Lily glanced at the mirror, taking in the hard line of Lady Wyatt’s mouth, the carefully controlled panic that edged her movements. She understood. Perhaps better than anyone else in the house, she realized where suspicions would fall.
“And then the matter will be done,” Lily said quietly, knowing it wasn’t true.
“Done,” Lady Wyatt repeated. For a moment, her eyes closed, as if she were in pain. Then she stood, her jaw firm and her shoulders back. “Then I shall prepare myself to confront him.”
* * *
Simon Page could already feel a headache growing between his eyes.
Usually he enjoyed this part of his work. Not the death of a stranger, but the chance to observe, to begin putting the pieces together that would help him understand how and why something had happened. Often the answers were unremarkable: a petty theft, a misunderstanding, an accident, an illness. An ordinary death that perhaps could have been avoided but wasn’t the product of any criminal activity.
But then there were the times when something was off, someone was suspicious, a piece of a story didn’t add up. Making the connections between those inconsistencies depended entirely on the nimbleness of the mind considering them, and Simon had discovered early in his education that he had a unique facility for doing just that. And then there were new advances being made, sometimes every month, it seemed—such as the tests being created by doctors in Spain to actually detect poisonous substances in a slain corpse. It felt like his work was changing and growing daily, and Simon wanted to be part of that.
He also knew that being part of it meant the men in front of him—and those like them—would always look down on him. Normally, he didn’t let that bother him. He knew the value of what he did.
Today, though, that sense of disdain was grating on him more than usual. Mr. Frank Wyatt he could have borne; it would have been easy to forgive the man his condescending manners so soon after his father’s death. But Mr. Percy Wyatt took snobbery to new heights.
“I object strongly to such questions,” Percy was saying, his pale brows drawn down into a scowl. He had been complaining since the moment he came into the room. A footman had been sent to summon him the moment Sir Charles’s death had been discovered that morning. Simon had arrived after the footman departed, which meant Percy had been completely taken aback when he arrived and realized he would have to answer the Bow Street officer’s questions. “I don’t see why you need to know anything about my evening.”
Simon wanted to fold himself into one of the very comfortable-looking chairs that dotted the parlor and rub his temples with both hands. But he remained standing, his hands clasped behind him and a neutral expression on his face. “I need to know so that I can determine where you were when Sir Charles Wyatt died last night.”
“I must have misunderstood, sir,” Percy said, his voice icy. “Surely you do not mean to imply that someone in our family may have had something to do with my uncle’s death.”
“That is precisely what he is implying, Percy,” Frank said in a weary voice. “Please answer his questions so we can be done with this.”
He sounded as if he wanted to rub his own temples. Instead, he sat with his head tipped back against his chair and his eyes closed. He would have looked absurdly relaxed were it not for the tight lines around his clenched jaw and eyes. Frank Wyatt, Simon could say with certainty, was not taking his father’s death lightly—though, of course, that could mean any number of things.
“This is beyond belief,” Percy said, jumping to his feet. “Am I to be faced with accusations yet again? It was not enough, yesterday, that I was accused of theft—”
“You were guilty of theft, as I recall, Mr. Wyatt,” Captain Hartley said amiably as he entered the room. He nodded to Simon, polite and deferential. “My apologies, Mr. Page, for interrupting. The housekeeper has locked the door to the library. And as requested, I have come to hand the key to you personally.” He did so with a polite bow, a small flourish of respect that Simon suspected was purely for the benefit of the other two men in the room. Then he installed himself by the windows, lounging at his apparent ease.
“You!” Percy turned on the navy captain, his face splotchy with rage at the reminder of his actions the day before. “Should you not depart now that you have accomplished your task?”
“Oh no, sir, I must await Mrs. Adler, who is upstairs assisting your aunt,” Captain Hartley said, holding his hands palm out in front of him in a disarming gesture that would have been mocking if his expression hadn’t been so carefully polite. “And I imagine Mr. Page would prefer that I remain in this room while I wait. Is that not so, sir?”
