The Necklace

by Corwin, Amy

  “You understand, if you follow that stream of thought to the source, even I still have motive.”

  “If Castlereagh trusts you, then I'm willing to do so. For now.” Allen smiled. “And how is your betrothed holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected. And she has not precisely agreed to a betrothal, yet. She isn't convinced that my intentions are entirely honorable.”

  “Well, help me resolve this mess, and I promise you, you’ll succeed in convincing her. I hate to say it, though, but if it wasn't Lyndel's contact in this area, then the way matters stand, I’d be surprised if the Archers are innocent.”

  “You can't still believe they’re guilty?” Chilton asked, unwilling to accept that in the face of his new knowledge.

  Allen chuckled before taking a sip from his tankard. “I’ve known the Archers for many a year. Pulled old Archer out of a scrape about five years ago. And although I’ve yet to see him kill anyone, there’s always a first time.” His blue eyes studied Chilton. “And I’m not familiar with the females. I hate to think of a woman involved. But it would be easy enough to aim that little popper we found. If one of the ladies found her uncle being harmed, she might shoot and then run in a panic.”

  “Miss Archer did not kill Lyndel.”

  Allen grinned. “Aye. You and the ladies were in London.”

  A flush stained Chilton’s cheeks. In an attempt to avoid compounding the lie, he grunted and picked up his own tankard of ale. He took a long swallow. The ale was cool to his parched throat and drinking gave him time to moderate the anger he felt at Allen's stubbornness.

  “In any event, I confess I would like to believe you. However, we have to look at all possibilities, don't we? And there are two Misses Archer, aren't there? But they were both with you, I suppose.”

  He nodded. Oriana and Helen had both been with him in the gig when they ‘returned’ to The Orchards.

  “Well, we will find the truth. Just keep me informed if you make any inquiries.” Allen paused, pulling his lower lip. “How is Archer, by the way?”

  “Still asleep, I hope.” He stood, anxious to find the truth and prove the Archers' innocence. If possible. “Did you question everyone at the tavern?”

  “Everyone there. But one guest was missing. A rather large fellow with carroty red hair. Do you know anyone like that?”

  “Perhaps. I believe he paid a visit to Mr. Archer one evening. We met—briefly.”

  “You might have more luck than I at finding him, then. He seems to be a wary sort. The wench at the tavern, Alice, said he was in his room. But by the time I got there, he had disappeared. Odd, that. But he hasn’t paid his shot and his belongings are still in the room he shared with Mr. Lyndel.”

  “I’ll find him, but I’d better get to the Pig's Toes before he disappears. I’ll stop by on my way back to The Orchards, if that’s agreeable, or send word.”

  “Of course—save me doing the legwork.” He rubbed his right thigh. “Got a bit o' trouble with the gout today, so I appreciate it. And I’ve got these damn books to mull over this afternoon. You've given me a chance to find the discrepancy that’s been plaguing me for two days now, as well as saving my leg. And our carrot-haired gentleman might be more willing to talk to you than he was to me.”

  Chilton held out his hand. They shook briskly. Allen's grip was firm and dry, but Mr. Allen didn’t release him immediately.

  “You won’t take this into your own hands, now. If things go badly, and the squire is involved, we’ll send a lad to the Magistrate in the next town. Is that clear?”

  “Certainly,” he agreed, relieved to find himself trusted enough to ask a few questions. Apparently, his relationship with Castlereagh might finally be worth something other than aggravation and worry.

  As an investigator, he knew he couldn’t eliminate any possibilities. But, he was determined to exonerate the Archers.

  And while he was at it, he thought he might get a special license, as well. A wedding license might come in handy, and just the thought gave him some badly needed hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Devil’s Books — Cards

  The Pig's Toes was easy to find, situated as it was just a block away from Mr. Allen's house.

  “Alice, is it?” Chilton asked, leaning against the door in the nearly empty tavern. His leg was stiff and the muscles in his thigh trembled when he stood too long. He rubbed the side of his leg and then moved awkwardly to one of the tables near the bar.

