“Not entailed?” asked Connie. “How can that be?”
“Entailment only applies to monies derived directly from the estate: that is, sale of property, income from associated businesses or farms; that sort of thing. This account was opened by the late baron sixteen years ago, using only his Parliamentary salary. The amount currently in the account is 34,492 pounds and twelve shillings. There are no cheques outstanding.”
“But it’s not entailed?” William persisted, looking at his mother angrily. “Does that mean it might be left to someone else?”
The lawyer steeled himself to present the lemon.
“I have specific instructions regarding this account, all laid out in the addendum I mentioned to you earlier, Lord Wychwright. It was signed by your late father in my presence and witnessed by myself and two others at my firm. The account is tied to the management of a property in St. Marylebone on Munster Square; a handsome terraced home, completely furnished. Both the house and the Silverman’s bank account are left to Lady Cordelia Wychwright.”
Will practically shot out of the chair, ready to strike the poor lawyer in the face. “What sort of trickery is this? I’ll see you in court, if you think you’re going to pull something like this, Allendale! Father would never have left all that money and a house to a mere daughter! It’s ludicrous!”
Ever the schemer, Constance’s mind was already whirring with ideas, finding ways to manoeuvre the newly set chessboard to her advantage.
“Let’s not be hasty, my dear. Mr. Allendale is only telling us what your father wanted. We can have another lawyer take a look, if you like, but why must this be a problem?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because it leaves the lion’s share to her, that’s why! How am I supposed to manage an expensive estate on so very little?”
“Your father often complained that the entailed accounts were inadequate, but I’m sure there are ways to make them grow. Isn’t that true, Mr. Allendale?”
“I’ve many banker friends who insist that is true, Lady Constance. I’d be pleased to put you in touch. Might I suggest speaking with Mr. Harmon at Silverman’s? He’s done very well for your late husband’s private account. I’m sure he’d offer sound advice for your son as well.”
“A very good idea,” she answered, planning to call on Harmon. After all, Cordelia was young. Perhaps, she required an advisor to help administer the sizeable account.
The lawyer continued to slice the indigestible lemon. “Now, allow me to read the aforementioned letter to you all. I have two signed and witnessed copies at my office, of course, and you may keep this one, along with all the other papers.” He cleared his throat to read:
‘My Dearest Constance,
If you are hearing Allendale read this, then I am dead. I have a few confessions to make to you, and you will not like hearing them.’”
The lawyer paused, peering at them over his tortoise shell spectacles. “I did warn the late baron that you would find it difficult to hear these words read aloud, but his lordship insisted. Now, to continue:
‘I pray first of all, that my death is a natural one, but I suspect the opposite will be true. My health could not be better, but there are certain men with whom I’ve been forced to deal of late who’ve made threats against me. I have my suspicions as to the real face behind these threats, but I shan’t write that name here. Suffice to say, I am ashamed to think that the line of accusation might even reach to my own family.’”
“His own family?” shouted William. “Does he accuse one of us of murder?”
“No, sir, I don’t believe one can construe that. May I continue?” Clearing his throat, Allendale began anew. “He goes on:
‘My greatest concern at this point is for my children. William will have no trouble moving on and thriving. I expect him to do as he’s always done, but I pray that his proclivities in certain darker venues come to an end and that he produces an heir to continue the barony.
‘Ned, my gentlest son, I’ve left you three hundred pounds in cash and all my personal jewellery (save that which is entailed): three gold watches, a diamond stickpin, and two rings. Sell them, if you like, and use the money to care for my granddaughters. I only wish I’d known them better.
‘Tom, I fear that your choices in life give me no alternative but to leave you at the mercy of your brothers. You’ve squandered every penny I’ve ever given you, but if Will or Ned offers you succor, then may you prove wiser with their generosity.
‘Constance, I have little to give you, dear wife. I know our marriage wasn’t always joyful, but I still remember the lovely girl with whom I first danced beneath the stars in Cumbria. I leave you a thousand pounds cash in an envelope. May it bring you happiness, my dear. I’m sorry my ambitions were never enough to supply all your needs.
