d been waiting for Sarah to return from a ball so he could confront her about rumors that she was still playing faro, even though he’d forbidden it. “Then yes, I went for a walk. I didn’t return until midnight. Ask my servants, and you’ll learn that I often go for walks late at night. It clears my head.”
Pinter scribbled some notes. “Did anyone see you while you were out?”
He hesitated only a moment before saying, “No.” Mr. Keel, the night clerk at Baines’s office, had seen him, because that’s where David had gone—to give the man a letter for Charlotte. But revealing that little piece of information would open his entire life before them, not to mention dragging Charlotte into this affair.
That was intolerable. If it proved necessary to reveal his whereabouts that night, he would do so, but he wasn’t going to mention it until he had no other choice. Charlotte must be kept out of this.
“When I returned home,” David went on, “I learned that my wife had also returned. So I summoned the housekeeper to let me into my wife’s locked room. Since we found my wife together at midnight, I hardly see how I can be regarded a suspect.”
“There was an adjoining door that led to your bedchamber as well, was there not?”
“Yes, and it was locked from the inside, too.”
“But surely you have that key.”
David clenched his fists under the table. “She requested the only key from me some years ago, and I gave it to her.” The day she’d banished him from her bed. “Why do you think I had to fetch the housekeeper to open the other door?”
With a frown, the man wrote something else in his little book. “What prompted you to go into her room when it was locked?”
“There was a matter I wished to discuss with her, and she hadn’t been home earlier. When I knocked, she didn’t answer.”
“What exactly was that matter?”
Giles shot to his feet again. “This conversation is over, Mr. Pinter. Until you have something more substantial than supposition and conflicting coroners’ accounts, I suggest you leave my grieving brother alone.”
“I don’t mind answering his questions,” David said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Pinter tucked his notebook into his pocket. “I’ve learned all I wish to know for now, anyway.” He reached for the letters to put them back in his satchel.
“Wait!” David said. “Let me look at them again.”
He’d seen the suicide note only once, on the night of Sarah’s death. By the time he’d read it, he’d been half out of his mind from seeing her lying in the bloody water. He certainly hadn’t paid attention to the niceties of her signature.
But he paid attention now, gazing hard at the first one, comparing it to the other. And he could see why questions had arisen. The r’s were slightly different, and the loops of the k’s markedly so.
“She had to have been in an anxious state when she wrote this,” he said, shoving the note away. “That might account for any anomalies.”
“We’ve considered that.” Pinter slid the two documents into his satchel. “But according to our source, your wife made plans with a friend for the next day. That doesn’t sound like a person on the verge of committing suicide.”
“And her friend confirms your source’s claim?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that it was possible. Though the thought of Sarah’s being murdered in cold blood sent a chill through David’s bones, it also relieved a measure of the guilt that had weighed heavily on him for months. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t driven her to the act.
But he’d also not been here to protect her from it. So either way he was guilty. And who in God’s name would have been up in Sarah’s room while she was wearing only her robe and preparing for a bath? It made no sense.
Mr. Pinter headed for the door, then paused and faced them again. “I did have one other question, sir. Why did you tell your friends that she killed herself over gambling debts when the note mentions no such thing?”
When Giles shot the man a shocked glance, David winced. He’d kept that from everyone, even his brother. “Given the choice between telling your friends that your wife’s weakness for gaming led to her death or that she was simply unhappy in a marriage to you, which one would you choose?”
Pinter’s gaze softened the merest fraction. “I see your point.”
“If I had forged the note, don’t you think I’d have chosen words that painted myself in a more favorable light?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you considered that and are merely more clever than most.”
David fixed the Bow Street runner with a dark glance. “You’re entitled to your opinion, sir. But I hope that when you make a decision regarding this matter, it’s the evidence and not opinion that sways you.”
“I assure you, sir. I don’t form an opinion until I have evidence to support it.” He bowed deeply. “I will take my leave of you now. But it would be most appreciated if you remain in town until this matter is settled.”
David gritted his teeth. “Is that a request or a command?”
“A suggestion, if you will.” Pinter nodded to Giles. “Good day, gentlemen.”
As he marched out the door, satchel in hand, David could only stare after him. Good day? It wasn’t going to be a good day in the least.
Worse, David began to fear it would never be a good day again. All his sins were rising up to haunt him. And there didn’t seem to be a damned thing he could do about it.