  “Yes, sir.” She bobbed a curtsey, one hand on her cap to keep it in place. It perched precariously amidst her black curls and threatened to fall off each time she moved her head. “What can I get you?”

  Her leather shoes scraped over the sawdust sprinkled around, covering the dark oak floor. She waited near his table, eyeing him as he sat and stretched his legs out.

  The smell of ale filled his nostrils before he sniffed more deeply, catching a savory odor. His mouth watered over the rich scent of game pie baking in the oven. His breakfast of bread and cheese seemed long ago, and his stomach rumbled hungrily.

  “Game pie and ale.”

  She grinned. “We've some fresh from the oven, sir. I'll be back in a wink.”

  While he waited, he studied the few people lounging around the public room. Most were farmers indulging in light gossip about the murder before getting down to the business of which crops they intended to plant that spring.

  He listened shamelessly but heard nothing of interest. No one mentioned the Archers. The consensus seemed to be a wandering thief or tinker had murdered Mr. Lyndel and escaped into the countryside.

  “Here you be, sir. Anything else? We’ve a lovely wheel of cheese. Pickles, too.”

  He laughed. “Ah, just the thing. Perhaps some of those excellent pickles.” When she turned with a grin, he added, “You don’t happen to know if my friend is still here, do you? I owe him some money. Thought I’d drop it by while I am here.”

  “Which friend is that, sir?”

  “A tall fellow—red hair. And a face almost as scary as mine.”

  “Lor’ sir, you make me laugh—why you’re not scary at all.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and he grinned back. “I can run up to his room for you. He’s got our best—right at the top of the stairs.”

  “Don’t bother. Maybe I’ll see if I can surprise him. If he’s here, that is.”

  She winked and flung a not-so-subtle hint over her freckled shoulder. “Money’s always a right-nice surprise.”

  He tucked into the game pie with a will. The flaky brown crust and rich gravy appeased the growling hollow in his stomach. When he laid down his fork, he suddenly felt more cheerful about his prospects.

  After draining the last of the excellent ale, he meandered to the steep stairway and glanced up. The door at the top of the stairway was firmly shut. As he stared at it, a dark shadow passed, breaking up the bar of light showing under the door. Someone paced restlessly inside.

  He gave a quick glance around the taproom. No one seemed interested in him. Gritting his teeth, he climbed the stairs, trying not to favor his aching leg. At the top, he listened, but he couldn’t hear anything through the door. He tapped lightly on the panel and waited. Silence greeted him.

  “Red? I’ve got your money from John Archer.” There was no sound for a few seconds. Then the floor creaked. He knocked again. “Do you want the money or not?”

  The door opened a crack and a blue eye appeared, peering around. He raised his hand in a rather ironic wave.

  “I don’t know you,” a rough voice stated through the crack.

  “Sure you do. Don’t you remember? I was at The Orchards the other night when you visited Archer to remind him of his debt.” He shook his wallet. The sound of the coins jingled loudly in the empty hallway. “Do you want it or not?”

  The red-haired giant opened the door and gazed out into the hallway past him before pulling him inside. “He don’t owe me money. It’s Mr. Lyndel, and he won’t be needin
g it. Not where he’s going.”

  “Really?” Chilton waited.

  “But, if you wish to pay Mr. Archer’s debt, it’d go for Mr. Lyndel’s shot here. He’s run up quite a debt. And there’s my fee, as well.”

  “Done up, are you?”

  He shook his head mournfully. “Me boss called me down here. Said he’d pay me from what Archer owed him. Haven’t seen a shilling. And all the while we’re staying here, eating like lords, and not a farthing to our names while the landlord tracks every pence.”

  “I’ll pay your shot. If you’ll tell me what happened.”

  “What happened?” the giant asked suspiciously. “Nothing happened.”

  “Something happened, my friend. Mr. Archer is nearly dead. And Mr. Lyndel isn’t coming back. If you want your money, you’ll tell me what went on. And make it the truth.”

  “Or what? I remember you now, right enough. You’ve a game leg.”

  “Game or not, I can give as good as I get.” He rubbed his scar, drawing Red’s gaze to it.

