It was time Barton earned his salary.
And damned if he hadn’t been right—the murderer had, indeed, returned to the scene of the crime.
Swinging the laneway gate open, Swithin all but pushed her through, crowding close by her shoulder in the narrow lane. His fingers clamped about her elbow; the muzzle of the pistol dug into her side.
A chill slid through her at the touch of cold metal through her silk gown.
“See the carriage?” Swithin hissed, urging her forward.
She could hardly miss it; a black traveling carriage, it was drawn up across the mouth of the lane.
There had to be a coachman on the box, but doubtless he was Swithin’s man. But Barton would be just across the street.
She let Swithin propel her forward. As they neared the carriage, he spoke into her ear. “Be quiet and get in.”
She managed not to humph derisively.
The instant she stepped out of the laneway, she wrenched back from him, twisting her elbow, pulling away from the cold metal of the pistol’s muzzle—praying he wouldn’t shoot her in the open street. “Help! Ow! You’re hurting me! Let go!” Desperate, she glanced around—there was no one in sight. She redoubled her volume. “Help!”
Swithin snarled—then something like a rock hit her on the head.
She swayed as the world turned gray.
“Damn you, damn you!” Swithin muttered under his breath.
For a moment she knew nothing, then felt herself being lifted and bundled—into the carriage.
Swithin shoved her onto a seat; her head pounded as it fell against padded leather.
From a great distance she heard Swithin say something to his coachman.
Then the light from outside was cut off. Swithin had shut the door. The carriage lurched sickeningly, then rumbled off.
Swithin was inside the carriage with her. She could sense him moving around, but couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t focus her swooning senses well enough to guess what he was doing.
Then he muttered from quite close, “I’d hoped this wouldn’t prove necessary, but clearly you’re a Vaux to your toes and therefore totally untrustworthy when it comes to scenes.”
A waft of sweetness reached her, then got closer, intensifying to a horrible cloying smell—a cloth clamped over her nose and mouth.
She struggled, tried desperately to shift her head away from the smell, but Swithin held the cloth in place so she had to breathe through it.
Blackness closed in.
Her last thought before darkness engulfed her was that she was alone. At the last, at the end, all alone. Christian wasn’t there, he hadn’t come for her, and even Barton hadn’t been there.
Everyone had deserted her.
And left her in the hands of a murderer.
Chapter 19
Why can’t we just go to his house and put it to him?” Justin looked from Christian to Dalziel.
Christian reined in his own impatience. “Because it might not be him. And if it is, we need an approach that’s going to advance our position, gain us some ground, not simply serve to advise him of our suspicions.”
“You heard Roscoe.” From his corner of the carriage, Dalziel gazed out at the familiar streets. “Swithin didn’t need to kill Randall—it’s difficult to see why he would.”
“Swithin is quiet, cautious. Of the three of them, he’s the last one you’d imagine had the intestinal fortitude to commit murder.” Christian added, “Far easier to imagine Roscoe was our man, except he’s far too clever.”
Dalziel humphed in agreement.
The carriage drew up outside Allardyce House. They couldn’t go to Randall’s house because of Barton’s dogged watch, so Christian had suggested they call in there to take stock and plan their next move—almost certainly a call on Swithin, but exactly how…
They’d alighted and were climbing his front steps when a messenger—one of those Gasthorpe used—came pounding up the pavement.
They all halted, turning to face him.
“My lord!” The youth offered Christian a folded note, then caught the railing, almost doubling over as he worked to catch his breath.
Christian unfolded the missive; the others watched his face as he read. “Trowbridge has been attacked at his home and left for dead.”
“Randall’s murderer strikes again.” His face hardening, Dalziel stepped down to the pavement, reclaiming the hackney that hadn’t yet moved off. He glanced back at Christian. “Chelsea?”
Christian nodded. “Cheyne Walk.” He went down the steps, but then halted. “I promised I’d go and see Letitia and let her know what Roscoe said.” He held up the note. “She’ll want to come.”
