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

by Stephanie Laurens

  Flicking a glance at Rose, Percival added, “Which means I couldn’t possibly have been the man Rosalind heard speaking in the study.”

  After a moment of studying Rose, Percival swung to face her. “Where were you that you heard someone in the study—in the drawing room?”

  When, still frowning at him, Rose nodded, Percival looked sideways at Stokes. “I grew up in that house. I knew as well as Robert did about the problem of speaking privately in the study. If I had been so stupid as to want to boast to a friend about committing a double murder, I wouldn’t have chosen that room in which to do it.”

  “But . . .” Rose couldn’t work it out. “I know your voice. I heard you say the words—it certainly wasn’t Marmaduke. But aside from all that”—she searched Percival’s face—“who but you could say that only William stood between you and the estate?”

  Percival’s expression blanked. Slowly, his gaze on Rose, but not as if he was seeing her, he straightened. “Ah.” A second later, he looked at Stokes, then at Thomas and Barnaby. “So that’s what this”—with the fingers of one hand, he gestured at himself—“suspecting me stems from. You think I’m William’s heir.”

  Barnaby asked the obvious question. “Aren’t you?”

  Percival held his gaze, then quietly said, “Robert Percival wasn’t my brother. He was my half brother. I’m illegitimate, which is why there were so many years between us in age—our father dallied with my mother long after Robert’s mother had died. My mother was a widow and didn’t wish to remarry, but she died soon after birthing me. My father and Robert didn’t care about my birth. To them, I was always my father’s son, Robert’s brother.” He glanced at Rose. “Which is why Rosalind never knew of that, and, indeed, few outside the immediate family do.” Looking back at Stokes, he said, “But my illegitimacy does mean that I cannot inherit either the title or the entailed estate. If William dies, the estate will pass to Marmaduke, which is why Robert made a point of making me William’s principal guardian—he would have made me William’s only guardian except Marmaduke got . . . huffy. As it was easy enough to appease him with co-guardianship, Robert did so, knowing he, Robert, could rely on me and Foley to keep William and the estate safe through any term of minority.” Percival paused, then went on, “Robert and I were close—he knew I would protect William and Alice, and Rosalind, too, if anything happened to him, and, in fact, I swore I would.” He glanced at Rose. “It was that vow that’s driven me to search and search for William, Alice, and Rosalind through the last four years.”

  Rose held his gaze; it remained steady, unwavering—true. She frowned. “But who, then, did I hear? I will swear on any Bible that I definitely heard all I’ve said I did.”

  Percival’s gaze narrowed fractionally, then he nodded. “That’s why you fled.” His jaw firmed. “Because you thought . . . I was going to kill William.”

  “I had no idea you’d sworn to Robert and Mama to protect them.” Rose paused, then added, “Mama had previously asked me to promise to always keep them safe, so I felt I had to act—immediately, that night.”

  Percival grimaced. “In hindsight, that was an error on Robert and Corinne’s part.” He flicked a glance at Thomas, Stokes, and Barnaby. “The pair of them feared I would, entirely unintentionally, simply by being me, turn Rosalind’s impressionable head, so they asked me to keep my distance from her, which I dutifully did. But once they were gone”—Percival looked back at Rose—“that meant that I did not know Rosalind well. I had no idea why she had so precipitously, without any apparent reason, fled with the children. Conversely, she had no basis on which to judge me—neither of us knew the other well, certainly not enough to trust.”

  After a moment, Stokes tapped the table. “Back to the point—if it wasn’t you Rose heard, who was it?”

  Percival looked at Rose. “It couldn’t have been Marmaduke—you wouldn’t have mistaken his voice for mine, not even allowing for the distortion of the chimney.” Percival glanced at Stokes. “Marmaduke booms.”

  Rose shook her head. “It definitely wasn’t Marmaduke.”

  Percival searched Rose’s eyes . . . then his expression hardened. “Roger.” His tone was harsh. Turning to Stokes, Percival said, “It had to have been him. He and I sound alike enough to pass, certainly heard through that chimney. And although it’s Marmaduke who inherits after William, Marmaduke is . . . not a strong character, and very easily led. He’s most easily manipulated, virtually constantly, by his only son—Roger. That’s a large part of the reason why Robert made me William’s principal guardian.”

