Eyes on the passing streetscape, he waited . . . for Fate to reveal her full hand.
The others were following in two other hackneys that drew up outside the Adairs’ house immediately behind theirs. Percival descended first and paid off the jarvey. Thomas stepped down, then gave Rose his hand.
By the time she was on the pavement, Barnaby was already striding up the steps to his front door. He opened the door with his latchkey; everyone fell silent as, in a close group, trepidation rising over what they might find, they stepped over the threshold and into the front hall.
Everyone stood and listened, but nothing beyond the usual muffled sounds of staff busy in the rear of the house reached them.
Quietly, Montague shut the front door.
Barnaby signaled for them to remain silent and stay where they were. He walked into the drawing room but returned almost immediately.
A second later, Mostyn came hurrying through the door at the rear of the hall, summoned via the bellpull in the drawing room. The majordomo all but skidded to a halt when he saw the assembled group waiting.
Recovering his dignity, Mostyn drew himself up and bowed. “Sir, madam—my apologies. I didn’t hear you arrive.”
“Is everything in order here, Mostyn?” Penelope quietly asked.
Mostyn frowned. He glanced at Barnaby. “I think so, ma’am.”
The prevailing tension noticeably eased.
Rose all but sagged with relief. “Where are the children? Homer and Pippin?”
Mostyn’s expression remained unperturbed. “They’ve gone out for a drive with Mr. Roger Percival—he told me he’s cousin to Mr. Richard Percival, and Master Homer recognized him . . .”
Seeing the shocked dismay writ large on their faces, Mostyn floundered to a halt. He looked at Barnaby. “It is Mr. Richard Percival who’s the villain, isn’t it?”
Barnaby sighed through his teeth, then waved at Richard. “This is Mr. Richard Percival. And no. Sadly, we made a very large mistake. The villain in this case is Roger Percival.”
Stokes growled, “He must have had his man watching the house. He would have seen the children brought here this morning, and would, soon after, have seen you all depart, leaving William and Alice here with the staff.”
“And now he has them.” The quiet anguish in Rose’s voice raked them all.
Thomas reached for her hand, gripped it.
“Well,” Mostyn said. “Not exactly.”
All gazes whipped back to Mostyn’s face.
“By which you mean?” Barnaby prompted.
“Well, when he called and Master Homer was so delighted to see him, and Miss Pippin, too, we saw no reason to prevent him playing with the children in the parlor, although James remained with them the whole time, of course.”
“Are you saying our guards are with the children?” Penelope demanded.
Mostyn nodded. “Indeed, ma’am. The children have gone for a drive with Mr. Percival, but in our carriage, with Phelps and Conner to watch over them. And, I have to say, the drive wasn’t Mr. Percival’s idea—it was the children’s. They got it into their heads to go to Gunter’s for ices, and Mr. Percival asked if that was all right, given he was willing to escort them. The arrangement was that they would go to Gunter’s, then perhaps drive through the park before returning here.” Mostyn glanced at the clock on the hall table. “I would expect them back within the hour.”
Everyone looked at everyone else. No one was sure quite what to make of that.
Eventually, Violet voiced the question revolving in all their minds. “So what do we do? Wait in the drawing room for them to return, or . . . ?”
Richard Percival shifted. “No. We need to find them.” He met Rose’s gaze, then looked at Thomas. “That idea to go to Gunter’s? It might have seemed to be the children’s idea, but Roger would have seeded it. He’s an expert at steering people to do what he wants, and planting ideas in the children’s heads would be . . . well, child’s play for him.”
“But why would he want them out of the house?” Even as the words left her lips, Penelope waved the question aside. “No—that’s obvious. What I mean is, why did he bother going in our carriage with two large men guarding the children?”
Barnaby glanced at Mostyn. “Did he—Roger Percival—try to get you to let them go with him alone, without the guards? In a hackney, perhaps?”
Mostyn looked concerned. “Not exactly, but . . .” He glanced at Penelope. “I got the impression that he’d imagined doing that—taking them off in a hackney—but when James and I explained about the carriage and the guards, that we couldn’t agree to let the children go out without them, Mr. Percival fell in with our arrangements without any argument.”