Dalziel looked at him, a species of disbelief in his eyes.
Christian hesitated; he glanced at Justin as he joined them. “And if Randall’s murderer is attacking the owners of the Orient Trading Company, she’s now on his list.”
Justin humphed. “She’s sitting in a house full of servants, and you told me she said she’d wait there. She usually does what she says she will, and Barton’s there, too, keeping watch over her and the house—she couldn’t be anywhere safer.”
“Exactly.” Dalziel opened the door of the hackney. “And while we debate the issue, the murderer’s trail is growing cold.”
Christian hesitated. Why, he didn’t know, yet reluctance dragged at him as he forced himself to nod. “All right. When we’ve finished in Chelsea, we’ll come back to South Audley Street.”
Following the others into the carriage, he shut the door.
The scene that met their eyes when they walked into the house in Cheyne Walk—through the wide open, unmanned front door—could only be described as chaotic. Christian caught a rushing footman, relieved him of the fruit bowl he was ferrying and directed him to announce their arrival. After staring at Christian, then at Dalziel and Justin, the footman turned tail and went.
Christian walked into the drawing room and set down the bowl. The three of them stood in the middle of the fabulous room with its wonderful light and white-and-lemon decor, and waited.
Eventually they heard heavy footsteps raggedly descending the stairs.
Rupert Honeywell came in. He looked haggard and distraught even though he was making a herculean effort to bear up. Any doubt of the depth of his regard for Trowbridge would have been banished by one look into his tortured eyes.
“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to send for.” He looked at Christian. “I remembered the card you gave Russell—he still had it in his pocket.”
Christian nodded. “What happened?”
Honeywell dragged in a huge breath, held it for a moment, then said, “He went out for his morning walk as he always did, along the bottom of the garden—there’s a path that follows the boundary wall along the river.” He hauled in another breath. “When he didn’t come back for breakfast, I sent a footman to look for him, then decided to go myself. Sometimes he sat on a bench looking out over the river and forgot the time.”
He paused, then, gaze distant, continued, “I got to the bench, but he wasn’t there. Then I heard the footman call out and strode over. Russell was sprawled on the path—from a distance I thought he’d swooned, but then I got closer and saw the blood on the footman’s hand…and on Russell’s head.”
Honeywell’s voice broke, but he swallowed and went on, “He’d been hit—bashed—with a rock. It was lying nearby. The footman thought he was dead—he kept saying he was—but I found a weak pulse. We got him back to the house and summoned the doctor—he’s with him now.”
“He’s alive?” Christian asked.
Honeywell nodded. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “The doctor says he thinks he’ll live. He’s regained consciousness.” Honeywell paused, then added, “It was he who insisted I send for you, and as I couldn’t think of anyone else, I did.”
“We’ll go and see him in a moment, but first, did the staff see anyone they didn’t expect to see this m
orning?”
Honeywell shook his head. “I asked. No one saw anything, and they’re all devoted to us, so they would say if they had.”
Christian nodded. “This walk Trowbridge took—you said he walked every morning. Always the same route?”
“Yes. It was his way of clearing his head for the day. That’s why I didn’t walk with him.”
“What about the walls?” Dalziel asked. “Are they high, glass on top—or low? Could someone have climbed over without coming through or past the house?”
Thrusting his handkerchief back into his pocket, Honeywell nodded. “Easily. The wall at the back is the boundary of the river walk—it’s chest height for a man, easy to look over. Not difficult to climb over. It’s the same for the properties on either side, so anyone could have gone down through any of the gardens along this stretch—and early morning, who would see them?—or someone could have walked up along the river path.”
“So every morning Trowbridge walked alone along a path that anyone could reach.” Dalziel grimaced.
“Anyone who knew about his habit.” Christian considered Honeywell, but elected to go to the source. “We need to speak with Trowbridge.”
