The Wild Baron

by Catherine Coulter

  “Dearest, what you are thinking is very disturbing,” Charlotte said, still staring at her slippers. “Tibolt and a bishop both involved in this mystery.”

  “Yes, it is, but I can see no other course open to us. You may be certain that my brother is no longer at Branholly Cottage.”

  “My lord.”

  “Yes, Fitz?”

  “Mrs. Beete and I have discussed it. We recommend sending Augustus to Branholly Cottage, to spy out the lay of the land. He’s a good lad and if there’s anything to discover, Augustus will sniff it out. He’s got that Welsh nose.”

  “Very well. I trust that neither you nor Mrs. Beete will mention any of this to anyone?”

  “Not a word, my lord!”

  “Never, my lord. None of it, not even those bits about Master George we’ve heard you mention. You can trust us.”

  “Thank you both. As for George, well, he’s dead. Bringing him into this would solve nothing.” The two old servants nodded. Rohan turned. “Mother, are you ready for your bed?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Mother?” Alarmed, Rohan went to her. She was crying, not making a sound, the tears simply streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, Mother, so very sorry.” He pulled her to her feet and enveloped her in his arms. “It’s all right. Everything will come about, you will see. I’m so sorry.” He kept speaking, low and quiet, rocking her against him.

  Mrs. Beete sniffed back her own tears. Fitz looked fit to kill, his arthritic hands fisting and unfisting at his sides.

  As for Susannah, she felt as if she’d been pounded into the ground. She leaned her head back against the lovely blue brocade settee and closed her eyes. She heard Rohan’s soft voice as he spoke quietly to his mother. Poor Charlotte. What a blow for a parent. Two of her three sons—rotters. She just prayed that Tibolt wasn’t more than a rotter. But of course he was. She lightly touched her fingertips to her cheek. It still throbbed.

  “How will I ever get my crenellated tower built if you two keep kidnapping me for your treasure hunt?”

  “No treasure hunt just yet. We’ve lost both our half of the map and that bloody little key. And you know Oxford so very well, Phillip. You are the perfect confederate. Come, don’t whine. It doesn’t become you. You are pale. You need to be outdoors. We will entertain you.”

  “You know Oxford as well as I do, Rohan. What is it you really want from me?”

  Susannah laid her hand on Phillip Mercerault’s sleeve. “We wish to visit Bishop Roundtree. We believe he is somehow involved in all this.”

  “Bishop Roundtree? He’s a thundering old curmudgeon who hates everyone—particularly the fairer sex—and thinks everyone—particularly the fairer sex—is destined for Hades. He tries his best to exhort all the students to forgo the pleasures of the flesh and adhere to their books. I’ve always thought he was rather mad, but harmless. You honestly believe he could be in the thick of these shenanigans? With your vicar brother? You say Tibolt broke into your house and struck down Susannah? Astounding.”

  Rohan nodded. “Yes. As for this bishop, it seems to be our only path to follow right now. God knows where Tibolt has gone to ground.”

  Susannah said, “If this bishop is involved, if he does have the other half of the map, then Tibolt must be close. He will have to have both halves to gain this prize of his.”

  “Yes,” Rohan said, looking briefly at the healing cut on her cheek, at the bruise around it, which was now yellowish green. He felt anger flow through him each time he saw the evidence of his brother’s cruelty, his lack of control. “We must keep a lookout for him. Since Pope Leo IX did give Macbeth something, it seems likely that it’s of a religious nature.”

  “You mean like Saint Peter’s thighbone hidden away somewhere in a cave?”

  “Something like that,” Rohan said. “An artifact of some sort. But we have no idea really. Tibolt spoke to Susannah about it giving him ultimate power.” He suddenly looked defeated as he said, “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

  “No,” she said honestly, “it doesn’t. But we will find out the truth. I pray it will not be too awful to bear.”