Thomas met Stokes’s gaze. “Consider this—in arranging the deaths of Robert and Corinne Percival, Roger could not have known they would go for a drive until they did. Those murders were very neatly carried out, left no hints or clues that he was involved, yet he had to have been forming and re-forming his plan as he went. The murder of Atwell—I’m sure there’s no evidence there either, and almost certainly that would have happened in the same way, with Roger Percival reacting to an unfolding situation.” Thomas shifted his gaze to Richard Percival. “And as Richard said, Roger will continue to work the situation to his own ends, step by step making adjustments, until he gets what he wants.”
Rose nodded emphatically. Grasping Thomas’s arm, she locked gazes with Stokes. “Thomas and Richard are right. The children may appear to be safe, but they’re not. They’re with a man who wants to murder them—William, at least. And he will find a way, an opening, an opportunity, guards or not.”
Abruptly, Richard ran a hand through his hair. “He’ll probably view it as a challenge—him against Fate. Him succeeding in bending the situation to his own ends.”
Thomas stilled. Richard’s words resonated through him, a clarion call, and he knew. He looked at Barnaby. “We have to find the children.”
Barnaby met his gaze and didn’t argue.
Stokes stirred and growled, “I want to rush around to Gunter’s, but they most likely won’t be there.”
Barnaby glanced at Mostyn. “How long have they been gone?”
Mostyn looked at the clock. “They left at about twenty minutes past twelve, so they’ve been gone for close to an hour.”
“Long enough to have gone to Gunter’s and left.” Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “But I suspect none of us are imagining they’re currently bowling along the Avenue.” She looked at Barnaby, then at Stokes, at Richard, and finally at Thomas. “So where will he take them? How will he engineer the opportunity he wants?”
After several moments of silence, Richard said, “If he’s had murdering William in mind all along, and has come here today and succeeded in inveigling the children out of the house . . . he won’t stop there. He won’t pass up the chance.”
All color drained from Rose’s face.
Noting it, Thomas closed his hand over hers where it gripped his sleeve. He looked at the others. “We have to start thinking like him. We have to look at the challenges, the hurdles he has to overcome, from his point of view.” Something Thomas himself was exceedingly well qualified to do. “Whatever he does, he has to make sure he can either claim it was an accident, or, as with Atwell, and Robert and Corinne, not be identified as being with the victim when they died.”
Grim-faced, Barnaby nodded. “You’re right. So in this instance, given he’s known to be with the children, he’ll need to make William’s death appear to be an accident, and for that, he’ll need to get rid of the guards in some way.”
“Or,” Thomas said, “find somewhere Phelps, with his coach, and Conner, being a groom, can’t readily enter.”
“And which they won’t see as a dangerous place,” Violet put in, “and so won’t prevent the children from going in with Roger.”
“Exactly.” Thomas looked around the circle they’d formed. “So where will he—has he—taken them?”
&nb
sp; They all cudgeled their brains, then Penelope volunteered, “The Royal Exchange?”
Thomas thought, then shook his head. “No—too public. It qualifies otherwise, but there will be too many others about, and from memory, there’s only one entrance.” He paused, then said, “So we can add the stipulation that it needs to be somewhere either deserted, or close to it—and preferably somewhere the children themselves will be keen to go.” He glanced at Rose, then Richard. “Roger got the children to suggest going to Gunter’s, and he’ll do the same again—he’ll lead William and Alice to desire to go somewhere, to demand to be taken there, rather than Roger suggesting it himself. Only in response to their entreaties will he offer to take them, and that will help sway Phelps and Conner.”
Barnaby, Stokes, Penelope, Violet, and Montague were all nodding, all following the logic.
Thomas looked from Richard to Rose. He tightened his grip on her hand. “So where? Think—where’s the place the children will want to go to, a building of some sort, deserted or close to that, somewhere the guards will let them go into with Roger alone?” Thomas paused, then added, “And it has to be somewhere reasonably close—Mayfair itself or in areas close by.”