  “And,” Penelope said, speaking for the first time although she’d been following the unfolding story avidly, “because of that, Roger might, indeed, have stated that only William stood between him and the estate.” She appealed to the others. “Roger didn’t need to inherit himself. He just needed his father to, and that would achieve the same purpose—the same access to the estate’s funds.”

  Barnaby straightened. “When we interviewed Foley, he intimated that one of the co-guardians had tried to tap the estate for funds. That wasn’t you?”

  Percival shook his head. “That was Marmaduke, almost certainly at Roger’s behest. Foley can confirm that. That was exactly what he and I were there to prevent, and we did.”

  “We also learned,” Thomas said, “that someone set the legal clock ticking on William’s presumed death shortly after his disappearance.” He raised his brows at Percival.

  Who nodded. “Marmaduke again. Foley and I held back as long as we could, but Marmaduke is the legal heir, so could push the point, and we had to give way.”

  Montague cleared his throat. “Our investigations have been wide-ranging, and we noted that you have a steady drain on your income. More, you recently won fifteen thousand pounds at cards, and that has apparently disappeared.”

  Percival stared at Montague for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, with resigned acceptance, inclined his head. “Curtis and his men don’t come cheap.”

  “Damn!” Stokes muttered sotto voce. “Griselda was right.”

  When Percival cocked a brow at him, Stokes waved the point aside. “But speaking of Curtis, and all this searching you’ve been paying him to do, why didn’t you come to us—the police—when Rose and the children disappeared?”

  Percival grimaced and threw a sidelong look at Rose. “As I said, I didn’t know Rosalind well. I didn’t know anything about what she’d overheard—all I knew was that she was grief-stricken over the loss of both her mother and Robert, and that she loved the children—I did know that. Then, the next morning, she and the children were gone. We knew she’d taken them, that much was obvious, but in light of my vow to Robert and Corinne, the last thing I wanted to do was bring the law down on Rosalind’s head.”

  He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “We—me, Foley, and Marmaduke—reasoned that Rosalind had had some sort of hysterical breakdown and had, due to some imagined cause, for some unreal and therefore incomprehensible reason, kidnapped the children. We felt confident she wouldn’t harm them, and I assumed that by hiring Curtis we would track her down soon enough and rescue the children as well as her. We thought she needed care.” He glanced again at Rose, this time with a certain level of respect. “But we never caught up with her, not until recently, when we got some decent sightings in Cornwall.”

  Rose had been following the revelations, but distantly. Now she nodded, but, still frowning, said, “I still don’t see how it could have been Roger I overheard.” She met Richard’s gaze. “He wasn’t staying overnight.”

  “No,” Richard said. “But he was still at the Grange when Foley and I left. And he had a friend with him—they were intending to leave later and drive to town together . . . Atwood . . . no, Atwell. Ambrose Atwell.” Percival looked at Stokes. “That was Roger’s friend’s name. They were thick as thieves, and had been since their schooldays. That Roger would have so openly boasted to Atwell isn’t all that surprising.”

  Stokes’s exp
ression blanked. Then he blinked and looked at Sergeant O’Donnell.

  Who had stopped writing and was staring at Stokes.

  “Ambrose Atwell,” Stokes said. “Am I thinking of the right man, O’Donnell?”

  “If you’re thinking of that incident ’bout two years ago, then yes, sir—that’s the name I recall.”

  His expression growing grim, Stokes faced Percival. “Ambrose Atwell was found bludgeoned to death in a wood in Exeter about two years ago. It’s an unsolved murder. It was one of my cases. Atwell was well down on his luck and owed significant amounts to all sorts of people—we never got a whiff of who did it, and put his death down to falling foul of the wrong sort of creditors.”

  Percival didn’t say anything for several moments, then he sighed. “If Atwell was the friend Rosalind heard Roger boasting to, at some point in time, Atwell, pressed for cash, might have tried to blackmail Roger.”