Honeywell was clearly not happy in a purely protective way. However, he equally clearly knew Trowbridge wouldn’t thank him for such solicitude; tight-lipped, he turned to the door. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll see what the doctor says.”
The doctor agreed they could speak with his patient. “He’s groggy, but he won’t settle otherwise.”
In a room hung with exquisite Chinese silks, Trowbridge lay propped up on a bank of pristine white pillows in a massive four-poster bed. An even whiter bandage circled his skull; his skin was very nearly the same color. His eyes were closed, his arms lying on the covers on either side of his body.
Honeywell went around the bed and took one limp hand between both of his. “Dearne’s here.”
Trowbridge’s lashes flickered, then his lids lifted. After a moment of vagueness, his gaze sharpened. Christian was relieved to see the man’s usual acuity swimming beneath the haze of pain.
Then Trowbridge’s lids fell. “I didn’t see him.” His voice was a thin thread, but clear enough. “Coward—the bastard sneaked up on me.” Opening his eyes, Trowbridge glanced at Honeywell. “I was thinking about that latest canvas of yours, so I was far away.” Slowly, he brought his gaze back to Christian. “I didn’t get so much as a glimpse.”
Christian nodded. “Have you done anything—spoken to anyone at all—regarding the company? Or done anything else that might connect with Randall’s murder?”
Trowbridge pursed his lips, a line between his brows. “No. I haven’t discussed the company with anyone—not since I spoke with you.”
Honeywell frowned. “What about Swithin? You spoke with him when he called.”
“Oh. Yes.” Trowbridge smiled vaguely at Christian. “Forgot about him.”
Trowbridge was too dazed to notice the instant awareness, a primal tensing of muscles, that affected his three visitors at the mention of Swithin. Honeywell did; it was he who gently asked, “What did you talk to Swithin about? He doesn’t often call.”
Eyes again closed, Trowbridge carefully nodded. “About the company. About the sale and when we might go ahead with it. About how much we stood to make—because it’s such a risky business, that’s not as much as one might think given the high income. The income could end tomorrow if any number of things happened.” He moistened his lips, then went on, “I suggested that I’d be quite happy to settle for a third of the total income for a year—I vaguely recall Randall mentioning that—the income for a year—as the figure he hoped to secure.”
Trowbridge lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. “Reasonable when you think about it. Swithin agreed. That was more or less all we discussed. All perfectly innocent.”
“Not so innocent,” Christian quietly said, steel infusing his voice, “once you learn that Swithin is neck deep in debt and desperate for income to qualify for a massive loan.”
Trowbridge opened his eyes. “He’s in debt?” He frowned. “Good God. How? He was wealthy—the wealthiest of the three of us.”
“Never mind how—we don’t have time.”
Dalziel caught Christian’s arm, holding him back as, with a muttered oath, he turned for the door. Letitia was definitely in Swithin’s sights.
“One thing in all this I don’t understand.” Dalziel spoke quickly. “Why didn’t Swithin simply tell you and Randall about his need for income, and that therefore he didn’t want to sell the company?”
Christian looked back to see Trowbridge blink.
Twice. Then he shook his head. “Oh, but he wouldn’t. Indeed, Randall and I are the very last people he’d ever tell. He’d never tell us, never let on, that he’d failed with our Grand Plan.”
Seeing their incomprehension, Trowbridge struggled to sit up; Honeywell helped him. “What you have to understand about our Grand Plan was that for Randall and me it was us against them—us against society as a whole. But for Swithin, it was us against each other. He…simply couldn’t see the wider picture—for him it was always a competition.” Trowbridge searched their faces for some sign they understood. “That’s what I meant about his wealth—he took great pride in having amassed more than Randall or I had. Money was the one issue on which he could trump us—and we let him, because that—who was more wealthy among us—wasn’t important to us….”
