Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Reassured of her health and that of his child—his child, a word he’d never thought to have the chance to associate with himself—Montague considered, then grimaced. “No, I can’t see it. And us approaching them might backfire—they are more likely to notify Percival that someone’s asking about his case than be of any help to us.” He met Violet’s gaze. “Professional searchers, be they inquiry agents, debt collectors, or simply so-called hounds—people who find others for a finder’s fee—are only as successful as their reputation for absolute discretion allows them to be. One slip on that front, and no one would ever hire them again—and, sadly, most of the outfits depend on jobs from the less-than-legal side to stay in business.”

  Violet pulled a face. “Well, it was worth a thought. Now!” She opened a ledger she’d held in her lap. “You have at least two meetings you cannot wriggle out of today.”

  Montague smiled, listened, and allowed her to order his day.

  An hour later, Stokes slouched into Hertford Street and ambled to the eastern end, where the street ended in a small court.

  Almost at the end of the street on the southern side, two men, beggars if one judged by their outer clothing, were sitting on the pavement, their disreputable backs propped against the front railings of one of the town houses.

  They were quietly chatting. The only thing notable about them was that they hadn’t yet been moved on by the local constabulary.

  Not exactly surprising, given they were the local constabulary.

  Stokes halted by the men’s feet. He looked down at their regulation boots and nodded at them. “I’d get those out of sight if I were you.”

  Both men colored and drew in their legs, hiding their boots under the skirts of their rough frieze coats.

  Briefly, Stokes glanced around the street. He didn’t stare at any one house in particular but confirmed that there was nothing remarkable about Richard Percival’s house—it was a terrace town house, typical of the area. He looked down at his men. “Where’s Philpott?”

  “Off on a break,” Sergeant O’Donnell replied. “He’ll be back shortly, then I’ll move to the corner and take up my street-sweeping duties again.”

  Stokes nodded. “So what have you learned?”

  “He came in last night, just before midnight. Went into one of the downstairs rooms for a while, then he went upstairs to the front room to the left above the door, then it was lights out. This morning, the curtains were opened at about ten o’clock. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since.”

  Stokes looked at the younger constable. “What’s the household like?”

  Baby-faced, and with a certain easy charm, Morgan had proved adept at getting kitchen maids and even cooks to talk. In this instance, he pulled a noncommittal face. “I thought as how there’d be sure to be stories, but no—seems his staff is small and keeps to themselves. Quiet household—I got that from the scullery maid next door.”

  Stokes frowned. “No hints of any wild parties, orgies, that kind of thing?”

  Unblushing, Morgan, who was older than his looks painted him, shook his head. “Not a peep. Could be a country vicar for all I heard.”

  Inwardly frowning more definitely, Stokes said, “Keep up the watch. You know what to do if he moves?”

  “Aye.” O’Donnell lumbered to his feet. “Two to follow, and the other to alert the station and then you.”

  Stokes hesitated, then said, “If he doesn’t move other than this evening, and that only socially, I’ll come by tomorrow sometime, and we’ll reassess.”

  He saw both men fight the urge to snap off a salute.

  “Aye, sir,” they chorused.

  Without any further sign, Stokes strolled on around the court, then back up the other side of the street.

  As he walked, he pondered the picture of Richard Percival his men had painted.

  Not at all the portrait Stokes had expected.

  “Then again, being strapped for cash, perhaps he’s simply living as he must, and as for today, he’s on edge and waiting for news.” That was a reasonable, perfectly plausible explanation. Stokes raised his head, lengthened his stride, and headed back to his office.

  Later that morning, Thomas climbed the stairs to Drayton’s office, which was located on the first floor of a narrow building off Threadneedle Street.

  Drayton’s office overlooked the street. Reaching the door at the end of the corridor, Thomas opened it and went in.

  He’d sent word he was coming; the clerk, seated behind his desk, looked up, then, a smile blooming, leapt to his feet, rattled off a welcome, and rushed off to fetch Drayton.