  Phillip Mercerault stroked his chin. He whistled a moment under his breath. It was not a tune either Rohan or Susannah recognized, though it was catchy. When Phillip visited Mountvale, he would have to teach it to Jamie. Surely Jamie could set a limerick to it. The viscount said finally, “I will join you gladly. To be truthful, life has been too bland of late. Even the design of my tower doesn’t amuse me much anymore.”

  Phillip turned to Susannah. “Rohan and I were boys together at Eton. We protected each other’s back. If a bully wanted to smash one of us, then there were suddenly two for the bully to take on. I’ve always trusted Rohan, as he has me. Yes, let’s have an adventure. My spirit soars at the thought of it. I will immediately shove my drawings for my tower back into the desk drawer. Let’s have a spot of luncheon and then we’re off to see Bishop Roundtree.”

  “I can’t wait to see the look on that old sod’s face when he sees Susannah,” Rohan said, and chuckled. “Also, we have more to tell you about this mess.”

  “Must we eat luncheon here, Phillip?” Susannah said. “It will be so delicious that I will stuff everything into my mouth then fall into a gluttonous stupor.”

  The afternoon was pleasant, only a light breeze to stir the oak leaves. They rode toward Oxford from the west, past Nuffield College. They turned from Queen Street onto St. Aldate’s Street, passing by Pembroke College to the left and the magnificent Christ Church quadrangle on their right. Ro-han said to Susannah, “Both Phillip and I were here at Christ Church, as was Tibolt. We called it The House—”

  “Don’t forget to show off your Latin, Rohan.”

  “Very well. ‘The House” is from aedes Christi, meaning ‘House of Christ.’ And that is nearly the extent of my scholarship.”

  “That doesn’t say much for your brain, since every student knows that.”

  Susannah laughed, but she was clearly distracted by the Great Quadrangle, also known as Tom Quad, Rohan told her behind his hand as Phillip kept up his monologue. She half-listened to Phillip telling her that the library, a superb example of Italian Renaissance architecture, was built in the early eighteenth century.

  “Bishop Roundtree is frequently in his vast offices in the cathedral,” Rohan said. “It is likely we will find him there.”

  “Yes, he should be there. If we have time, Rohan, let’s take Susannah to Trinity College. I want her to see Blackwell’s Bookshop.”

  They didn’t find Bishop Roundtree in his offices or in the cathedral itself. One of the black-garbed curates told them the bishop’s address. “I expected him this morning, but he did not come,” the man said. He was quite bald, his head shining with sweat beneath the afternoon sun.

  Bishop Roundtree lived on Brewer Street, not far from Christ Church, in a tall Georgian house of deep-red brick. It was a busy thoroughfare, with houses on both sides, carriages, drays, and horses fighting for the middle of the narrow street. The bishop’s house was set back a bit, with a narrow graveled drive.

  The knocker was answered by a very pretty young man wearing black and white livery and a snow-white periwig of the last century. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. He frowned at Susannah, then ignored her. He addressed Rohan: “Yes, sir?”

  “I am Lord Mountvale. This is Lord Derencourt. We wish to see Bishop Roundtree.”

  “I am afraid that the bishop has given me orders that he is not to be disturbed. He is preparing a sermon.” Then he actually turned his back to Susannah and directly faced Ro-han.

  “This is extremely important. We wish to see him now.”

  The young man bit his lower lip. He looked uncertain.

  “Now,” Phillip said. “As in this very minute, not a minute from now.”

  “I will see if the bishop can see you gentlemen. Please step inside.”

  He obviously wanted to shut the door in Susannah’s face, b
ut knew he couldn’t. He left them all standing in a dimly lit entryway. There were several dark portraits of past bishops, all of them fat-jowled and thick-lipped, looking more stern than hanging judges.

  Susannah shivered. “I don’t like this place.”

  “Well,” her husband said, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose, “that precious boy playing at being a butler doesn’t like you.”

  “I know, but it makes no sense. I said nothing rude to him. I smiled. And he is so pretty. Why is he dressed like a butler of twenty years ago?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Phillip said, patting her sleeve. “Really, you don’t. Trust me on this.”