“It wouldn’t do to have him wait somewhere where the servants might speak to him, or he to them, before I have a chance to question them myself,” Simon said, scrupulously polite himself. In reality, he wanted the captain to remain in the room and observe the two Mr. Wyatts so he could have the impressions of a man of their own class in addition to his own. “I am sure the captain will give his word not to repeat anything said in this room.”
“Do you really have to question the servants too?” Frank asked, opening his eyes and sitting forward. The tense lines around his face had deepened. “Really, I cannot see any reason that would be necessary.”
“I’m afraid I will have to speak to everyone in the house,” Simon said gravely.
“Everyone.” Percy glanced at his cousin as he spoke, the expression clearly pointed, though Simon didn’t have any idea—yet—what it was intended to convey.
Clearly Frank did, though. He scowled at his cousin, then blew out a long breath and nodded. “Then I shall say again, Percy, please answer his questions so we might be done with this as soon as possible.” He swallowed, his voice catching a little as he added, “I have a parent to bury, after all.”
“I shall be quick, Mr. Wyatt,” Simon said. He turned to Percy, who had taken his seat once more, scowling ferociously and looking queasy with nerves. “I have had your cousin’s account of his activities last night, but I’d appreciate hearing your own recollections on the matter. Particularly after you parted ways for the evening.” He smiled. “And rest assured, I will be confirming whatever you have to tell me.”
Percy looked as if he wanted to protest once more, but evidently he realized it would get him nowhere. He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, as it seems you have heard—” He scowled in Hartley’s direction once more, but Simon didn’t turn to see how the captain reacted this time. “Yesterday was a rather disheartening day for me. But my uncle called me back around seven o’clock, and we had a cozy chat over drinks in his library.” Percy swallowed, looking suddenly ill as he realized he had just named the room where his uncle had died. “We made things up, and he was quite kind and encouraging. I left feeling much better.”
“And when was that?”
“Perhaps eight? Frank was already out, but we had made plans to dine at the club, so I went straight there to meet him. We ate, had a game or two of billiards with some friends. Frank suggested we go out. There’s not much to do in town this time of year, but we ended up at a gaming hell with some of the fellows from the club. I left early. Midnight or so. I went home.”
Simon nodded. So far, the two men’s stories matched up well enough. They had given slightly different times, but that made them more trustworthy in Simon’s eyes, not less. If they had given all the same details, he would have wondered if they had planned their stories out. He glanced at Frank. “And you, as you said, stayed to play cards until quite late?”
“I had a streak of good luck at the faro table,” Frank said quietly. “I can’t imagine I made it home before three in the morning, though that is mostly a guess. I doubt I could have seen straight enough to read a clock by that point.”
“You always play better when you’re foxed,” Percy said, shaking his head. Simon couldn’t tell whether Percy was impressed or jealous. “No inhibitions.”
Frank grinned at his cousin, and for a momen
t they looked like nothing more than a pair of mischievous boys. Then they both seemed to remember where they were and why. Their expressions grew grim once more, and they looked away from each other. Frank stared at his hands, clenched in his lap. Percy glared at Simon.
“Is that all you wish to know?” he asked, an edge of angry sarcasm to his voice.
“Not quite,” Simon said, his own voice growing sharp. He regretted it as soon as Percy’s eyes narrowed—it would have been better to remain impassive and civil, but sometimes that was impossible for him. “Where did you go after you left at midnight?”
“Home.”
Simon waited a moment, his brows rising when no other information was offered. It was the shortest sentence Percy Wyatt had spoken since he arrived. “And what did you do there?”
Percy glanced toward the ceiling, sighing. “Sleep.”
Simon’s brows climbed even higher, and he resisted the urge to glance at Captain Hartley, not wanting to remind either of the young Wyatt men that the captain was watching them. “Was that all?”
“That is generally what one does during the night,” Percy snapped, still not fully meeting the Bow Street constable’s eyes.