  Although they corresponded regularly, Thomas hadn’t set eyes on Drayton for more than ten years, yet the man who followed the clerk from Drayton’s inner sanctum was instantly recognizable, at least to Thomas. Physically, Drayton was average in every conceivable way, the sort of man who could disappear among five others and not be remembered. But it wasn’t for his physical attributes that Thomas had hired him; Drayton’s mind and attitudes meshed well with his own. Mild manners and an easy temperament, combined with an astute wit and an almost obsessive thoroughness, along with inviolable discretion and a willingness to trust in his client and act on orders without requiring explanations, had long made Drayton the perfect man-of-business for Mr. Thomas Glendower.

  To his credit, Drayton, who was aware that Thomas had been in a serious accident from which he had spent literally years recuperating, took in Thomas’s state in one swift but comprehensive glance, then, a smile wreathing his face, held out his hand. “Sir! It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Smiling easily, Thomas grasped the proffered hand. “Indeed. I’m pleased to have this opportunity to catch up with you.” He was somewhat surprised to realize that the words were true. Drayton had been one of the few constants in his life, an association that had survived untainted by the actions of his other persona.

  “But come in, come in.” Drayton waved Thomas to his inner office. “I take it you wish to confer regarding this matter you’ve asked me to look into?”

  “Yes.” Thomas waited until he was settled in the chair before Drayton’s desk and Drayton had shut the door and resumed his seat before continuing, “I believe we are currently up to date and as one regarding my own affairs. Unless you have anything urgent to lay before me, I suggest we leave those to one side.”

  Drayton nodded. “I’m aware of nothing that requires our attention at this point. All the funds are performing as expected, and we’ve executed your last orders. As usual, they proved prescient and well timed. Your affairs are in a very sound state.”

  Thomas shared Drayton’s smile. “Indeed. So, to the other matter. There have been developments.” Smile fading, he went on, “The reason I requested you to look into Richard Percival’s affairs is because somewhere in those affairs lies a motive for murder, or so I and others believe. Our understanding is that Richard Percival has some compelling financial need such that he must inherit his late brother’s estate in order to meet it. Indeed, there are sound reasons to believe that Percival arranged the murders of his late brother and his brother’s wife in order to achieve that end. At present, only Percival’s young nephew stands in his way.” Thomas met Drayton’s increasingly wide eyes. “The boy—Viscount Seddington—is currently under my protection. In light of the seriousness of the situation, I have enlisted the aid of Mr. Barnaby Adair and, through him, Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”

  Drayton straightened, surprise giving way to interest.

  Thomas paused to assemble his words, then went on, “We are now all investigating in our various ways. Adair and Stokes count Montague, of Montague and Sons, who I am sure you know of, as one of their colleagues, and he, too, is now actively involved. What Montague and his people, and I, and through me, you and your staff, need to define is Percival’s motive. Why is he so desperate to inherit the estate?” Thomas paused, then allowed, “There could be reasons other than money, and others are investigatin
g that possibility, but such reasons appear much less likely than a need for funds. So.” Glancing up, he met Drayton’s eyes. “You’ve already canvassed Percival’s standing in the general sense, and I’ve passed that information on to Montague. He, I believe, will use his contacts to investigate what one might term the establishment side of things—the banks, Percival’s man-of-business, the Exchange. We can, I think, reply on Montague to cover those angles and uncover whatever is there to be found.”

  “But there might not be anything.” Drayton, growing progressively more intrigued, was now leaning forward, forearms on his desk. “Percival’s need might stem from a different arena.”