  “I fear he will never like you, Susannah. However, please don’t let it worry you. I like you immensely. Phillip, because he isn’t married to you, likes you less immensely than I do.”

  “Ah,” Phillip said, “but there is still some liking involved. After all, you have put my friend out of his misery. That reputation you’ve so carefully nurtured has ground you down for too long, Rohan. Now it’s over, thank God.”

  “But—” Susannah began.

  They heard a high-pitched scream.

  In a flash the men were running toward that scream, Susannah on their heels. They dashed up the stairs, even as three more piercing screams rent the air.

  At the head of the stairs, they saw the young man who had greeted them lurching out of a doorway at the end of the corridor.

  “My master . . . oh, my God, my master! Hurry!”

  At the doorway, Rohan grabbed Susannah by her upper arms. “You will stay here.”

  “Bosh,” she said, dogging his heels again. But just in a few moments she was wishing profoundly that she had reconsidered. She didn’t want to look, but she did.

  Bishop Roundtree was sprawled in the center of a magnificent carpet in the middle of the room. His arms and legs were spread. He’d been struck very hard on the forehead, several times. There was blood everywhere and not much left of the bishop’s head. Susannah felt dizzy and leaned against the wall of the bishop’s study. A dark wall, she noticed. Thankfully, no blood had splattered this far. She heard a gagging noise. It was the butler, that pretty young man in his old-fashioned periwig, vomiting in the corridor. She managed to make herself look at the bishop. There was a bloody brass andiron beside the body. Oh, God, the thought of another human being bringing that andiron down on someone’s head—she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. It was a man in a rage. Or a woman. No, a woman couldn’t do such a thing. The force of the blow bespoke a man, surely. Besides, surely that pretty butler wouldn’t allow a woman in this house, much less in the bishop’s study.

  She watched Rohan drop to his knees and gently search for a pulse in the bishop’s neck. Finally he shook his head. “He’s been dead for a while. He’s stiffening up,” he said over his shoulder to Phillip. Then he saw his wife leaning against the wall, heard the butler vomiting. “Dammit, Susannah, you have less color than that creamy satin chemise you’re wearing beneath your gown. Don’t you remember how I nearly drooled all over myself before you managed to pull your gown up and cover that wicked confection? Yes, now I see that you well remember. I won’t tell you again—get yourself downstairs and wait for the magistrate.” Rohan rose. He said to Phillip, who was staring blankly down at the body, “Shall you go or shall I?”

  “My God, this is unexpected. All I wanted to do was build my tower, and look what you’ve got me into. Hell, I even volunteered. More than hell, I was even enthusiastic. That will teach me. I’ll go. Lord Balantyne became a magistrate just about a year ago. He lives over on Blue Boar Street. I know him. He’s not stupid, he cares, thus he does try to do a decent job. Of course, the proctors will shriek that he shouldn’t be involved in this, since in their eyes it will be a university matter. But Lord Balantyne is just powerful enough to do as he pleases.”

  “This is a murder, Phillip, a very vicious murder. I hope the poor man is up to it.”

  “We will soon see, won’t we?”

  “Tibolt can’t be a part of this. None of us could bear it if he is. No, he can’t.” But Rohan was afraid, more afraid than he’d been since Lambie Lambert had kidnapped Susannah.

  28

  THE PARLOR IN BISHOP ROUNDTREE’S HOME WAS AS DULL and dim and depressing as the entry hall. Roundtree antecedents hung on the walls, a grim lot, an undoubtedly pious lot as well, all looking so self-righteous that it made Susannah shudder. She and the pretty young butler sat there as silent as statues, waiting for Jubilee Balantyne, Rohan, and Phillip to come down from examining the body of Bishop Roundtree.

  “He was my master,” said the pretty butler. “I loved him.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Roland. I was named after Roland, Charlemagne’s foremost warrior from the Song of Roland.” Roland sighed deeply. “My father disowned me when he realized that I would never even make a decent wild young man, much less a warrior, if there is any such thing about in these modern days. Well, I was a wild young man, but not in the way he wished me to be.”

