by C. J. Archer
"Poker," Willie said. "Five stud."
Lady Rycroft pulled a face. "What about a more refined game, like whist or loo?"
"I prefer poker," Hope piped up. "It appears to be a game of chance."
"On the contrary," Lord Coyle said. "It's a game of judgment, of your own hand and that of your opponent. Being able to read your fellow player is an advantage."
Willie nodded along as she dealt. "Being a good liar helps."
"You cheat?" Lady Rycroft cried.
"Lie," Aunt Letitia cut in. "Not cheating. Beatrice, come away and let's leave the young—" She glanced at Lord Coyle. "Leave them alone."
Coyle's chuckle shook the fatty folds of his neck. Hope turned away from him, but I saw the hint of disgust on her face.
Charity sidled over as we inspected our cards. "Move aside, Sis," she said, wedging herself between Hope and Willie. "Go on, shift your chair towards Lord Coyle." She crowded against Hope, forcing her to lean away or be smothered. "Don't peek, my lord. You can't see what she has until you've laid out your money."
"We're not playing for money," Lord Coyle said without looking up from his cards. "As well you know. Kindly step away. I don't think your sister wants you looking over her shoulder."
Charity smiled down at Hope. "Isn't he the dashing gentleman, coming to your rescue?"
"Charity," her mother snapped. "Come and sit with me."
Lord Coyle glanced at Hope at the same moment she looked at him. She gave him a small smile. "I believe you're starting, Miss Glass," he said.
"Thank you," Hope said, discarding two of her original hand. "Two cards, please."
Matt and Lord Rycroft entered, their faces flushed, their mouths set. Matt came to stand by my chair and rested a hand on my shoulder. His thumb skimmed the bare skin above the back of my bodice.
Lord Rycroft stood by the fireplace and focused his attention on the floor. The only activity in the room was the game. Willie won most hands, but since we played for nothing, it was impossible to tell who came second. I saw a side to Lord Coyle I'd never seen before. He was gracious in defeat and charming, particularly toward Hope. His gaze never once dropped below her chin, even though her bodice was cut a little too low, and he engaged her in conversation as we played. She responded in kind, smiling at the appropriate moments and giving her opinion when he asked for it, which he did often.
It almost looked as though she enjoyed his company and he hers. If I hadn't heard her speak with disgust about him earlier, I wouldn't have believed it. Either she was very good at playing the part required of her, or she had changed her mind already. I suspected the former. She was one of the most devious people I'd ever met, capable of lying quite convincingly.
At a faint sound coming from the depths of the house, Charity suddenly straightened. She'd been leaning against the doorframe for some time, yawning frequently. Now she was alert, her attention focused outside the drawing room.
"Excuse me while I get some fresh air," she said as she pushed off from the doorframe.
Like a hawk swooping on its prey, Lady Rycroft dashed across the room and grabbed her daughter's arm. "There is a window over there where you can get all the fresh air you need."
Charity tried to wrench free, but Lady Rycroft didn't let go and Charity gave up with a humph. She settled for staring daggers at her mother instead.
Lord Coyle used his walking stick to push up from the chair. "I must go. It's been a thoroughly pleasant evening. Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Glass."
He kissed my hand then took Hope's. He lingered a little longer than he had over mine, but not for an inappropriate amount of time.
Matt tugged the bell pull by the fireplace to summon Bristow before giving Lord Coyle a curt nod. Coyle nodded back, and that was the end of their exchange. Instead of moving off, he caught sight of the clock on the mantel. He removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket, checked the time and adjusted it before returning it to his pocket.
"It was a little slow," was all he said.
Lord and Lady Rycroft and their daughters left too, thankfully. Once they were out of sight, it felt like a weight lifted from my shoulders. I hadn't realized how anxious the evening had made me until then.
"I think it went very well," Aunt Letitia said. "You were an excellent hostess, India. No one would have known you were new to the role."
"They did know," Willie told her. "Her past ain't a secret to any of them."
Aunt Letitia rose. "I'm going to bed. Tomorrow we'll discuss how next to proceed, India."
"Proceed?" I echoed.
"In the matter of Coyle and Hope."
"I will not be involved any further. I've done my duty and that is where I bow out. If you wish to see them thrown together again, then you and Lady Rycroft must orchestrate it without me."
"I'll help," Willie piped up. "Them two belong together."
"Those two," Aunt Letitia corrected her. "Those two belong together." She walked out, parting Cyclops and Duke who'd been about to enter.
"Dinner went well then?" Duke asked.
"Seems so," Willie said, beckoning them to the card table. "I reckon he's half in love with her already."
"I'm not so sure," I said. "Not on her part."
"She looked amenable," Matt said.
"It was all for show. She told us in no uncertain terms when you were in the smoking room. He's fat and ugly, according to her."
"And she's ugly on the inside," Willie said as she shuffled the cards. "So they're a good match."
Duke chuckled and took a seat at the card table. "You playing, Cyclops?"
Cyclops sat too. "Did he look at Charity, or just Hope?"
"He showed no interest in Charity," I said. "Nor she in him."
"Pity."