  “Indeed.” Thomas exchanged a knowing look with Drayton. “While we’ve never dabbled in such arenas ourselves, we’ve often had a need to learn whether others we’ve considered allying ourselves with have associations in such spheres. In investigating Percival, what I would like you to do is make inquiries in the . . . shall we say more shady side of business? See if you can find any whisper of his name in relation to any less-than-straightforward venture, any questionable investment, any high-risk game. There must be some revealing association somewhere, but it might well date back four, or even more, years. Alternatively, this may be an ongoing, constantly changing, and escalating situation, with him rolling investment debts from one vehicle to another, increasingly desperately, so cast your net wide, and don’t discount any connection you might find.”

  Eyes narrowed in thought, Drayton was nodding. Refocusing on Thomas, he asked, “Do you want me to start now, or wait until you see what Montague turns up?”

  “No. Start now. Normally, yes, we would investigate sequentially, moving from the aboveboard to the less-regulated spheres, but, in this case, we don’t know how much time we have. If Percival was desperate enough to commit murder four years ago, and has pursued his nephew doggedly ever since, then we can’t afford to dally over exposing him—every day he remains free, the boy remains at risk.” Gripping his cane, Thomas rose. “I’ll inform Montague of the tack we’re taking.”

  Drayton came to his feet. “Yes, of course. We’ll get onto the matter right away.”

  Rounding the desk, Drayton shook Thomas’s hand, then opened the door and escorted him through the outer office. Pausing before the outer door, Drayton asked, “Where should I send my reports?”

  Thomas met his gaze. “Send them direct to Montague. It’ll be best if he coordinates our efforts. I believe his offices are off Chapel Court.”

  Drayton nodded. “Yes. They are. Well”—he grinned a touch sheepishly—“in the realm of finance, Montague is nearly as revered as you are.”

  Thomas laughed. “I hadn’t thought . . . but I suppose that’s true.” Drayton opened the door. Thomas stepped out, pausing to add, “I’ll tell Montague you’ve been conscripted to the cause so he’ll know to expect to hear from you.”

  With an exchange of courtesies—a bow on Drayton’s part, a nod on Thomas’s—they parted.

  Thomas made his way slowly back down the stairs. Reaching the pavement outside, he stepped to the curb, hailed a hackney, gave the jarvey the direction, and climbed inside.

  Settling on the seat, he used the moments as the conveyance rattled toward Lincoln’s Inn to reflect on the sharpening of his senses, an increased engagement with everything about him; it had been a long time since he’d felt that—the drive that came from having a real purpose.

  Of being committed to seeing something done and acting to make it so.

  He dwelled on the change for several minutes, then turned his mind to his destination.

  Like Drayton, Marwell, his solicitor, would be pleased to see him, and would be happy to undertake whatever tasks he required. With Marwell, there were several issues Thomas wanted addressed, and not all concerned Richard Percival. But aside from those other matters—all straightforward enough—he wanted to hear Marwell’s assessment of Foley firsthand, after which he intended to explain the situation with Richard Percival as they understood it, much as he had with Drayton, and then invite Marwell to speculate on any legal twists or turns Percival might think to use, either as hurdles in their path or routes to victory.

  It would be just as well to have some inkling of any other fronts that might open up in their battle to contain, and then expose, Percival, and reinstate William to his birthright.

  It was just short of midday when Barnaby and Stokes arrived at Mr. Foley’s offices in Gray’s Inn. The morning had gone in convincing a magistrate to grant them an order sufficient to compel Foley to reveal the details about the Percival estate that they needed to confirm; from everything they’d learned of him, there would have been no point calling on Foley without that order in hand.

  Foley’s chambers occupied a prime position at one corner of one of the inn’s buildings. A sober clerk who bore all the hallmarks of being wedded to the neat and precise consented to allow them to enter. Asking them to wait in the foyer just inside the outer door, the clerk retreated with both Stokes’s and Adair’s cards in hand to inform his master of their wish to consult him.

  The clerk tapped on a door leading off a short corridor at the rear of the reception area, then entered. He did not immediately return.

  Arching his brows, Barnaby looked around. “He’ll be trying to imagine what we’re here about.”

  Stokes snorted. “By all accounts, he’s not the sort to entertain the police on a regular basis—you’d think he’d be curious.”

