The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “Lord Hobbs will be here any moment,” Lord Beecham said quietly to Alexandra and Douglas. “He became a magistrate on Bow Street not long ago. He is a good man, intelligent enough to know when he doesn’t have the experience to deal well with something, and he doesn’t give up. Do you remember the theft of Lady Melton’s ruby necklace some six months ago? Lord Hobbs came himself, spoke with everyone present, then assigned one of his runners to ferret out the facts of the case.”

  “Were the rubies recovered?” Alexandra asked as she took another drink of very strong India tea. She was sitting in on a pale-green brocade sofa, her husband next to her. Lord Beecham was watching a tall, very thin man, dressed all in a soft pearl gray, being ushered into the drawing room by his acting butler, Claude, who was looking particularly tight about the mouth. “A murder,” Lord Beecham had heard him whisper to himself earlier. “What will become of all of us with the master involved in a murder?”

  Lord Beecham stepped forward as he said to Alexandra, “Oh, yes. The Bow Street Runners, for the most part, are canny and know all the villains and criminals who roam the London alleys. Lord Hobbs is one of the gentlemen who keeps them assigned to cases.”

  “Lord Hobbs.”

  There were pleasantries, always at least twoscore polite words before one eased into things, Lord Beecham thought, as he mouthed his own feelings about King George III going mad for the last time and his eldest son, yet another George who was a fat, very unpopular buffoon, being appointed Regent.

  There was no chance to continue on to Reverend Mathers’s murder, for there was Claude, clearing his throat at the drawing room door.

  “My lord.”

  “Yes, Claude?”

  “Goodness, Claude, just stand aside. This is very important. Move!”

  And there was Helen, dressed in a sky-blue pelisse, a matching bonnet atop her blond hair. She was flushed, impatient, waving her white hand at Spenser’s acting butler.

  He couldn’t believe it when she came dashing through the door, his beautiful big girl, his Valkyrie, his own angel who was surely an Amazon. She was actually here. He had not realized how very much he had missed her.

  He stood there and nearly bowed in on himself with bone-deep pleasure.

  Something had happened to bring her here, but he didn’t want her to spill it in front of Lord Hobbs.

  “Welcome, Miss Mayberry,” he said.

  18

  HELEN IMMEDIATELY SAW him, and no other, and went right to him, her hands outstretched. “Spenser, oh, dear, I had to come myself. Oh, you will not believe this, I—” She broke off at the sight of the tall, austere gentleman dressed all in gray. She looked him up and down, blinked, and said, “That is a charming affectation.”

  Lord Hobbs, known among the Bow Street Runners as a man with ice in his veins, froze, sputtered, then laughed. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Miss Mayberry,” Lord Beecham said easily, “I would like you to meet Lord Hobbs, a magistrate from Bow Street. He is here because something very bad has happened.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Mayberry,” Lord Hobbs said, and smiled at the incredible creature staring him right in the eye. He bowed, kissed her hand.

  Lord Hobbs was not the least bit on the short side, Lord Beecham thought, and wasn’t certain whether he should be worried or not.

  “Yes, my lord. Why are you here? You are a magistrate from Bow Street? What has happened to bring you here, of all places? Spenser, are you all right?”

  “Yes, Helen, I am fine.”

  “Yes, Miss Mayberry, I am indeed from Bow Street.”

  “Douglas? Alexandra? What are you doing here? What is happening?”

  Douglas rose, patted Helen’s arm even as Alexandra said from behind him, “We are all here to assist you, Helen. The four of us together can overcome anything. Stop fretting.”

  Douglas said in that low, soothing voice of his that always settled down the twins, “Helen, calm yourself.”

  “All right, I am now calm. Spit out everything.”

  Lord Beecham managed to sort everyone out, get them seated, and order tea from Claude, who was still standing stiff as a statue in the drawing room doorway, the way old Crit had taught him.

  “Now,” he said pleasantly, drawing everyone’s attention, “I will go through what happened. Sir, feel free to interrupt if you have questions. You as well, Miss Mayberry. Now the earl and countess and I were to meet Reverend Mathers at the British Museum. When we came into the room we saw him slumped over the worktable, a stiletto sticking out of his back, right between his shoulder blades. He was still warm, though that might not mean that he had just been murdered. It was very warm in the room and the door was closed, keeping all the heat within.”