  Stokes caught Percival’s gaze. “In your view, could your cousin have bludgeoned a friend to death?”

  After a long moment, Percival replied, “If all we’re thinking is correct, and, finally, we seem to be unraveling the truth, then Roger killed Robert and Corinne, two people who had never done him the slightest harm. Could he have killed again to hide that fact?” Gravely, Percival nodded. “Yes, I believe he could.”

  Stokes grimaced, then gestured to Morgan. “Get those shackles off.”

  Morgan came forward, key in hand. Percival held up his hands. While Morgan unlocked the shackles and removed them, Rose, studying Percival, said, “I’ve spent the last four years thinking you murdered my mother and Robert, and planned to kill William, but you’re innocent.”

  Percival shot her a faintly rueful glance. “I’ve spent the last four years thinking you had lost your mind and had kidnapped the children, but, clearly, you haven’t.”

  Rose could barely believe the sense of relief that was flooding her; she found herself returning Richard’s faint smile.

  A sudden tapping at the door drew everyone’s attention. Returning to his post beside it, shackles dangling from one hand, Morgan opened it.

  “I have a message for Inspector Stokes and must see it into his hands.”

  They all heard Violet’s clear tones. “Let her in,” Stokes ordered.

  Violet swept into the room. She noted everyone, then her gaze fixed on Percival. After a second of studying him—a regard he returned without reaction—she drew in a breath, glanced at Montague, then looked at Stokes. “If this man is Richard Percival, then he’s not the one who is in terrible debt. It’s his cousin, Roger Percival, who is under threat from his creditors.” Violet handed a note to Thomas. “Your man Drayton sent this an hour ago. I thought you might need to see it straightaway.”

  Unfolding the note, Thomas scanned the contents. “Drayton reports that Roger Percival is under mounting pressure to start paying off the quite mountainous debts he’s incurred . . . from the worst of the worst of the moneylenders operating out of the slums near Seven Dials.”

  Looking up, Thomas smiled at Violet. “Thank you.” He handed the note to Stokes.

  Who received it with a sharklike smile. Verifying the note’s contents, Stokes passed it on to Barnaby, then looked first at Percival, then at Rose. “Despite our wrong assumptions and the false trails we’ve pursued, we have, indeed, got to the truth. That”—he tipped his head at the note now in Montague’s hands—“is the final nail securing our case against Roger Percival.”

  Chair legs scraping on the wooden floor, Stokes stood. “Now.” He looked at Richard Percival. “Where can I lay hands on your cousin?”

  Percival drew out a fob-watch and checked the time. “As it’s not yet one o’clock, if you’re quick, you should be able to catch him before he leaves home.”

  The others all stood. Stokes stepped back from the table. “And his home is where?”

  On his feet, too, Percival replied, “He lives in my uncle’s town house in Mayfair—Number five, Albemarle Street.”

  The shock on everyone’s faces had Percival glancing around.

  “Oh, no!” The exclamation came from Penelope.

  The others all looked at her; she appeared utterly shocked and had paled.

  “What?” Barnaby demanded, his tone like a whip.

  Penelope met his gaze. “That gentleman’s gentleman who saw us in Conduit Street—the one who recognized Rose and William. I just realized—he also recognized me!”

  Along with all the others, Barnaby stared at her, then he looked at Richard Percival. “Does your cousin or your uncle have a gentleman’s gentleman?”

  Richard Percival nodded. “Marmaduke’s valet is old and rarely leaves the house. Roger’s man, on the other hand, is a slimy character.” He glanced at Penelope. “Shorter than average, a trifle rotund, slightly bald with thinning brown hair, a round face with pasty complexion, and a sad liking for paisley waistcoats.”

  Penelope swallowed; eyes widening, she nodded. “That’s him.”

  Silence fell as everyone extrapolated what that news might mean.

  Richard Percival was growing increasingly restive. Glancing from face to face, he eventually demanded, “Where are the children?”

  Stokes met his gaze, then shoved his chair under the table and turned for the door. “We left them under guard at the Adairs’ house. In Albemarle Street—Number twenty-four.”