Trowbridge’s face suddenly fell, all animation leaching away. “It was he who struck me, wasn’t it? After all these years, he tried to kill me, because in his mind he’d failed, and he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t bear me knowing…and he killed Randall, too.”
Christian nodded curtly. “Yes, and if you’ll excuse us, we need to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”
Trowbridge grasped his point. “Yes, of course.”
Christian strode for the door. Behind him, he heard Dalziel speak to Trowbridge.
“He almost certainly thinks you’re dead. We’ll send word when we have him—until then…”
At the door, Christian glanced back and saw Dalziel looking at Honeywell.
“Make sure there’s someone with him at all times.”
Mentally nodding, Christian strode out. Justin was on his heels.
Dalziel caught up with them as they bundled into the hackney, Christian having instructed the jarvey to drive hell-for-leather for South Audley Street.
The man took him at his word. They rattled through the streets, taking corners at speed; grim-faced and silent, the three of them braced themselves, each absorbed, thinking ahead.
Christian told himself that Barton was there, watching from outside—but that wouldn’t stop Swithin going in. He’d told Letitia that Swithin was a suspect, but none of them had seriously thought him the murderer—not until today.
As they raced into Mayfair, leaving curses in their wake, he prayed they’d be in time.
They arrived at South Audley Street. Leaving Dalziel to deal with the jarvey, Christian strode up the front steps, threw open the door—and stepped into outright uproar.
A cacophany of myriad feminine voices all raised, all exclaiming—all at once—assailed him. Behind him, he heard Justin mutter, “Good Lord! They’re all here.”
“Christian!” Letitia’s aunt Amarantha spotted him as he stood rooted just inside the door. “Just the man—Letitia’s disappeared.”
They came at him from all sides, more pouring from the parlor to add their voices to the din. It appeared to be an assembly of all the Vaux females, close and distant; all Letitia’s aunts and female cousins seemed to be there.
He tried to make sense of what they were telling him, but there was so much dross camouflaging the facts it was hopeless. Eventually he spotted Agnes in the parlor doorway, Hermione beside her, but he couldn’t reach them short of mowing through the crowd.
Grim-faced, he held up his hands. “Quiet!”
A sudden sile
nce fell, if anything even more painful than the preceding cacophany. Stunned, they all looked at him with wide eyes.
Stepping farther into the hall so Dalziel could come in and close the door, he focused on Agnes. “I need one of you—only one—to tell me what’s happened. Agnes?”
She nodded. “Letitia was here—she stayed in this morning. Hermione and I went to a morning tea.” Her voice wavered but she dragged in a breath—glowered at Constance, who had opened her mouth—and went on, “She’s obviously had visitors—there’s a tea tray.” She waved into the parlor. “But when we came home, she wasn’t in there. We thought perhaps she’d gone up to her room, but then the others arrived and Hermione went up to fetch her—but she wasn’t there either. She’s not in the house. And she hasn’t left any message, which she would have if she’d been called away, or gone to Bond Street, or…”
Letitia had said she’d be waiting for him to come back to her; while he wasn’t insensible to the echoes of their past, Christian knew absolutely that this time she wouldn’t have gone anywhere—not willingly.
While Agnes had talked, he’d made his way through the crowd to her. Justin had followed; Hermione grabbed his hand.
Looking past Agnes, Christian saw the tea tray set on a low table between the sofas. Only two cups. He’d hoped…
He turned back to the hovering horde. “Where’s Mellon?”
The butler was nowhere in sight. One bright cousin slipped into the parlor and tugged the bellpull.
A moment later the baize door at the rear of the hall swung open and Mellon marched through.
Over the heads of the ladies, Christian beckoned; the ladies parted, allowing Mellon to make his way to him.
Which he did with a supercilious air. “Yes, my lord?”
Christian looked down at him. “Who called on your mistress?”
Mellon arched his brows. “A good friend of the master’s called to offer his condolences, as was proper.”
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