That afternoon Charlotte sat in her office, rereading Cousin Michael’s letter:
Dear Mrs. Harris,
Your offer to buy the property on which the school sits was fortuitous. As it happens, my finances have been strained of late, so I have decided to look for a buyer for the property. Much as I wish I could afford to sell the place to you, I cannot. The land is quite valuable, and the amount you suggested is not even half of what it is worth. Since I will require a large influx of money quite soon, I will have to pursue other buyers.
I can allow you to stay on at a reduced rent for three months more—as long as you continue to hold to our conditions, of course. That should give you plenty of time to find property elsewhere to rent. But at the end of three months, I shall have to sell. I suggest you begin hunting for a better location for the school.
Your cousin,
Michael
She stared at the letter, feeling a hollow sinking in her stomach. It was so cold, so aloof. Not like her Cousin Michael at all.
Why was he doing this to her? Was it the gossip? Had he lost faith in her ability to run the school? She had not believed matters between them to be this bad. He sounded like the usual landlord.
It was enough to make her consid
er breaking their agreement and sending Terence hunting for his real identity. Except that then she would have to deal with an increase in rent while also looking for a new place for the school. That would not do.
At least she had Sarah’s legacy. And there were more properties on David’s list to look at, though the prospect of spending the next few weeks traipsing about the country with him was rather daunting. It would be very hard to think rationally about his offer of marriage when every time she saw him, she wanted to throw herself upon him like some passion-starved wanton.
Closing her eyes, she rubbed her aching temples. How in heaven’s name was she to extricate herself from this mess?
“Mrs. Harris,” came a voice from the door, “there’s a Bow Street runner here to see you.”
She glanced over to find her butler standing there. Oh no, what now? Didn’t she have enough to worry her these days? “What does he want?”
“He won’t say. But he seems determined not to leave until you speak with him.”
“All right,” she said wearily. “Send him up.”
Moments later, when the butler announced the man as Mr. Pinter, she rose to meet the attractive young fellow who entered her office.
“I am Mrs. Harris,” she told him, “the owner of this school. How may I help you?”
The gentleman cast her an assessing glance as he waited for her to take her seat again before he took the one in front of her desk. “I’ve come on behalf of the Great Marlborough Street Magistrate’s Office to ask you some questions concerning the late Lady Kirkwood.”
That put her instantly on her guard. “What sort of questions?”
“I understand that Lady Kirkwood was once a student at your school.”
“She was.”
“Would you say that Lady Kirkwood had a melancholy disposition?”
“Melancholy? Sarah?” An incredulous laugh escaped her lips, but Mr. Pinter’s disapproving look sobered her. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but she was more vain than melancholy. Why? Is this about her death?”
“Do you know how her ladyship died?”
His nonanswers began to alarm her. “She committed suicide.”
“Yes, but do you know how?”
That threw her into confusion. What in heaven’s name was going on? “No. The papers only said that she had taken her own life.”
Flipping out a notebook, Mr. Pinter jotted something in it with a pencil. “So you were not told anything by the family. Or by his lordship.”
The mention of David put her further on her guard. “See here, I am not going to answer one more question until you answer mine. Why are you asking about Sarah six months after her death?”
Mr. Pinter’s lips thinned into a line. “We are investigating Lady Kirkwood’s murder,” he said baldly.
“Murder! So it was not suicide?”
“She was found in her robe in the bath with her wrists cut. At the time, suicide seemed the obvious choice, since a note was found as well. But recent events have led us to believe that the note was forged, probably by her killer.”
She sat back in her chair, feeling suddenly weak in the knees. A killer? They actually suspected someone of having murdered Sarah? How could that be? “Does his lordship know of your suspicions?”
“We informed him this morning, yes.”
“The poor man,” she said, careful to show only a fraction of the sympathy she felt for David. “How he must be suffering.”
“I doubt he’s suffering much,” Mr. Pinter said coldly. “It was my understanding that his marriage wasn’t a happy one.”
Her gaze shot to the Bow Street runner. He was scrutinizing her most carefully, and the truth suddenly dawned on her. The authorities thought that David had killed Sarah!
How could they even think such a thing? It was ludicrous. “I cannot speak to whether his marriage was happy or not,” she said hoarsely, choosing her words with care. “But as a widow, I assure you that no matter the situation, he suffered over her death. She was his wife, after all. And he is a man of good character.”
“So I am told,” the gentleman said.
Yet clearly he was skeptical. Righteous indignation swelled within her. “If you are harboring some suspicion that his lordship might have done this, you are vastly mistaken. He has too much honor and pride to stoop so low. And surely you do not have any evidence to suggest that he—”
“I understand that his lordship has been spending a great deal of time in your company of late.”