“Because,” Barnaby filled in, “Phelps and Conner would never countenance being away from here for more than a few hours, and they’ve already been—”
“Seddington House!” Richard Percival looked at Rose, then raised his gaze to Thomas’s face. “It’s in Tilney Street, so quite close. It’s been closed up for the last four years, but Roger almost certainly has a key—Marmaduke has, so Roger will have.”
“Yes!” Gripping Thomas’s arm more tightly, Rose met his gaze. “William will remember the house—he was five when last he was there.”
“And now it’s his.” Richard raised his hands. “So easy for someone like Roger to spark William’s curiosity, and then fan it to a blaze.”
“Oh, yes.” Thomas met Barnaby’s gaze. “I can definitely imagine that.”
Penelope frowned. “But would Phelps and Conner let the children go with anyone into a deserted house?”
Thomas stared at her for a second. “But will they know it’s deserted?” He looked at Richard.
Lips compressing, Richard shook his head. “No. They—neither the guards nor the children—would know, not unless Roger tells them, which, of course, he won’t. Because of the risk of burglary, we’ve taken care to keep the house looking like it’s occupied. Gardeners come in regularly, and the curtains aren’t all drawn. Occasionally, I send my staff around to clean the main rooms . . .” Richard looked at Rose. “I always wondered if you might, at some point, seek refuge there.”
“So you’re telling us,” Stokes said, his voice hard, “that there’s nothing that would alert Phelps and Conner to the fact that Roger Percival is taking the children into a deserted house?”
Richard nodded. “Exactly.” His expression hardened into a grim mask. “We need to get around there.” He turned to the front door.
“No—wait!” Stokes caught Richard’s arm and bodily hauled him back. “We can’t just go barging in. If we’re right, and Roger’s there, he’ll have William with him, and we don’t know how Roger will react. We can’t predict what he might do if we charge in.”
“Indeed.” Penelope nodded. “Roger sounds like the sort to seize the opportunity and take advantage of the clamor to push Homer—William—down the stairs, and then claim that William was startled and tripped.” From behind the lenses of her glasses, Penelope held Richard’s gaze. “That’s not the outcome we want.”
The heightened, battle-ready tension that had gripped Richard eased—a fraction. Curtly, he nodded. When Stokes released him, he shrugged his coat into place, then raked the group with his dark gaze, finally looking at Rose. He studied her for a second, then looked at Thomas. “We can’t just wait and see what happens—we have to go there and get William and Alice away from Roger. We can’t take the risk of leaving them with him for a moment longer than necessary.”
Thomas inclined his head. “No, we can’t.” Even he heard the harder, more incisive note in his voice. “But we have to go in with a plan—one with a decent chance of succeeding, of allowing us to bring William and Alice safely out of that house.” He drew breath and turned his mind to the game. Focused on that and blocked everything else out. “Roger doesn’t know we suspect him. He has no reason to imagine we know anything at all about the previous murders, much less about his murderous intentions.”
Letting the scenario unfurl in his mind, Thomas drew in a deeper breath, then looked at Rose. “Roger can’t know what Rose’s standing is with Richard, Foley, and even his father—you all might have met this morning and sorted everything out. What Roger does know is that Rose and the children have been in London for the past few days, living openly, and are welcome visitors to this house. He won’t think it odd if, having been out for a walk and noticing the Adairs’ carriage drawn up by the curb before Seddington House, after speaking with Phelps and Conner, Rose enters the house, thinking to join Roger and the children in reacquainting herself with her old home.” Thomas glanced questioningly at Richard.
Richard nodded. “True. So I can go in with Rose and—”
“No.” Thomas’s tone brooked no argument. He caught Richard’s frustrated gaze and spoke decisively and increasingly rapidly; time was, indeed, running out. “You can’t accompany Rose because Roger will see you as a threat. We can’t know what the situation will be when we enter the house, where Roger will be in relation to where Homer and Pippin—William and Alice—will be at that moment. We can’t risk spurring Roger into deciding to act first, and think up his explanations later.”
