To Sophia he said as he began to pace before the fire, “I don’t mind telling you, Miss Hastings, that I believe there must be something in the water at Beauchamp House, for now it’s three of you involved in this sort of thing. I don’t hold with ladies getting mixed up in murder. It would be a sight better if the four of you would keep yourselves to yourselves and stay at home with your needlework.”
* * *
There was so much to object to in the statement, Sophia wasn’t even sure where to begin. She was saved from doing so by Ben, who’d come to stand beside her chair, his hand warm on her shoulder.
“Perhaps you should get to the questions about Framingham rather than giving commentary on the behavior of the Beauchamp House heiresses, Squire,” he said with a raised brow. “We all wish to see whoever killed the man caught and punished, do we not?”
Looking frustrated, but resigned, the magistrate gave a slight shrug, then turned to his secretary, who’d been silent throughout the proceedings so far. “Be sure to write all of this down. This is important business.”
Not waiting for a response, he turned back to Sophia. “I believe the vicar told me last night, Miss Hastings, that you were in the gallery for some time before you heard the shouts of Mr. Ryder from the storage room?”
Sophia gave him the details of her visit to the gallery—minus the kissing once Ben appeared on the scene—and concluded with finding Ryder standing over the body of Framingham. When she was finished, the magistrate looked, if anything, more grave.
“And you heard nothing before Ryder came upon you alone? No shouts, no crashing around?” Northman asked, his bushy brows lowered with intensity.
She’d gone over the scene again and again in her mind last night, but she could recall no unusual noises or sounds coming from any part of the gallery. “Nothing, Mr. Northman. And if Mr. Ryder had been stabbing Mr. Framingham before he accosted me, then wouldn’t he have been bloody?”
The magistrate looked taken aback that she’d mention something so graphic, but reluctantly nodded. “It’s unlikely that the person who killed Framingham could have done so and not become … messy in the process.”
“Do you remember if Ryder came through the front door as you did, Miss Hastings?” Ben asked, turning to look at her. “Is it possible he came from the direction of the storage room and the rear entrance of the gallery?”
Northman looked as if he would object to Ben usurping his duties as questioner, but seemed to think the question was a good one, because he indicated with a wave of his hand that she should answer.
“I can’t be sure,” Sophia answered truthfully. She’d spent at least an hour last night before finally falling asleep trying to remember the exact details leading up to the discovery of Framingham’s body. “I don’t recall hearing the front door, but I was also in a bit of a … a daze, I suppose you’d call it. I get that way sometimes when I’m engrossed in a painting. I’m still there, my physical presence is still there, but my mind is … elsewhere.”
Northman gave a grunt, as if this was the sort of nonsense he’d expect from a lady artist.
But Ben gave her shoulder a squeeze. “It’s that way with me and reading sometimes. My tutor used to say that he could have shot a pistol in the room and I’d not hear it.”
“So you can’t know for sure if Ryder was in the back, having words with Framingham before he came upon you, or if he breezed in from the street none the wiser?” Northman demanded. “I can’t say as I’m surprised, since it seems to me that the fellow is a bit slippery.”
Since Sophia’s opinion of the other artist was not much better, she didn’t argue. Though she did wonder if they should inform the magistrate about the forgeries. “Perhaps you know already since you’re in contact with the authorities, Squire—” she began, only to be interrupted by Ben.
“—but Ryder is a protégé of Mr. Peter Morgan and both men had dealings with Framingham in relation to the upcoming art exhibition in the village,” the vicar finished, his hand on her shoulder squeezing to indicate she should go along. “You should perhaps speak with Mr. Morgan.”
It was difficult not to gape at Ben as he spoke, but Sophia managed it.
Just.
Chapter 18
He wasn’t sure why, but some instinct warned Ben that telling Northman about the forgery scheme would be risky.
It wasn’t simply that they’d possibly discovered a connection between Sophia’s benefactor and the fake art—though that was something they’d not been able to examine closely enough yet. Nor was it the fact that they were investigating the forgery scheme under the nose of Northman himself.
But both of these together added up to a compelling reason, so far as he could determine, to keep the information regarding the forgeries to themselves for the time being. He’d once heard his brother’s friend the Earl of Mainwaring say that a good investigator had to trust his instincts. Well, if that was the case, then this was Ben trusting his.
Added to that was the fact that he’d paid a call on Morgan that morning to offer the man a strong, albeit somewhat restrained, warning against further intimidation where Mrs. Debenham was concerned. At first the man had attempted to excuse his behavior.
“You’re a man of the world, vicar,” Morgan had said with a joviality that made Ben wish fervently he didn’t have a duty to eschew physical violence. “Mrs. Debenham is a sweet little thing. You can hardly blame me for being taken with her.”
“As a matter of fact, Morgan,” he’d said through clenched teeth, “I can blame you. Especially when in the face of the lady’s refusal you threatened to ruin her reputation.”
If he expected Morgan to respond with anger, he was soon disabused of the notion. “Of course I didn’t threaten her. Is that what she said?”