  Whatever that meant. “How long did you work for Bishop Roundtree, Roland?”

  “Two years now. He took me in when I was a pathetic scrap living with a woman who was about to kick me out because I wouldn’t bed her. My master gave me grand clothes from the last century to wear and this magnificent wig. He gave me three wigs, actually, each of them in a different style, depending on the occasion. The one I am wearing is designed for everyday use, but today isn’t every day, is it? It began as an every day, but look what happened.” He stared down at his clasped hands. Susannah didn’t say anything.

  He raised his head finally and looked at her. A spasm of distaste crossed his pretty face. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’re only a woman. But I loved my master. He gave me everything. I would have done anything for him.”

  Why, she wondered, wouldn’t she understand? She said as nicely as she could, knowing he was profoundly distressed, “You said he was writing a sermon in his study. Lord Mountvale told me he thought Bishop Roundtree had been dead for several hours—his limbs were stiffening, you see.”

  Roland gulped, then nodded.

  “But if he was closeted in his study, with you guarding the front door, then who could have gotten in to kill him?”

  Roland gave a start. Then he leapt to his feet. “Dear God, you’re only a female, a creature offensive to my eyes, a creature the bishop castigated as a useless appendage to man save for her womb, yet it is a question that has merit. Who killed my master when he was alone? And I was always here, at my post. Two men came, but I turned them away. They were tradesmen. I merely sent them about their business. They were worth nothing.”

  “But Roland, someone had to have gotten in. Someone went to the bishop’s study on the second floor. Someone struck him with the andiron. It had to be someone he knew—because he was struck in the forehead. That means he was facing the person. If he had been afraid, surely he would have called out to you, wouldn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes,” Roland. “Oh, yes.” Then he buried his face in his hands. His periwig listed to the left. He straightened it without moving. He raised his head finally, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, my God,” he moaned, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Oh, my God. I did leave my post. I remember now. A boy came—from the cathedral, he said, and I was to go to the corner and meet one of the young curates. He would give me some papers for the bishop. Oh, God. I went to the corner, I didn’t even think it an odd request, but I should have. Why didn’t the young curate simply come here? He was nothing, and the bishop was the master of the cathedral. It is all my fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t, Roland. You did what was proper. Tell me about this young curate.”

  “He was there at the corner. He was dressed like a curate. He looked ascetic, if you know what I mean—which is odd, since his cheeks weren’t sunken and he wasn’t thin like ascetics are supposed to be. I never questioned that he was who he said. He
handed me a packet. I brought it back, but I didn’t disturb the bishop. He had told me he wasn’t to be bothered unless Oxford was falling into the sea. Well a simple packet wasn’t a dire matter, so I didn’t take it up. Oh, my poor master. I let him die. It’s all my fault.”

  “No,” Rohan said from the doorway. “No, it isn’t, unless you struck him with that andiron.”

  “His name is Roland,” Susannah said. “Roland, do you still have that packet of papers the young curate gave you?”

  “Why, yes, I do. I put them next to the salver on the table in the entryway.”

  “Perhaps we should look at them,” Rohan said.

  Roland leapt from his chair, as if thankful for something useful to do that would lessen his guilt. When he returned, he handed the packet to Rohan, never looking at Susannah.

  “Look at this,” Rohan said finally. “Blank pages, the entire lot of them, all blank.”

  “Oh, God, if only I’d looked, I would have known that something was very wrong. But I didn’t look. I just whistled after I’d set the packet on the table, made myself some tea in the kitchen, and didn’t think a single odd thought.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Roland,” Jubilee Balantyne said in a voice smoother than a rock in a creek bed. “Obviously the man who killed your master came in when he saw you leave. However, it isn’t your fault. You did what you were supposed to do. You performed a service requested of you. Now, tell me about this young curate. He had to be in on the scheme, you see. It was his job to get you away from the house.”

  Roland rose slowly to his feet. He really was lovely. Had he been wearing a gown, Susannah would have believed him a beautiful young woman.