“And was there anyone at your home who can attest to that?” Simon asked. “A servant, perhaps?”
“One of the maids at my lodging house comes to make coffee and clean in the morning,” Percy said, his voice tight. “That is all.”
Simon was surprised that the young man didn’t have a valet or other servant waiting up for him—Frank had mentioned his own valet when he recounted his comings and goings the night before. But looking at Percy’s disgruntled expression, Simon decided not to press the matter—though he would check with the captain later to find out whether the younger Mr. Wyatt’s claim that he lacked domestic help was surprising for a man in his position.
Instead, Simon changed tactics. “You mentioned that you were feeling disheartened after the events of the day,” he said, noting the way Frank’s eyes suddenly snapped open, the flush that crept up Percy’s neck and ears.
“No doubt you have already been informed,” Percy said, glancing once more toward where Captain Hartley lounged against the window. “I’ve no wish to speak about it.”
“Perhaps not, but I wish to hear about it,” Simon said, his voice steely.
It was a tone he had learned directly from his father, a schoolteacher responsible for keeping a dozen rowdy village boys in line each year. He had discovered, after joining the Bow Street force, that it was particularly effective with a certain kind of young man. Percy Wyatt was, as he expected, one of those. His flush spread, and he shifted a little in his seat.
When he finally met Simon’s eyes, the Bow Street officer softened his tone slightly. “Mr. Frank Wyatt has shared the details of what happened yesterday afternoon,” he said. When Percy turned to glare at his cousin, Frank shrugged, looking apologetic. “But I’d appreciate knowing what happened later that evening, Mr. Wyatt, when you spoke with your uncle. You said that he requested you call again?”
He kept his eyes on Percy, but he noticed that Frank sat up at that, his eyes locked on his cousin with surprising intensity. Percy, who was turned away from Frank, didn’t notice. Instead, he frowned to himself.
“Well, you know, it was surprising. Uncle had been furious that afternoon, practically threatening to cut me off—really, it was a huge fuss, and the interference did not help.” He took a moment to glare in Hartley’s direction before shrugging. “When I came back, I thought for certain that it would be more of the same, but in fact, he wanted to mend things between us.”
“Really?” Frank interrupted. “Did he tell you what changed his mind? He was still furious when I left for the evening.”
“He didn’t say. Something was on his mind, certainly. But he said he wanted it put behind him.” Percy’s expression was growing almost buoyant. “He said that he had overreacted, when really a boy in debt for some horse racing was really nothing when one thought about the sort of things people can get up to. And in fact, he was going to—”
Percy broke off suddenly, looking uncomfortable.
“He was going to what?” Simon asked. His tone was mild, but the way his eyes fixed on Percy was anything but.
“Ah. Hmm.” Percy’s face grew red again. “Well, he was in a pensive mood, you know. Thinking things out loud. But he said that he had been wrong when he talked of cutting me off earlier. He wanted to, ah, assure me that I would continue to receive my allowance.” He offered Simon a weak smile. “I was glad to patch things up with him. I should never have forgiven myself if he had died while we were still quarreling.”
“Your uncle forgave you for your theft?” Simon asked, his brows rising. It was hard for him to imagine that Sir Charles had been so understanding, let alone forgiven his nephew so quickly. And he had the distinct impression that Percy had been about to say something quite different before he cut himself off.
“Completely.” Percy didn’t meet Simon’s eyes as he spoke. In fact, he glanced briefly at his cousin, a look so quick Simon almost missed it, before returning his gaze to a spot just to the left of Simon’s ear. “He said he would pay my debts, so long as I gave up my private lodgings and removed with him when he left town. He wanted me away from my friends from the club, I suppose.” Percy shrugged. “I did not much care for the idea, but the temporary trial of leaving town would have been worth reconciling with the old fellow.”
“And how do you think your uncle would have felt about you going out to a gaming hell mere hours after attempting to rob him because you had no money left to pay your debts?” Simon asked, unable to keep the dry disapproval from his voice.