Ben could hardly call the man a liar to his face without there being consequences. And as much as he’d like to put a bullet in him, vicars weren’t precisely encouraged to go about dueling. No matter how justified the cause might be. Instead, he said calmly, “She did indeed say that. And I am inclined to believe her. Though, if you deny it, I have no choice but to accept that.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed at that, but he didn’t say anything in response.
“Of course,” Ben continued, “if it were true, then I might be inclined to have a word with my father about the matter. He has a great deal of influence in the government, you understand. And if he were to take an interest in a local political race, like the one here, for example, well, his word in the right ear could make or break a candidacy.”
At that the industrialist scowled, and he muttered an imprecation.
“I see I’ve made myself clear,” Ben said with a tilt of his head. “I look forward to hearing from Mrs. Debenham that you’ve sent her a letter of apology. As well as a donation to the local widows and orphans fund in the name of her late husband.”
“Now see here, vicar,” Morgan spat out. “You can’t make me…”
“Do you really wish to face the ire of the Duke of Pemberton, Mr. Morgan?” Ben asked blandly. “I can assure you, my father is many things, but a friend of those who intimidate helpless women, he is not.”
The other man’s lips tightened, and his eyes blazed with temper.
“Fine,” he said tightly. “Now, if you’ve no more to say, I have work to do.”
It had been a satisfying meeting for Ben, but here and now with Sophia and Northman, he was all too aware of the magistrate’s friendship with the industrialist. Perhaps Northman had no idea that his friend was a boor and a bully.
But Ben thought that was unlikely. Men like Morgan were the sort who assumed everyone else thought the same way they did.
Aloud, he repeated his assertion that the magistrate should speak with Morgan.
“I know he’s a friend of yours, Squire,” he said, aware of Sophia’s curiosity as if it were a palpable thing. “Morgan may be able to give you more information about both Ryder and Framingham. Perhaps the murder has someth
ing to do with the upcoming art exhibition.”
He realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. And to his frustration, the opening he’d given Northman didn’t pass the man unnoticed.
“I believe you are expected to have some paintings in this exhibition, Miss Hastings,” the magistrate said, turning his gimlet eye on Sophia.
“Yes,” she agreed, remaining poised. But then, he knew she always was when speaking about her art. Sophia was nothing if not knowledgeable about her craft. “I have a few paintings that I plan to show.”
“And you had a disagreement with Morgan over the suitability of these paintings, did you not?”
Northman was remarkably well informed about the inner workings of the local art world, Ben thought. But he supposed it was possible that Morgan had confided in him.
“We’ve never spoken about the matter,” Sophia corrected him. “Mr. Morgan has not seen fit to discuss it directly with me. But more to the point, though I am aware of Mr. Morgan’s objections, I have heard nothing about Mr. Framingham agreeing with him. Nor have I spoken with the poor man, if it comes to that. So, I’m not sure what my work has to do with what happened yesterday.”
“Morgan tells me that he spoke with you, as well, about the matter, Lord Benedick,” said Northman. “Is it possible you went to speak with Framingham since he was on the committee organizing the exhibition? To persuade him that Morgan was wrong about your lady friend’s paintings?”
“Miss Hastings is a friend, Northman,” Ben said tightly. “And I will thank you to be respectful to her. As to whether I spoke with Framingham about the exhibition, I did not. Nor, I believe, did Miss Hastings. As she has already told you.”
He’d had just about enough of the man’s questions and insinuations. And if he and Sophia were to find any answers regarding the murder or the forgeries, they needed the magistrate to leave.
“If you have no more questions,” he said, drawing upon every ounce of hauteur growing up the son of a duke had instilled in him, “I believe Miss Hastings needs to rest now. She is, as you can see, injured, and the events of yesterday were quite distressing for her.”
Northman’s eyes narrowed for the fraction of a second as if he were trying to see past Ben’s outward manner and into his mind. But it was clearly not possible, so he relaxed a little and nodded. “I may need to come back and speak to you again, Miss Hastings.”
With an indication to his secretary that they’d finished their business, the magistrate and his minion left the room, closing the door behind them.
When enough time had passed for them to be out of earshot, Sophia turned to Ben with an irritated look. “Why did you stop me from telling him about the forgery? He might be able to help us!”
“And he might just as easily have told us to mind our own business and leave it all to the authorities,” he returned, aware even as they spoke about such a serious topic that they were currently alone in the room. Try as he might, it was damned hard to control his baser instincts when he was in her company. Not particularly impressive for a man of the cloth, he knew, but he was, after all, just a man. He might have chosen the church, but that didn’t mean he’d lost all feeling below the waist. Certainly not in Sophia’s company.
Her huff of frustration brought him back to the matter at hand.
“He could have told us that, yes, but you were asked to look into the matter by the Earl of Mainwaring,” she argued. “Does that not make you a colleague of sorts to the magistrate?”
Ben rubbed his neck. “It’s not that simple. Mainwaring asked me to look into the matter. It’s not as if I’ve been authorized by the Home Office, or anything like that.”