‘Finally, to my darling daughter, I leave my heartfelt love and fondest wishes for a bright future. I’ve secured you a house and enough money to provide a few years’ independence. I do not want you at the mercy of a man who mistreats you, dearest Delia. I would have you smile for the rest of your days and singing like an angel!
‘Now, I will sign this letter and leave you to discuss its content. I imagine you’ll challenge my decisions, but you’ll find all is in perfect order. I’ve made some poor choices in my life, but I pray to our Saviour that He allows me enough years upon this earth to become a better man. If not, then I leave it to His mercy.
‘Much love and affection,
‘David, 9th Baron Wychwright’”
Allendale removed his spectacles. “Thus ends the letter. Are there questions?”
“Hundreds!” shouted William, now glaring at his sister. “It’s clear that Delia bewitched my father into making such a ridiculous bequest, and I intend to challenge it.”
“That is your right, sir. My firm remains available to you at any time. I believe, though, that you’ll find the clauses are airtight and completely legal. Now, I’ll leave all these papers with you so you may discuss matters.”
Allendale stood and followed the butler to the entrance, where he donned a stylish felt hat and Harris Tweed coat. Once he’d gone, Connie searched through the stack of papers to find the letter, reading through it.
“Delia, I think you and your brothers should leave William and me to talk. Go lie down for an hour, dear.”
Without a word, the girl rose to her feet and left the room. Ned and Thomas did the same, and the dowager baroness turned to her eldest.
“A legal challenge could ruin us, William. There must be another way.”
“I don’t care if it breaks us. I’ll not have my sister richer than I am!”
“You do care, Will. You must! Now, listen to me. I’ve not done all this to lose everything.”
“Done what?”
“Acted, my dear. Acted! Unlike your father, I see the world as it is, and I bend its imperfections to fit my needs. You can learn to do that as well, but you must listen to me! Cordelia may have inherited a house and money, but we can make use of it, if we are wise. Your friends, Sir Richard and Mr. Brandon. They are both available, are they not?”
“What do you mean available? What have they to do with this legal fiasco?”
“I mean, are they unattached? Neither is engaged, I hope?”
“Of course, they’re not engaged; though Brandon has a sort of understanding with some banker’s daughter. Why?”
“Because, the right marriage would return the money and this Marylebone house to us! A husband would gain legal access to Delia’s inheritance, but the man who controls the husband, also controls the property. Surely, you can manage that!”
“And Aubrey? Isn’t it better that she marry him? The earl has boatloads of cash and influence to rival the queen’s.”
“True, but there’s no guarantee he’d share that wealth with us, and he’s hardly a malleable sort of man, now is
he?”
Cunning and avarice shadowed Wychwright’s face, and he began to see his mother’s point. “We’d only be thinking of Delia’s welfare,” he whispered in an oily voice. “She used to consider Sir Richard rather handsome, as I recall. And he does find her attractive; for a woman, that is. Yes, Mother, I believe that’s what we’ll do. I’ll invite both men over tonight, and we’ll hash it all over. We might even play cards for it. The winner gets my sister!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
7:02 am, 21st December, 1888 - Charles Sinclair’s Journal
It’s been a strange and very busy three days since my last entry. I’d hoped to write daily, but time works against me, I fear. We arrived at Branham on the evening of the 19th as planned, but since then, very little has gone as we’d anticipated. Immediately on arrival, I was informed by our butler Mr. Kay that the village’s constable asked to speak with me, as soon as possible. Joseph Tower is a green but eager young officer, assigned to the village only a month ago after spending a year at D-Division. He grew up here, so he fits in well, but he’s had little experience with anything other than petty crimes.
(MEMO: Contact Draper about the boy).