He had expected Percy to bristle; instead, the young man shrugged again, looking surprised by the question. “What else is a fellow supposed to do at this time of year?” he asked. “Surely even a man like you knows that nothing happens in town during the summer.” He glanced at Captain Hartley, for the first time without malice. “Tell him, Hartley. I am certain a man of your position understands.”
“Mr. Wyatt is certainly not the only gentleman in town who gambles with nothing but his vowels to offer,” said Captain Hartley dryly.
“There, you see?” said Percy, clearly not having paid enough attention to catch the captain’s obvious disapproval. “There really is nothing else to entertain one at the moment.”
“And yet you did not want to leave town,” Simon pointed out. “Even though, as you say, nothing is happening. Why is that?”
Percy hesitated, his eyes darting to his cousin before snapping back to the Bow Street constable. “A fellow likes his independence,” he said at last. “I had not intended—”
He was interrupted as the door to the parlor swung open, and Simon did not miss the look of relief on the young man’s face. Percy Wyatt, he was sure, had a specific reason to want to stay in London—and he clearly did not wish to discuss it. Whether his cousin knew about it, Simon couldn’t be sure. That last look might have been a plea for Frank to come to his rescue or a moment of panic brought on by the threat of discovery.
But Percy Wyatt had already been caught in the act of stealing from his own relatives. What else could he be trying to hide?
Simon had to push the thoughts away. Percy and Frank had both bounded to their feet, Percy looking distressed and Frank’s face impassive as they regarded the woman entering the room. By the expensive look of the black gown she wore and the redness of her eyes, he could guess instantly who she was. But he still waited politely for Mrs. Adler, who followed the woman into the room, to close the door and make the introduction.
“Lady Wyatt, you will remember Captain Hartley.” Mrs. Adler nodded at the captain, who had come forward to bow over Lady Wyatt’s hand.
“My deepest sympathies, madam,” Hartley said, his usual playfulness replaced by a serious expression. Simon abruptly remembered that the captain had been boyhood friends with the late Mr. Adler. The navy man, like Mrs. Adler,
would no doubt be predisposed to sympathize with the new, young widow.
“Thank you, sir,” Lady Wyatt murmured.
Percy stepped forward and took her hand. “Aunt, I am so …” He shook his head, looking as though he were at a loss for words. “So very, very sorry. It is a loss to us all. But I cannot imagine how it must feel to you.”
Lady Wyatt’s mouth trembled a little before she schooled her expression back into steadiness. “Thank you, Percy. It is a comfort to be surrounded by those who cared for him as I did.” She glanced over at her stepson. “Frank.”
“Lady Wyatt.” He took the hand she held out to him and bowed over it, though the gesture was a little stiff. Simon watched them closely. “Are you certain you are well enough for this?”
“It seems I have little choice in the matter,” Lady Wyatt said, stepping back from him and taking a seat. She looked expectantly toward Simon, though there was little other emotion to be read in her expression.
Mrs. Adler took the hint. “Lady Wyatt, may I present Mr. Simon Page, of the Bow Street force,” she said. Percy politely retreated to another chair so she could take the spot on the settee next to Lady Wyatt. Captain Hartley moved to take up a position just behind Mrs. Adler, not far from where Frank was standing.
Simon looked them all over as he gave a brief bow in response to the introduction. “Lady Wyatt.” He usually didn’t like to extend too much social courtesy when he was in someone’s home in a professional capacity, but the woman’s husband had just died, after all. “My own deep condolences. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“Mrs. Adler has been good enough to give me some sense of what you will wish to know,” Lady Wyatt said, her head high and her voice steady, though Simon noticed her hands twisting together in her lap before she clasped them into stillness. “I would ask, though, that we speak more privately.” She glanced toward Percy and Frank, and her voice trembled a little as she added, “You will understand my disinclination for an audience.”
Silence in the Library Page 7