  Helen sat in a pale-blue brocade chair, her hands folded in her lap, speechless. She was staring at him, at no one else in the room. Her face was flushed. A single long tress of blond hair had come loose from the pile of plaited braids on her head and was trailing down her back. She looked shocked, terribly shocked. Not frightened, just disbelieving. He knew exactly how she felt. He just shook his head at her.

  Lord Hobbs said, “I know you remained with the body until one of my runners arrived, Lord Beecham. Since you were the one working with Reverend Mathers, did you search to see if anything was missing? Something taken by the murderer?”

  “Yes,” Lord Beecham said, realizing there was no reason to withhold basic information from Lord Hobbs. “Reverend Mathers and I were working on the translation of a very old scroll that Miss Mayberry here had discovered close to her home in Essex. Reverend Mathers had made a copy so that he could work on it by himself. It was gone.”

  Helen turned paper-white. “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no.”

  “This copy of the scroll—did it contain information that was valuable?”

  “It is possible,” Lord Beecham said. “Its importance lay in its remarkable age. It is an immense archaeological find, sir, one of tremendous value for that reason alone.”

  “Perhaps,” Lord Hobbs said thoughtfully, unable to look away from Miss Helen Mayberry, “it was a colleague of Reverend Mathers who became jealous of this find? They perhaps argued and he stabbed him?”

  “If it were a colleague,” Helen said, sitting forward, “would he not want the original scroll and not a simple copy?”

  “Yes, you are right, of course,” said Lord Hobbs, and the look he fastened on her held far too much admiration for Lord Beecham’s taste. Lord Hobbs turned his formidable attention back to him again. Lord Beecham said, “What is most likely is that some people believe the scroll the key to finding a vast treasure. Is this true? None of us has any idea if it is or not.”

  Lord Hobbs studied his long fingers, the short, well-buffed nails, then he looked at Miss Mayberry. “Ma’am, where did you find this scroll?”

  “In a cave right on the beach.”

  “I see. You have no idea why it was there? No idea what the scroll might contain?”

  “None. It is written in an ancient language that I could not read.”

  “And that was why I was working with Reverend Mathers,” Lord Beecham said.

  “I see,” Lord Hobbs said again. “You will give me names of men who you believe wanted to know more about this scroll, Lord Beecham.”

  “I know of only two names, sir. Reverend Titus Older and Jason Fleming, Lord Crowley.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Lord Hobbs cursed very quietly under his breath. He saw Lord Beecham’s raised eyebrow and said, “Reverend Older is probably sunk in debt again. Curse the man, I will have to find out just how deep a hole he finds himself in this time. And Lord Crowley, not a good man, my lord. A very bad man, if one were to believe just some of the gossip about him.”

  “I would imagine,” Douglas said, “that at least eight out of ten of the stories told about him are the truth. Some three years ago, Lord Crowley tried to swindle a consortium put together to build a canal up near York.”

  “What happened,
my lord?”

  “When I discovered he was lurking in the shadows, I immediately investigated. I myself had some five thousand pounds invested. I did not want to lose it.”

  “You unmasked him?”

  Douglas nodded. “He managed to escape blame. Everyone knew what he had done, but the proof conveniently disappeared. One member of the consortium ended up dead, supposedly suicide, but we all doubted that it was. Again, there was no proof that Crowley was the murderer. You are right, Lord Hobbs, he is a very bad man. He also bears grudges.”

  “One is toward you?”

  “Oh, yes. Some four years ago, he wanted to marry my sister, but she, a very smart girl, simply told him that he was much too old for her, and that he gambled. She would never marry a man who gambled. He wasn’t happy with this outcome. I heard it said that Crowley decided that no female could speak her mind like that, and thus he believed that I had put the words in her mouth and, fortunately, blamed me and not Sinjun, my sister.”

  Lord Beecham said, “He is forever in need of money. He has buried two wives, both of whom brought him sizable dowries.”