The problem is this: The morning of the 19th, three men from the Cambridge team for the Lion Hall survey were reported missing. Late night, one was found dead, presumably murdered. Such a crime is beyond the constable’s experience, which means I either bring in another from London, or break a promise to my wife and become involved myself. My beautiful Beth did not hesitate, but insisted I lead the investigation. She reminded me that, as Duke and Duchess, it is our responsibility to look after the villagers in legal matters.
The dead man and his two missing colleagues had worked with the Blackstone Society’s Branham project for the past five and a half weeks. All three were last seen on the morning on the eighteenth at Lion Hall by Edwin Clark and his men. He reported them as friendly but somewhat young—except for a Cambridge don named Seth Holloway, Lord Salter’s son, whom Clark knew well from previous visits to the hall. We’ve shut down all activity at the survey site and commenced a wide-area search.
The don I mentioned is one of Elizabeth’s oldest, closest friends, and I could tell by her reaction that any risk to his welfare would affect her deeply. But rather than wring her hands in despair, my amazing wife has rallied into action, allowing me to see her as reigning Duchess of Branham in the truest sense. She reminds me now of that ‘take-charge’ little girl I first met in ‘79, and only a fool would get in that lady’s way.
Upon hearing the report of the missing men, Elizabeth immediately gathered the entire staff and asked every able-bodied man to leave off his current task and join the search. She’s organised the farmers’ wives into teams to provide meals and other refreshments for the searchers. Every cook and maid in the hall is helping to bake bread, roast meats, trim vegetables and pack fruit. Adele had also pitched in by filling baskets with food. These tireless women have made hundreds of sandwiches and gallon upon gallon of coffee, tea, and hot cocoa, and I praise God for each of them!
The weather has turned quite cold since we arrived. I expect snow before too long. It’s imperative that the two missing men be found soon; otherwise, we’ll be searching for bodies. If it’s Seth Holloway’s body awaiting me in Branham, I fear my wife will never be the same.
It’s a grim way to begin so meaningful a season. I shall write more later, but I’m to meet Baxter downstairs in ten minutes. I’ve pressed dear Cornelius into service as my detective inspector this morning. He knows the area and the villagers as well as any, which will make my task easier. And, though he doesn’t know it, this will permit me to see how his mind works as an ICI agent.
Four days until Christmas, and we begin it with a death. May the Lord bring his tender mercies to the dead man’s family, whoever he might be!
Chapter Thirty
9:52 am - Branham Village Constabulary
Constable Joseph Tower longed for the morning to end. When the twenty-two-year-old replaced Charlie Graham as village policeman, young Joe assumed his life in Branham would be much as it had always been: spend time with the locals, take in a bit of fishing at Queen’s Lake, enjoy the spring fête and the fall apple festival, and court Betty Andrews. For fifteen and a half weeks, that was precisely the life he’d led, but no longer. As of last night, all such idylls vanished, when a dead man was discovered near the Branham rail sheds.
The body was found on a spur that ran into one of the car sheds owned by the duchess. The dead man wore no clothing, and his back, arms, legs, and stomach showed signs of violent torture. His genitals had been rudely excised as though torn off, and not one drop of blood remained in the man’s veins. The sight caused Joe to vomit up his breakfast. George Price pronounced it murder by unknown means, but it was up to Tower to sort it all out. The lad had no idea where to start.
The constable convened a meeting inside the Abbot’s Ghost, located opposite the green. The landlord served up coffee, fried bread, sausages, and eggs to the sleep-deprived young policeman as they waited for reinforcements from the hall.
Relief arrived in the form of two men. One stood taller than the other by two inches, however, the shorter man, gave the impression of greater size due to a barrel chest and broad face. Both were dressed fashionably well, their demeanor one of authority and calm.
“Good morning, Constable,” greeted the bear-like fellow. “Danny, it’s a dark matter that calls us together.”
“So it is, Mr. Baxter,” concurred the landlord. “Might that be our new master, sir?”
“It is indeed. Allow me to introduce His Grace, Commissioner Charles Sinclair, 1st Duke of Haimsbury. Sir, this gentleman is Danny Stephens, landlord of the Ghost. You’ve already met our new village constable, Joseph Tower, a local lad who’s done us all proud.”