Matt clapped Cyclops's shoulder and eyed me over his head. I nodded and together we said our goodnights and left.
"Is everything all right?" I asked as he helped me undress. Polly Picket was assisting his aunt to prepare for bed, but I didn't want to wait for her. It felt odd having a maid undress me while my husband watched on or waited in another room. I'd rather have Matt help me instead.
"My uncle wanted to know if I've thrown Cyclops out of the house," he said.
I gasped. "The nerve of him!"
"I told him I didn't believe Cyclops had done anything to harm Charity's virtue, and that he was more in danger from her than she was from him."
"I'm sure he didn't like that."
"Not in the least." He placed my necklace on the dressing table and proceeded to unfasten my dress. "The problem is, I can no longer use the leverage I had. Coyle and Hope have met, the dinner is over."
"I see your point." I leaned back into him and reached up to cup the side of his face. "Let's worry about it tomorrow. I recall you wished to toss my dress on the floor."
He offered me his first smile of the evening, and it was devilish.
With nothing to do in the investigation, we decided to take stock of what we knew in the library after breakfast. Recapping facts and discussing theories had often worked in the past to shake loose fresh approaches, but I wasn't so sure it would work this time. We had so little to go on.
Cyclops, Duke and Willie had been reasonably sure that Chronos wasn't hiding Fabian, although they couldn't be positive. They agreed to resume shifts watching his house. I told them what I'd learned from Louisa and my suspicions about her involvement, but also my doubts.
"The fact remains, the killer wanted to set up Fabian for the murder," Matt said.
"So it must be someone who hates him," I pointed out.
"What about the brother?" Cyclops asked. "Lady Louisa says the brother sent her the letter opener, so we know he's here in London. Could the brothers hate each other so much that one wants to see the other hang for murder?"
"Fabian always spoke fondly of his family," I said.
"And the timing is wrong," Matt added. "Louisa informed the family after Charbonnenau's escape and the murder."
"What about the jilted girl in America?" Willie said. "If I were his fiancée, I'd want to rip out his guts and serve them to the pigs."
"Aye, but you're mad," Duke said.
She kicked him under the table.
"I can't see anyone killing a stranger just so he can blame someone else," I said. "Mad men and women aside."
"You ain't met an angry jilted American," Willie said. "You won't remember our cousin Mary Ella, Matt. She left town before you arrived. Her fiancé never showed up to the church and she got so mad, she broke every window in his house then set fire to it. She watched it burn with a smile on her face."
"My God," I said. "That's vindictive."
"Her fiancé didn't get to appreciate how vindictive on account of him already being dead. That's why he never showed up. Turned out another man who was in love with Mary Ella accused him of stealing then challenged him to a shootout. The fiancé lost. It all turned out fine in the end, though. The second man took the fiancé's place and after a quick courtship, they married and moved away."
"Love," Duke muttered with a shake of his head. "It ain't worth the trouble."
"Amen," Cyclops said.
"You don't believe that, Cyclops," Willie scolded him. "You neither, Duke. So both of you quit your moping and do something about the lack of lovin' in your lives."
They both looked at her like they were trying to think of ways to make her stop talking.
"Like I did," she added with a grin.
"Speaking of Brockwell," I said, before she told us more than we wanted to hear, "perhaps we should speak to him again, Matt. He might require our services."
"I doubt it," Matt said. "He only came to us because the widow didn't trust him. We delivered McGuire's ledger, as asked."
"But Mrs. McGuire could give him more information. Why don't I talk to her again?"
It was agreed that I should try.
I called on her later that morning. She took one look at me and refused to let me in.
"Go away," she said. "I don't want to say anything."
It was a curious choice of words—she didn't want to say anything, not that she had nothing to say. Last time, she'd told me she didn't want to betray her husband. This woman was frightened, even though Mr. McGuire was dead. Frightened of the police because she murdered her husband? Or because he'd treated her so badly that she could no longer trust anyone?
"Go away," she said again, and went to close the door.
"It's not a betrayal of his memory to speak to someone who knows what he did to you," I said quickly.
She paused, leaving the door open a crack. She peered back at me through the gap, her eyes narrowed.
"It's not a betrayal of his memory to be glad he's dead, or to help the police," I added.
"He hated the constabulary," she said defensively. "He won't want me talking to them, even if it's to help catch his killer."
"But he's not here, Mrs. McGuire, and he can't hurt you from the grave."
She swallowed and I thought she'd open the door, but instead she shook her head. "He wouldn't like me talking to you," she said again.
"I know how you feel."
"You don't." She pushed on the door to close it.
"My situation was similar to yours," I said on a rush of breath. When she hesitated, I continued. She was listening, and that was a start. "I don't pretend to completely understand what you're going through, but I do know how it feels to be betrayed by someone you trusted, someone you gave your heart to. My former fiancé stole my shop and my livelihood then broke off our engagement, all after the death of my father. I needed him, trusted him, and he hurt me deeply."
Unlike Mrs. McGuire, I had never been afraid of Eddie Hardacre. I'd confronted him and been satisfied when he was forced to give back what was mine by the court. She hadn't reached that point yet. If the abuse had gone on for years, then it was understandable it would take time for her fear to diminish, to undo the damage he'd caused to her sense of self-worth.