  “Do you believe he killed his wives?” Lord Hobbs asked.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Douglas said. “His luck at cards is rotten, not at all a surprise, given that he has the gambling fever. He cannot make himself stop.”

  “Yes,” said Lord Beecham, “he is always convinced that his luck will change with the turn of the next card.”

  Lord Hobbs rose and began to pace the length of the lovely Aubusson carpet. “So it is possible that both of these gentlemen could believe that the scroll is the key to vast wealth?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “I hesitate to believe that Reverend Older could stab a man in the back. He is a man of God no matter his lapses.”

  Douglas said, “Man of God or not, I have put one of my footmen to follow Reverend Older. Lord Beecham has done so as well. We will also have Crowley followed.”

  Lord Hobbs nodded. “That is very wise. I will assign one of my canniest runners to this case. He can work with your men, direct them, if you will. Solving this case is vital. It doesn’t look good for a man of the church to be murdered in the British Museum. Mr. Ezra Cave will come to introduce himself to you so you will know who he is. I bid you good day.” He stopped to stand directly in front of Helen. “I hope to see you again, Miss Mayberry.” That cold, deep voice of his had miraculously turned as warm as a mild spring day, Lord Beecham thought—the poaching bastard. “Are you currently residing in London?”

  Helen, distracted, merely shook her head, saying, “No, I am just here to see Lord Beecham.”

  “I would like to hear more about your discovery of the scroll. May I call upon you?”

  That got Helen’s attention. “I don’t know where I will be, my lord.”

  “Helen, you will stay with us,” Alexandra said.

  “Then later, Miss Mayberry,” Lord Hobbs said, gave her a long look, and finally took himself off.

  “You will not see Lord Hobbs alone,” Lord Beecham said, frowning after the man who had ice in his veins, not passion. “For some reason he intends to try to attach you. I will not allow that.”

  “What do you mean ‘for some reason’? What am I, a troll?”

  “Trolls are really quite small. No, don’t turn your cannon on me. I meant nothing. It merely came out of my mouth that way. You won’t ever be alone with him. I insist upon that, Helen.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Spenser, who cares?” Helen jumped up and waved her fist in his face. “You are worried about Lord Hobbs when everything is falling apart around us?” She smote her forehead with her palm. “I can’t believe I let you distract me with all this troll business. Reverend Mathers is dead, all because of that wretched scroll I found. He’s dead! What are we going to do?”

  “You are hysterical, Helen,” Alexandra said in the voice of a Mother Superior. “Get a grip on yourself.”

  Helen blinked, drew a deep breath, and pulled back her shoulders. She removed her bonnet and worked the thick blond tress of hair back into its plait. “There,” she said. “I am all together again.”

  “Well done,” Lord Beecham said. “Tell us what has happened.”

  He watched her jump up and begin pacing the drawing room. Long strides, long, strong legs. He saw those legs of hers so clearly, felt them squeezing tightly against his flanks, that he nearly fell to the floor in a swoon.

  “Oh, goodness,” Helen shouted, “this is perfectly dreadful. A man murdered here in London, and no matter what you say, it is all my fault.”

  Alexandra shouted back at her, “Helen, you are slipping again. Get ahold of yourself. You did not stab Reverend Mathers. An evil person did. It is not your fault.”

  Lord Beecham, who had managed at the last moment not to swoon, walked to her and took her gloved hands into his. He looked into her eyes, as blue and rich as a summer sky. He felt her fear now, her anxiety, her disbelief. It was he who got hold of himself. This was serious business. He said, “It will be all right. Now, what happened at home?”

  “Someone tried to break into Shugborough Hall. The thief would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for Flock. He has taken to roaming around all through the night, to prove to Teeny that he is heartbroken so that she will pity him and perhaps overlook the name issue.”

  “Name issue?” Douglas said.

  “Teeny Flock.”

  “It sounds like a very small assembly of sheep,” Alexandra said.

  “Would you prefer Teeny Nettle?” Lord Beecham said.

  “A very small weed? No, both give one the shivers.”