Charles shook their hands amiably. “Good to meet you, Mr. Stephens. Baxter is right, gentlemen. It is indeed a dark matter which draws us together.”
“It certainly is, Your Grace,” said Tower.
“Constable, as we’re discussing murder, I think it’s best you call me Commissioner.”
“Yes, sir. I got a wire this morning from Inspector Reid at H, sir. He’s offered to come help once the fire inspections are finished. Might I ask, sir, what is this ICI organisation he mentioned?”
A third voice replied from the snug. “That’s a very good question, Constable. We’re all wondering about that, aren’t we, Michael?”
Charles peered into the dimly lit interior of the small room next door. What he saw only doubled his dismay. “Fred Best and Michael O’Brien. Both on the loose in Branham of all places. Might I ask how you walk free, O’Brien? Shall I inform Newgate that I’ve found their missing prisoner?”
“Commissioner, you know very well that my friend walks free because he is innocent,” Best replied. “No evidence and, therefore, no infraction of the law.”
“Give me time, Best. I’ll find some law you’ve broken and see you both enjoying our comfortable cells.”
“I ask you, sir, is that the speech of a prominent duke? And one so very royal at that?”
“Get out, Best. We’re engaged in private business, and you’re not invited.”
The reporter casually lit an Egyptian cheroot with a gold lighter. “Murder is public business, Commissioner. Is the ICI investigating this as another ritual killing? Is Ripper expanding his field beyond London, into Kent?”
It was Baxter who answered. “A gentleman would never harass an honest man who serves the public, sir. Newspapers provide a service, but when the printing press becomes a platform from which to launch lies and innuendo, then it is time we of the public demand more honest writers and refuse to buy your filthy rags until you comply! The British pound speaks with a mighty voice, sir, and even your employer must bow to the power of commerce!”
Both reporters stared at Baxter, d
evoid of any answer to his attack. Rather than engage further, Fred dropped a shilling onto the table and picked up his hat and coat.
“Michael and I were just leaving as it happens, so you may call off your bulldog, Commissioner. There are other ways to obtain information for our readers.”
The pair left, and Charles watched as they wandered along the high street, stopping at each shop to talk with the merchants. He turned and patted his friend on the back. “Well done, Mr. Baxter! Going forward, I believe I’ll keep you close when dealing with the press. Bulldog, indeed! Now, if I might get a cup of coffee, we’ll talk through what you know, Constable Tower.”
Charles and Cornelius took seats at a wooden table inside the vacated snug, warming themselves by the pleasant fire. Danny brought each a steaming cup of strong coffee. By half past ten, Tower, Stephens, and George Price had joined them at the table.
“I’ll turn the sign, sir,” said Danny. “Just to let the locals know we’re shut till later. Oh, mornin’, Grimes. You’re runnin’ late. I just ‘bout locked ya out. Everyone’s in the snug.”
Price looked up as a sixth man entered the room. “Welcome, Mr. Grimes,” he called to the newcomer. “You know most everyone here, I think, but this handsome gentleman is the hall’s new master, Duke Charles of Haimsbury. You may call him Commissioner Sinclair in this instance, for the duke’s also a police detective, and he’s in charge of the murder investigation.”
“An honour ta meet ya, Yer Grace,” the uniformed man said, bowing slightly. “It’s a right mess, m’lord, iffin ya don’ mind me sayin’. This’ll cause delays in the schedule, an’ it’ll affect London soon.”
“Why is that, Mr. Grimes?” asked Sinclair.
“The body, sir. It’s inside the rail station, an’ I daren’t let passengers see that! Lord Almighty, I wish I’d never seen it, sir! I got my char woman moppin’ up the floors, o’ course. You’d think a man with such wounds as he got’d leave the floor in a right state, but there’s not much blood, only muddy boot marks. But with him layin’ there, I can’t open up the station, lessin’ you gives the word ta move the poor sod elsewhere.”
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