"He betrayed you, Mrs. McGuire. He did not fulfill his side of the marriage bargain when he hurt you. You owe him nothing, least of all your loyalty."
Mrs. McGuire's eyes pooled with tears. She hugged the door, blinking furiously, then stepped back. She opened the door wider.
She led me through to the parlor and asked the housekeeper to make tea. We passed a few minutes in idle chatter. I told her a little more of my past with Eddie and how that had led me to meeting Matt.
"Wonderful things have happened to you," she said as the tea arrived.
"Yes," I said. "Matt and his friends restored my faith in the world, and men in particular."
"Like your friend who's being blamed for murdering my husband?"
I nodded. "Fabian didn't do it."
"I believe he escaped from prison."
"And I'm sure he wishes he was still there now, as it would give him an alibi. He wouldn't hurt anyone, Mrs. McGuire. I hope you can help me prove it."
She sipped her tea.
"Will you help me prove his innocence?" I prompted.
"I'm not sure how I can. I don't know anything. I'm useless."
"Not at all. You're in possession of important information, you just don't know it yet."
"I don't see how I can be. My husband didn't share anything about his business affairs with me." She stared into the teacup, cradled in both hands. "He said I wouldn't understand. It was too complicated for me."
"Then let's discuss what you do know. What time did he leave the house on the night of his murder?"
"Around six," she said to her teacup.
"Did he eat dinner before he left?"
She shook her head. "He didn't like what I cooked."
I suspected there was more to the story but it was hard to gauge when she wouldn't look at me.
"Do you know where he went?" I asked.
"No."
"How did he seem? Was he angry?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Was he angry with you for cooking something he didn't like?"
Another shake of her heard. "Usually he would be. Sometimes he would throw the plate across the room, or shout at me for being a hopeless wife, but that night…he just pushed it away, got up and left."
"And what did you do?"
"Tidied up. My housekeeper is only here during the day. Then I went to bed. I took a sleeping draught and slept until the morning. I noticed he hadn't come home when I woke up, but it's happened before and I wasn't worried. Then the police came…" The teacup rattled in the saucer from her trembling hands.
"It must have been a shock."
She nodded. "I know I should have let them in, but it didn't feel right. He wouldn't have liked it. He doesn't like people touching his things."
"Have you looked through his things?" I asked.
"Lord, no."
"He can't hurt you now, Mrs. McGuire."
"I know." She stared down at the cup. "Can we do it together?"
My heart lifted. "Yes."
She fetched a key from the escritoire by the window and led the way down the corridor. "The police found this key on him and returned it to me. I knew it was for his office. He kept it locked at all times and cleaned it himself."
Matt must have picked the lock when he and Duke entered to steal the ledger, then relocked it.
Mrs. McGuire hesitated then inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. She sucked in a deep breath and took a giant step across the threshold.
"Where shall we start?" I asked.
"The desk."
McGuire's office was much smaller than Matt's. Where Matt had some business periodicals and books on the shelves, McGuire's office had no shelves at all. Aside from the desk and one chair, there was a large filing cabinet, the drawers of which were locked. I wondered if Matt had picked the locks and searched through them.
"Do you know what your husband's business entailed?" I asked as I inspected the papers on the desk.
"Lending money to those in need." Sh
e rifled through the top drawer of the desk. "People like your friend."
"My friend is a good man who found himself in a difficult financial situation through no fault of his own, but I suspect your husband loaned money to others who were not so honorable. I suspect many were probably gamblers who'd lost more than they won."
"Do the police think one of them killed him?"
"I don't know what they think," I said. "I do know the debts are not dissolved by your husband's death."
She looked up. "I don't understand."
"You inherit them, Mrs. McGuire."
"Then…that makes me a suspect." She blinked down at the cards in her hand.
I took them from her, but they were merely calling cards of bankers, lawyers, and various gentlemen. One of them gave me pause, but I put it back with the others and opened the second drawer. It contained a single key.
I tried it in the top drawer of the filing cabinet and was thrilled to see that it fitted. Until I realized Matt would have done the same and already looked through the documents.
"They appear to be contracts filed in alphabetical order by surname," I said, closing the top drawer and inspecting the contents of the second and third.
I found Fabian's contract and Mr. Stanhope's. Each contract listed the amount of the principal, the interest rate, and personal details of each debtor, including reasons why McGuire assumed they should be able to pay. In Fabian's case, it was noted that his family were wealthy, and in Stanhope's case, McGuire had written that he was partner in the Ingles Vinegar Company. Again, there was an asterisk on his document, where Fabian's had none.
I pulled out a large number of other files and searched them for asterisks too. None bore any. I went to put them back and noticed a large envelope lying flat on the bottom of the drawer. The files had been slotted vertically above it, hiding it.
Charbonneau had been written on the front followed by September tenth and £500, the exact amount of Fabian's debt. Inside was a large sum of money, probably £500. Fabian had repaid his debt.
Yet he couldn't have. Not on September tenth. So the question was, who did?
Chapter 10