Thomas glanced at the others—Penelope, Barnaby, Stokes, Montague, and Violet. “Rose has to go in, but the only one of the males here who can go in with her is me. Roger will see me as a semi-cripple with no connection to the Percival family and no reason to suspect him of anything. He’ll dismiss me as of no real importance and will focus instead on talking his way around Rose.”
Of them all, it was Penelope who, with critical detachment, studied him most closely, then she nodded. Decisively. “I agree. You are the best chance William and Alice have for leaving that house alive.”
A split second later, Barnaby also nodded. “You’re right.” He started hunting through the pockets of the old coat he still wore. “For today, for now, it has to be that way. We don’t need to capture Roger today, we just need to stymie him.” He, too, was speaking rapidly, urgency mounting in his tone. “What we need to do now is stop Roger from killing William and get the children back in our hands.”
“Yes.” Stokes, too, nodded. “We can deal with Roger Percival later. The rest of us will hang back, out of sight of the house, and watch, but we can’t go in—not until the children are safe.”
“Here.” Barnaby handed his police whistle to Rose. “Blow on this and we’ll come running.”
“But don’t use it until you know William is safe,” Stokes warned. “Until you have him and Alice in your keeping.”
Rose took the whistle and tucked it into her pocket.
Like her husband, Penelope had also been hunting, in her case in her reticule. She’d pulled out a small pistol and expertly checked it; she handed it to Thomas with a simple “It’s loaded.”
He took it and slipped it into his pocket.
Looking lost and a trifle wild-eyed, Richard looked from Rose to Thomas, then at the others. “I can’t believe I’m going along with this, but . . .” He handed Rose a key he’d removed from his keychain. “The key to Seddington House, in case Roger has locked the door behind them. No reason you wouldn’t have had a key from before.”
Rose took the key. “Thank you.” She met Richard’s eyes. “We will do our best to bring them back.”
“No,” Thomas said, taking her hand as they all turned to the front door. “We will bring them back, safe and sound.”
“Right, then.” Stokes pulled open the front do
or. “Hackneys to the corner of Tilney Street and South Audley Street—we’ll walk in from there.”
Arm in arm with Rose, Thomas strolled along Tilney Street, cane gently swinging, an easy expression on his face, as if he and Rose were merely out to take the air, their goal most likely the grassy expanses of Hype Park, just across Park Lane. Penelope’s carriage drew his attention; it was drawn up outside one of the large old houses on the southern side of the street.
With his cane, he pointed it out to Rose, and after exchanging a comment, they crossed the street to investigate.
As Richard had told them, Seddington House appeared well tended and lived in. Windows were clean, and no litter, cobwebs, or other signs of neglect marred the face it showed the world. Wrought-iron railings separated the neat garden from the pavement. The house comprised two full stories, the upper topped by a low parapet overlooked by the dormer windows set in the steeply sloping slate roof. The ground floor was raised and small windows below suggested a working basement beneath. Architecturally, the house was a hodgepodge of older styles; a wide bay on the ground floor to one side of the front door supported a balcony above it, the balcony’s surrounding wall matching the parapet above.
Reaching the carriage and Phelps, who was standing beside his horses’ heads, Thomas smiled as the coachman bobbed a bow to Rose, then him. “Any sign?” Thomas asked with an innocent smile.
Alerted by Barnaby, who, still in his disguise of lowly workman, had sloped past and stopped to exchange a comment with Phelps, who had subsequently passed the message on to Conner, Phelps was understandably tense but strove to hide it. “No, sir.” Phelps touched a finger to his forehead. “None at all. They’ve been nowhere near any windows—least not the ones we can see.”
“Thank you.” Thomas glanced at Rose, who had been studying the house. She was doing well enough at concealing her agitation. Catching her eye, Thomas kept his smile in place. “Shall we go in?” The gesture that went with the words would, he hoped, be pantomime enough should Roger Percival be watching from anywhere inside the house.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 30