  “Exactly,” Helen said. “In any case, Flock was roaming about the house, trying to deepen the shadows beneath his eyes, no doubt, when he saw this figure trying to break in through the drawing room windows. He raised the alarm. The man got away, but it was a close thing. He would have stolen the scroll if Flock had not been there.”

  Helen drew a very deep breath. “Our secret is out, Spenser.”

  “It could have been a common thief, after the silver,” Douglas said.

  “It is possible,” Helen said, “but I don’t think so. Common thieves wouldn’t come to Shugborough Hall. We have a reputation, you see.”

  “I can only imagine,” Lord Beecham said. “I am sorry for this, Helen. Still, Flock saved the day. I hope Teeny is better disposed toward him?”

  That made Helen grin. “She was mumbling beneath her breath about the utter embarrassment her future children would feel whenever they had to say their mother’s name.”

  Douglas said, “No one really knows all that much about anything at this point. But the lure of hidden wealth is enough for many men to break into a house and murder a man of the Church.”

  “And that means,” Alexandra said, “that someone discovered that Helen was involved and has moved very quickly.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” Douglas said. “I am going to have my brawniest footman, Kelly, begin immediately to follow Lord Crowley.”

  “I shall assign Crimshaw to Lord Crowley as well,” Lord Beecham said. “He was raised in the stews and is tougher than an old boot. This Bow Street Runner, Ezra Cave, we will tell him to hire two more men to follow Crowley.”

  “I will see to this right away,” Douglas said and gave his hand to his wife. “You, my sweet, will come with me. I have this feeling that Heatherington and Helen here have a number of things to speak about.”

  “Yes,” Alexandra said slowly, looking from one to the other, “I do believe you are correct.”

  “You will keep us informed,” Douglas said and took his countess out to their carriage.

  Lord Beecham turned to Helen, who was staring at him, her eyes so intense he wondered if she was seeing directly into his brain, “As for you, Miss Mayberry, I have just decided that you and I are going to return to Court Hammering. But first, we are going to visit Old Clothhead Mathers, Reverend Mathers’s brother.”

  Old Clothhe
ad was drunk when they arrived at Reverend Mathers’s small town house near Russell Square.

  “ ’Tis near to puking on my clean carpet ’e is,” said Mrs. Mappe, Reverend Mathers’s housekeeper whom Lord Beecham had met the week before. “Och, my poor master, all kilt by some evil bastid.”

  “You already know of this, Mrs. Mappe?” Lord Beecham asked.

  “Oh, aye, milord, I know. Jest look at ye!” she said, beaming at Helen. “Ain’t ye a purty big girl.”

  “Lord Hobbs came?”

  “Aye, strange feller that, all dressed in gray like a man what knows ’e’s got to dress special to ’ave folk pay attention to ’im.”

  After ten minutes of weaving in and out of Mrs. Mappe’s very fascinating but nearly unintelligible English, they were shown in to see Old Clothhead.

  “I killed my only brother,” wailed Old Clothhead, who was curled into the fetal position on Mrs. Mappe’s clean carpet. “I told anyone who paid for a mug of ale all about what he was doing. I killed my brother. He was always warning me about hell being at the end of my road. I have no chance at all now.”

  Lord Beecham came down to his knees beside Old Clothhead, a skinny little man who looked as if he hadn’t eaten a good meal in ten years. “Give me the names of the men you told, not just the common variety of alley criminal, but the important ones, the men with money.”

  He had to repeat the question three more times before Old Clothhead understood. “Reverend Older, not that he ever has a groat in his pocket. Titus filled my gullet with brandy, not ale, he was so thrilled about this scroll, though, perhaps his last groat. Then there was Lord Crowley and James Arlington and—”

  Old Clothhead didn’t vomit on Mrs. Mappe’s clean carpet, he just passed out in midsentence.

  Lord Beecham rose and looked down at the unconscious little man.

  “He’s pathetic,” Helen said, “and he is right. He is responsible for his brother’s death.” She drew back her foot to kick him in the ribs. Then she stopped and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, no, I am as guilty as he is. I found the damnable thing in the first place. Who are these people, Spenser?”