  Rose uttered a choked sound and raced for the door. Thomas beat her to it, held it open for her, then, his expression grim, his jaw set, followed at her heels.

  Chapter

  15

  They piled out of police headquarters and rushed down the steps and across the street to where a row of hackneys idled. People were constantly coming to and leaving the building, so the hackneys waited expectantly.

  Thomas reached the first coach in the line and wrenched open the door. “Albemarle Street, as fast as you can,” he called to the jarvey as Rose caught up with him, gathered her skirts, and climbed up.

  Following her into the carriage, Thomas was about to slam the door when Richard Percival caught the outer handle.

  Percival met Thomas’s eyes, then his gaze shifted to Rose. “Please. I need to see that William’s all right.”

  Rose paused only for a second, then nodded.

  Thomas released his hold on the door and Percival opened it wider, climbed in, then shut it.

  The driver snapped his whip and the hackney pulled away from the curb, quickly picking up speed.

  Richard Percival dropped onto the seat opposite Thomas and Rose. Sitting back, he met Rose’s eyes, then grimaced and looked away . . . but then he forced his gaze back to meet hers. “I’m sorry. I feel like I failed the children, and you, and even more, Robert and Corinne.” He shook his head. “I knew Roger was always hungry for cash, always pushing for more, but I never imagined . . .” Gesturing helplessly, Percival looked away.

  Rose stirred. “Roger’s actions, and all the repercussions to date, are not your fault any more than they’re mine.” When Percival glanced at her, she continued, “As I see it, what’s happened so far is a . . . concatenation of events arising from the impact of Roger’s murderous actions on the careful arrangements Robert and Mama had set in place. If they hadn’t protected me from you, if they hadn’t hidden your illegitimacy from me, I would have known better than to think it was you I overheard speaking about killing William in order to inherit the estate. But I didn’t know, and so I acted.”

  Percival all but shuddered. “Thank God you did. I’ve been heaping oaths on your head for years, but if you hadn’t taken them and fled . . . who knows what might have occurred even on that night. We can never know.”

  “True. But my point is that both you and I acted as we did from the purest of motives—to protect the children. Neither of us, in my view, needs to apologize for that.”

  Percival held her gaze for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Thank you. In return, let me state that I in no way hold you responsible for the last f
our years’ difficulties.”

  Rose nodded in acceptance.

  Thomas shifted his gaze to the façades whipping past; their jarvey had taken him at his word and was weaving in and out of the traffic thronging Cockspur Street. As the jarvey somewhat enthusiastically took the turn into Waterloo Place, Thomas and Rose swayed, shoulders brushing.

  Percival, righting himself as the hackney straightened and pressed up Regent Street, glanced somewhat grimly at Rose. “I can’t help remembering how Roger used to put himself out to charm the children. Do you remember?”

  Thomas glanced at Rose as she shivered.

  “Yes.” She paused, then, sensing Thomas’s gaze, she elaborated, “Roger used to come up to the nursery and spend time with the children, playing silly games with them, making them laugh. That sort of thing.”

  Thomas hesitated but then voiced his inference. “So they will most likely view him as a friend.”

  Rose nodded. “If they remember him at all, and William certainly will, they’ll remember him as a family member, one they like.” She drew in a shaky breath, held it for a second, then said, “If he asks them to go with him . . . they very well might. He can be extraordinarily charming when he wants to be.”

  Percival leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs; light fell across his face, revealing lines of mounting anxiety. “I swear,” he said, his voice low and thrumming with latent anger, “if Roger has hurt them in any way whatever, I will literally wring his neck.”

  Thomas studied the other man’s face, then looked out of the window. If Roger Percival had done anything to harm William or Alice, all others would have to wait in line.

  Despite his rising protectiveness—stronger, finer, more powerful than any compulsion he’d ever felt before—he kept his mind focused and refused to let it fragment, to plunge into assessing this scenario and that. There was no point. They needed to find out if anything had happened to the children and, if so, what, before wasting energy in futile, too-early planning.