“Well,” she said tartly, “if he didn’t wish you to investigate the matter properly then he shouldn’t have asked in the first place. Though it’s entirely possible Framingham was killed for some reason having nothing to do with the forgeries, I cannot help but think otherwise. So, the scheme Mainwaring asked you to look into has become vastly more complicated.”
“Of course it has,” he answered with a shrug. He prowled across the room to lean his shoulder against the marble mantelpiece. “But that doesn’t mean we cannot still unravel it.”
“I admire your optimism,” she said with a wry look. “So, what do you propose we do next?”
He thought for a moment before he wandered back over to the chair across from hers and lowered his tall frame into it. “I think we need to look at what we know so far.”
“All right,” she agreed. “First, thanks to your friend Mainwaring, we know that someone has been selling forged paintings through the village of Little Seaford, to the newly rich, to furnish their homes.”
“We also know that Peter Morgan,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair, “who has lived in the area for about the same timespan as the paintings have been appearing on the market, has many friends among those who might wish to purchase such paintings.”
“And at the cliffs, we heard two men, one of whom might have been Morgan,” Sophia said, ticking off a third finger, “arranging to get rid of the artist who has been supplying the forgeries.”
“An artist we believe to be Ryder.”
He watched as Sophia leaned her chin on her hand. “If Ryder is indeed the artist,” she began, “then why is it that Framingham is dead?”
“You mean why Framingham and not Ryder?” he asked, curious.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her ankle as if it was in pain.
“Here,” Ben said gruffly, took her foot gently in his hands, removed her slipper and rested her heel on his thigh. “You should stay off the foot altogether today.”
“Not you, too,” she said with a scowl. “Acquit me of knowing how to take care of myself, please.”
“Of course I know that,” he said with a frown. “But you try a bit too hard to be the strongest person in the room. Compared to the other ladies in this house, you might seem like the soft one, but I suspect that’s just your beauty giving a false impression, Wallflower. You’re beautiful, it’s true, but stubborn. And you can flirt and chat and make small talk, but that doesn’t mean you’re weak or fragile.”
She was quiet for a second, arrested by his words. “You purport to know a great deal about me, my lord.”
“I make it my business to know … people.” He’d almost slipped and said you, which would not have been appropriate yet. There was still much they needed to resolve before he could think about speaking to her as frankly as he wished to. But soon.
Sophia’s gaze rested on him for a moment. As if she were trying to figure him out. Then, as if realizing it was an impossible task, she shook her head a little.
“I believe we were discussing why it is odd that Framingham would turn up dead instead of Ryder,” she said, bringing them back to the topic at hand. “Could it be that Framingham was one of the men we overheard?”
That was a possibility. “And Morgan—or whoever it was that we overheard, double crossed him?”
It was entirely possible that there had been a falling out amongst the conspirators.
“Perhaps Framingham no longer wished to sell the forged paintings?” Sophia suggested. “Or wanted a larger cut of the profits?”
Either option was possible. It was also possible that they were overlooking a more straightforward option.“What if Ryder found out that Morgan and Framingham were plotting to get rid of him?”
Sophia’s eyes grew wide. “But I thought we’d decided he couldn’t have been the killer because his clothes were free of blood?”
“There’s nothing to say he didn’t hire someone else to kill the fellow, then went to the gallery to check his handiwork,” Ben said with a shrug. “And spent a bit of time threatening you to give himself an out.”
His jaw clenched at the memory of Ryder standing over her yesterday. It wouldn’t disappoint him in the least if they discovered the other man was a murderer and saw him hang for it. He knew the Gospel said to turn the other cheek, but when it came t
o Sophia he found himself feeling decidedly Old Testament.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t spend too much time on the why,” Sophia said after a bit of thought. “We can’t know the why until we know the who. That will tell us the why.”
It was a good point, he had to admit. “Very well. We suspect both Ryder and Morgan. And there are likely others we don’t know about.”
“There are also the paintings Celeste collected,” Sophia reminded him. “I didn’t have time to search more thoroughly for any notes or explanations she might have left about them, but knowing how she documented things for Ivy and Daphne, I cannot imagine she left that cache of paintings for me without some kind of clue as to why they were there.”
“Then it would seem we have a task before us, Wallflower,” he said. And without waiting for her consent, he lifted her into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked. “I’m perfectly able to walk, Ben. Put me down.”
“You are injured and if you won’t be so sensible as to stay off your ankle, then I will have to ensure you do so myself.” He began walking toward the door of the drawing room.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her arms clasped tightly around his neck.
“To your studio,” he said as he kicked the door shut behind them. “To search for Celeste’s letter to you.”
* * *
They had reached the second floor landing when Daphne came striding down the hallway toward them.
Sophia felt her cheeks heat as she prepared for the duchess—an unconventional one, but a duchess nonetheless—to comment on the scene of Ben with Sophia in his arms. But to her surprise, when Daphne stopped in her tracks at the sight of them, she laughed.
“Well, isn’t this a bit of a scandal,” she said with a shake of her head. “Sophia, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“We are going to search for a letter from Lady Celeste in my studio,” Sophia said with as much dignity as she could muster in her present position. “You are welcome to join us. And Ivy and Gemma as well.”
Wallflower Most Wanted Page 17