  Barnaby chuckled. “I think it’s more likely he’ll view us as a damned nuisance.”

  The door opened and the clerk reappeared. Frowning down at the cards he still held, he approached, then, looking up, handed both cards back. “Mr. Foley says he can spare you a few minutes. But only a few minutes.”

  Tucking his card back in his pocket, Stokes smiled one of his more cutting smiles. “We’ll see about that.”

  The clerk threw him an uncertain look but opened the gate in the low wooden railing and waved them through. He then hurried to take his place ahead of them, leading them to his master’s presence. Opening Foley’s door wide, the clerk stepped inside; standing with his back to the panels, he announced, “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, and Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, sir.”

  Stokes threw the clerk a resigned look as he passed. Following Stokes, Barnaby offered the clerk a grin and forbore from commenting that his performance would have done Barnaby’s mother’s butler proud.

  It was, after all, Foley they had come to tease.

  Dressed in severe black, Foley rose from his chair behind a large, black-stained desk. The bow window behind him was diamond-paned and fractured the sunlight pouring in from the court beyond. The walls of the room were covered in bookshelves hosting countless legal tomes, but it was the desk, and the man behind it, that dominated the quietly comfortable room.

  Despite the glare behind him, Foley’s desk was sufficiently far into the room for his features to be readily discerned. From beneath thick, but slightly straggly, white brows, dark eyes regarded them with no hint of welcome. Foley’s cheeks were sunken, his lips thin. After considering them for a silent second, he waved to two chairs angled before the massive desk. “Gentlemen, please be seated.”

  Foley didn’t offer to shake anyone’s hand, but he nodded to each of them, a reserved and carefully polite inclination of the head for Barnaby, and a somewhat brisker nod to Stokes.

  They sat, and Foley settled once more in his chair. Leaning his forearms on the desk, he clasped his hands and looked first at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “I understand you wish to speak with me, gentlemen—might I inquire about what?”

  Foley’s tone was distant, not arrogantly so, but in keeping with his image of rigid correctness.

  Unperturbed, Stokes replied, “We’re here to ask for information on the Percival estate.” When Foley opened his mouth, Stokes held up a hand, staying the obvious protest. Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, Stokes continued, “Understanding, as we do, the con
straints of client privilege, we have obtained a magistrate’s order covering the issues about which we need to interview you.” Drawing out the order, Stokes unfolded the sheet, glanced at it, then handed it across the desk.

  The first sign of a frown tangling his white brows, Foley accepted the document. Groping for, then raising, a pair of pince-nez, he perched them on the tip of his patrician nose and focused on the formal order.

  Foley read the order line by line. By the time he reached the end, his features had set in a patently disapproving cast. Setting the order down, he studied it for several seconds, then raised his gaze to Stokes. “Very well, Inspector. You may ask your questions.” Foley lifted his head a fraction, in subtle defiance. “However, please understand that I will not be volunteering anything beyond the issues detailed in the order, nor will I indulge in any speculation that in any way concerns the Percival family or the Seddington estate.”

  Sound, but rigidly conservative. Barnaby recalled Thomas’s description of Foley’s reputation; everything Barnaby had thus far seen, from the office, to the clerk, to the man’s private office and the man himself, confirmed that assessment.

  Stokes didn’t immediately respond to Foley’s declaration but instead studied the man with a somewhat piercing and steady gray gaze. Then he slowly arched a brow. “I understand the heir to the estate, William Percival, Viscount Seddington, is currently missing, having disappeared on the evening of his parents’ funeral.”

  Stokes now had Foley’s complete and unwavering attention; the man’s face gave little away, but the tension in his hands, his frame, suggested he was hanging on Stokes’s every word.

  “Our current investigation,” Stokes smoothly continued, his gaze fixed on Foley’s face, “concerns the matters leading up to the boy’s disappearance, and what forces, if any, might be standing in the path of his return.”