The swift change of subject, combined with Mr. Pinter’s sharp scrutiny, sent alarm bells clanging in her head. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?” Mr. Pinter prodded.
His questions frightened her. Surely he did not think that she and David…that together they might have conspired…“It depends on how you define ‘great deal of time.’ He has paid me a couple of visits, yes.”
“And you attended a dinner at his house three nights ago. Even though he is still in mourning.”
“Now look here,” she said, bristling at his insinuation, “I was only there to visit with another former pupil of mine, who happens to be married to his lordship’s cousin. Not that it is any of your concern.”
“I see.” He scribbled something in his notebook. “And his lordship never said anything to you about the state of his marriage. Or explained how his wife died.”
She stiffened. “Why should he? His lordship and I have a professional relationship. He does not tell me such things.”
“Professional relationship?” For the first time since his arrival, Mr. Pinter’s carefully emotionless face registered surprise. “What sort of ‘professional relationship’?”
Oh, dear. Perhaps she should not have mentioned that. But honestly, would it not be better that the police know of the legacy than that they assume something scandalous was going on between her and David?
“Lady Kirkwood left a great deal of money to the school. And his lordship was appointed to oversee how it is spent.”
That seemed to flummox the Bow Street runner. “I don’t understand.”
“Her will bequeathed thirty thousand pounds to my school for the construction of a new building to be named after her.”
“That’s impossible,” Mr. Pinter said, his gray eyes deepening to slate. “Her ladyship didn’t have a will.”
Chapter Nineteen
For six months David had fought to shove the night of his wife’s death out of his mind. So it was wrenching to force himself to relive every moment, hoping for a clue to what had really happened. While Giles headed off to Lincoln’s Inn to see if he could learn anything about the investigation from his many sources, David replayed the sequence of events, dredging up every visitor to the town house that day. But none of it unlocked the mystery.
Then he turned to remembering how she had been the day of her death. Her final words to him were emblazoned on his mind, since he’d examined those ruthlessly in the weeks after her death, trying to make sense of why she might have killed herself. None of their terse, angry conversations about her gambling had told him a thing. They still didn’t.
Not even a search of her room revealed anything more than what he already knew—Sarah had been fond of cards, clothes, and gems, in that order. If she’d had a secret life beyond spending money, he didn’t uncover it.
Meanwhile, another message came from Baines. This time, he sent the messenger back with a note that said, “Thank you for inquiring, sir, but I am afraid I cannot indulge your request for a meeting at this time.”
David had already noticed the two Bow Street runners lounging outside his house—one in the mews and one in front. Clearly he was being watched, so Baines could wait.
Still, by the time Giles entered the town house, David was fit to be tied.
He pounced on Giles and dragged him into the nearby library. “Did you learn anything?” he prodded as he shut the door. “Like who their mysterious ‘source’ might be?”
“It has to be
Richard,” Giles said as he headed for the brandy decanter. “He’s making trouble because you won’t give him any money. He roused their suspicions, hoping they’d start going over your life with a fine-tooth comb. He’s just doing it to strike back at you.”
David grimaced. “So you didn’t learn anything.”
After pouring himself a generous amount of the amber liquid, Giles dropped into a chair and stared morosely into his glass. “No.”
If it was just someone making trouble for him, it could be Pritchard as easily as Richard. That ass might think it a good way to repay David for not keeping better control over Charlotte. Except that Pritchard wouldn’t have any knowledge of Sarah’s handwriting.
He supposed that the source could be that bastard moneylender Timms, who would know Sarah’s handwriting and had ample reason to cause him trouble. But why would the authorities have let him see the suicide note?
Yes, Richard seemed the most likely cause. He of all people would have noticed any difference in handwriting, and his anger at David might have prompted him to go to the authorities and ask to see the suicide note.
Unless the troublemaker had just shot in the dark, trying to stir up suspicion. The authorities might then have looked at the note and uncovered a murder they hadn’t bargained for.
A chill passed through him. “Beyond the suicide note and the questionable coroners’ reports,” David asked, “do they have anything to confirm that it’s murder?”
“It doesn’t appear so. But both of those are damning if we can’t shake the various experts’ testimony. Especially since you have no alibi and possess ample motive.”
“What motive?” David snapped. “I already had control over her money—why should I risk it to kill her?”
“Because she was gambling it away faster than you could invest it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I wouldn’t kill my wife over gambling debts. The very idea is absurd.”
The School for Heiresses: 'Wed Him Before You Bed Him Page 21