  Nodding, Red sat gingerly on the bed. It creaked beneath his weight and he shifted uneasily. “Shut the door and stand away from it. I don’t want nobody to hear.”

  Chilton did as he was told. Then he eased himself down on the spindly wooden chair next to the bed. “What happened to Lyndel?”

  “Well, he was right peeved that he hadn’t heard from anyone at The Orchards. Said we was going up that way to do a bit of persuading.” Red stopped, looking uncomfortable.

  “So, you met John Archer on the way?”

  He nodded, relieved not to have to spell it out. “I had me instructions. I wouldn’t have done it, else. I liked John Archer. Always did. Left him alive on purpose, though it had to look right. I’m right sorry, sir, but he was alive when I left. I bloodied his face and told Lyndel he was dead. Mr. Lyndel wanted ‘im that way. Thought it would scare the niece enough to get him what he wanted.”

  What he wanted. The thought brought such rage burning through Chilton’s blood that he could have killed Lyndel himself. His hands fisted in his lap.

  “Then what happened?” Chilton suppressed his anger and jingled his wallet to keep Red interested.

  The big man shrugged. He scratched the nape of his neck and glanced down at his dirty nails before digging again at the red curls brushing the back of his leather waistcoat. He looked like a large, unwashed, neglected child sitting on the edge of a bed, waiting to be punished.

  “Well?” Chilton prompted, feeling obscurely sorry for the man.

  Perhaps he could find a position for him in London, since he clearly needed one, now. Or Chilton could hire him to stand at his back if he continued working for Castlereagh.

  Given the opportunity, there were many things a man like Red could do besides beating up innocent men and throwing fights.

  “Mr. Lyndel went through Mr. Archer’s pockets,” Red said. “I was afeared he'd feel ‘is heart and know he were alive, but he just rolled him over. He found a red bag and a wallet. Wouldn’t let me see what was inside. None ‘o my concern.

  “So Mr. Lyndel took ‘em. Then we saw a curricle coming fast down the road. Fancy rig. Mr. Lyndel told me to get on across the field and back to the village afore anyone sees me. Wouldn’t do to be seen with the body. So, I ran.”

  “Did you see who drove the curricle?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir. But it were yellow and had a lovely stepping chestnut.”

  “What about the occupant?”

  “The what?”

  “The driver. What about the driver?”

  “Had a hat and a cloak. That’s all I'd seen.”

  “Did anyone else hereabouts owe Mr. Lyndel? Did you visit anyone else?”

  Red’s coarse features grew pinched. “Maybe,” he replied cautiously. “I don’t rightly know who owed Mr. Lyndel. I didn’t visit no one else.”

  “But did Lyndel say anything?”

  “He might have.”

  “Do you want the money or not?”

  Red hesitated, scratching under his left arm. Then he rubbed the back of his thick neck again. “I don’t know for sure—and I’m telling you the God’s truth. But I watched him leave one day—went up the lane at a smart pace.”

  “What lane?”

  After he scratched his head, he spread his hand out, staring at the nails.

  “What lane?” Chilton repeated his question.

  “The one as goes toward the squire’s place. I swear that’s all I know. I don’t know nothing else. Not that can help you or Mr. Archer.”

  Chilton opened his wallet and grabbed a handful of coins. He threw them onto the bed.

  “There’s enough to pay your shot.” Then on impulse, he threw his calling card down. It fluttered and landed on top of the coins. “Go to London and get someone to give you directions to my address—the address on that card. I’ll see you find employment. Have you ever been a footman or groom?”

  “No, sir. But I be at loose ends now and would give it a go. I’d try right hard to be a proper ‘un. Thank you, sir,” Red said, standing respectfully and pulling at the ends of the ragged red hair hanging over his forehead. “Would ye carry a message to Mr. Archer, sir?”

  Chilton glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door. He nodded.

  “Tell Mr. Archer I’m powerful sorry. Tell him I never meant him no harm. I real special-like watched his teeth and nose. He was ever particular about his teeth, you know. Lovely teeth, he has.”

  Laughing, Chilton shook his head and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  The afternoon was already waning. The breeze picked up briskly when he got to the lane leading to the squire’s manor. Bushes and trees grew close to the road and rustled in the wind, waving above his head. The shrubbery created a dank, unwelcoming path, and he looked at the narrow confines with distaste.

  He had to find out who owned a yellow-paneled curricle and a chestnut horse. And if the squire was involved. He debated whether it was necessary to drive down the path or not. He already had a great deal more information than he had when he started out. But it wasn’t enough to give him any answers.

  He knew who didn’t kill Mr. Lyndel, if he believed Red. And he now had to find out who owned a yellow-paneled curricle and a chestnut. He turned Buttercup down the unwelcoming lane.

  His arrival at the Squire’s manor went unnoticed—at least as far as he could tell. He allowed Buttercup to pull the gig around to the stables. After jumping down, he looped the reins through a convenient iron ring and wandered into the stables.

  The first stall was empty. He sauntered over to the second one and found a gray staring back at him inquisitively, chewing a mouthful of hay. The opposite stall held another gray. A matching set with broad chests and beautiful form.

  He sighed with frustration.

  The grays stared at him with curious eyes. The squire seemed to be a fairly good judge of horseflesh, based upon the pair. He studied the two horses and ran a hand over the warm, soft neck of one.

  It was time he looked to his own stables.

  Since leaving the Corps, he had avoided all thoughts of the future. In fact, he never really expected to have a future. Suddenly, he was conscious of the wasted time. It was past time to get rid of his small bachelor apartments and set up a true home of his own.

  Well, he had made a start. He had two valets and a stable boy, assuming Red found his way to Chilton's house in London.

  Leaning over the half-door to one stall, he absently fed a handful of straw to the horse. He scratched its ear before turning away to walk past the rest of the stalls. The next stall was empty, although there were oats in the bin. The last two stalls held heavy-boned draft horses.

  He wandered around, wondering where everyone was. There was no sign of a yellow curricle or a chestnut horse. However, in the adjoining carriage house, he found a carriage and wagon, as well as a curricle painted blue with black trim. The vehicle had a broken wheel.

  “Hullo!” a
hearty voice hailed him.

  He turned around to find the squire bearing down on him. He waved and waited for the Squire Winkle to trot through the open barn door.

  “Major Dacy! To what do we owe this honor?” the squire asked. He eyed him a moment before glancing over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you come up to the house?”

  “Sorry, meant to but I wanted a few oats for Buttercup.”

  “Of course! Where’s Tom? Bollocks! I told the lad to clean out the stables this afternoon. Where is he?” He pounded the door leading up to an apartment above the stalls. After some rapid scurrying sounds, and what sounded like whispering, a man came hurtling down the stairs. He adjusted his breeches and smoothed down his hair as joined them.

  “Sorry, sir, just, em, just—” There was the sound of something falling with a loud thud above their heads.

  The squire winked at Chilton. “Never you mind, Tom Brown. Major Dacy’s horse is out front and needs a bag of oats. Step lively now. Major, would you care to step inside? A pint of ale to wash away the dust?”

  “Yes, sounds good. Wanted to get some fresh air, and while I was driving by, thought I’d stop.”

  The squire chuckled and waved him ahead. He ushered him to a door at the back of the house, and they knocked the straw and mud off their boots from the stables before climbing up a short flight of stone steps. The squire briskly led the way to his study where he rang for a maid to bring them some ale, cheese and bread.

  “Sit, Major.” He rubbed his hands together before taking a seat in a leather wing chair.

  Chilton took the chair opposite, finding to his surprise that the leather was stretched so tautly over the seat cushions that it felt as if he was sitting on a polished rock. He had to dig his heels into the carpet to keep from accidentally sliding off the seat.

  “How are the Archers? Archer doing well?” the squire asked sympathetically.

  “On the mend.”

  “No permanent injuries, then?”

  Chilton studied him, wondering what prompted the question. Was he referring to the broken arm that prevented Mr. Archer from attending their dinner party, or to his new injuries? “The doctor expects him to recover. I hadn’t realized you knew about his more recent accident.”