by Lisa Manuel
“Oh, but who am I to complain,” Letty went on, “when you’ve only just lost your father?”
He saw Moira’s shoulders go rigid. “Stepfather.”
“Yes. How cruel to have lost two fathers.”
Cruel, indeed, yet Letty had formed the observation without drama, without the histrionics Graham had come to expect from her. It had taken a near-disaster to reach her, but the true Letty, the better Letty, had been roused from her slumber. Her courage made him proud.
And rather ashamed for lingering in the hall, eavesdropping while assuming he wasn’t needed or wanted inside. The same useless convictions had sent him from England and his duties all those years ago.
As he stepped into the room, their heads turned, noses nearly brushing as each peered over her shoulder. A hesitant nod of acknowledgment from Moira and a quizzical twitch of Letty’s brow exhausted the entirety of their interest in him and they turned back to Freddy.
Unwanted, unneeded. The sentiments breathed a cool whisper in his ear. He ignored it, or rather, resolved to endure it. “Can I do anything for you ladies? Do you need anything?”
Before they could answer, Shaun entered the room. “Graham. Miles Parker is here. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”
“Parker? Now?” He let out a breath. “Tell him I’ll be there presently.”
“He wants all three of us. You, me, and Miss Hughes.”
“Please inform Mr. Parker that I’m currently occupied,” Moira said without turning.
“I’m sure Mr. Parker wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t important.”
A tiny shrug acknowledged Graham’s observation while seeming hardly to agree with it.
Letty settled the matter. “Go ahead, Miss Hughes. Perhaps I’ll stretch out on the settee for a nap.”
“If you’re quite sure…”
Letty nodded. “We’ll be fine, Freddy and I.”
Moira rose from her chair, then hesitated. “Miss Foster, we are cousins or nearly so. May we not be Moira and Letitia to one another?”
“No,” Letty said rather severely. Her brows gathered while her lips pursed in her most petulant pout. Then a softer, wholly different expression spread across her countenance, bringing, if not beauty in the classical sense, an engaging charm to her angular features. “We may be Moira and Letty. So long as Mama isn’t within hearing. She cringes at my pet name.”
“Letty it is.” Moira kissed her cheek. “I’ll look in on you later.”
Parker awaited them in a corner of the drawing room, ensconced comfortably in a wing chair and nursing a brandy. Graham poured three more and handed one each to Moira and Shaun.
“I do hope you haven’t inconvenienced yourself on my account,” Moira said to the inspector. She settled beside Shaun on the settee, the significance of which was not lost on Graham. He remained standing, leaning against the mantel. “The matter I came to your office to speak with you about yesterday afternoon,” she continued briskly, “has been settled quite to my satisfaction.”
Parker eyed her curiously. “I’m here to talk about Wallace Smythe’s murder.”
This announcement met with a collective silence. The inspector cleared his throat. “We’ve all wondered what happened to Mr. Smythe’s clerk, Pierson. I’ve found a witness who saw a man exit Smythe’s offices by the alley door the day of the incident.
“A street sweeper described a man of middling stature, youngish, perhaps twenty-five give or take, with close-cropped brown hair. The individual was dressed, so this street sweeper reports, in the usual plain dark suit typical of office clerks. The street sweeper also happened to notice a flash of sunlight on what might have been a pair of spectacles in the man’s hand. I’ve never met this Pierson fellow. Does the description fit?”
“Certainly sounds like the man I remember.” Graham set his brandy on the mantel. “Was he alone?”
“According to the witness, yes. Here’s a clue that may clinch it.” Parker dug into his coat pocket, extracting a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. “Upon inspecting the alleyway, I discovered these at the bottom of a trash bin. Did Oliver Pierson wear such an item?”
“Indeed, he did, Mr. Parker.” Moira craned forward, studying the eyeglasses in the inspector’s hand.
“Oliver Pierson…” Beside her, Shaun rubbed a hand absently across his chin. His eyes narrowed.
“Rather curious, isn’t it…a man tossing his spectacles away, hiding them, actually, beneath a mound of trash. Unless…” Parker sipped his brandy, less, Graham thought, out of a desire to moisten his mouth than to prolong and thus heighten the effect of his next comment. “Unless he never needed them in the first place.”
Graham’s pulse quickened as he caught Parker’s meaning. “You mean they might have been part of a disguise?”
“Precisely. Consider this. What reason would Pierson have to disappear, unless he’s guilty of the crime? But why would a humble clerk murder his employer? Secure positions are not easy to come by, even in a city of this size.”
“Perhaps Mr. Smythe sacked him,” Moira suggested, but Graham doubted a mere disgruntled employee would resort to murder.
“Oliver Pierson,” Shaun mumbled again. “Pierson…”
Graham cast him an annoyed glance, then ignored him. “If the clerk was not really a clerk,” he ventured, voicing his thoughts as they formed, “but someone with ulterior motives, murder might be the only way to protect his interests. Especially if his identity or purposes were detected.”
Parker nodded, turning the spectacles over and back. “Yet I keep running smack into a dead end. What could Oliver Pierson’s ulterior motives have been?”
“Where the devil have I heard that name before?” Shaun scratched his head, sipped his brandy, stared into the air.
Parker regarded Shaun, and frowned. “Have any of you ever encountered Pierson anywhere other than Smythe’s offices? Think. Anywhere at all. Even a bakery, a street corner.”
Graham had a niggling sense…
“Why, at the bishop’s house.” Moira thrust a forefinger in the air and for the first time met Graham’s gaze. “Remember? When we were…” She trailed off, color suffusing her cheeks. Yes, he remembered pressing her hand to his heart, abducting her out the bishop’s window and plying her with teasing caresses.
Ah, Moira, let me tease again, and you can scold me all you wish. Just Don’t be bitter and cynical. Don’t become like me.
“Who’s the bishop?”
He swallowed a sip of brandy. “Benedict Ramsey, bishop of Trewsbury. He’s also a cousin of the Fosters.”
“One of Papa’s closest friends, actually,” Moira added in a voice tinged with sadness.
“And you saw Pierson at this man’s home?”
“He arrived just as we were leaving,” Graham said. “But Miss Hughes says the bishop is also a client of Smythe and Davis, so Pierson’s appearance there was nothing unusual.”
“I shall pay the bishop a visit.” Parker swirled his brandy around in its snifter. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask him a few questions.”
“Pierson. Oliver.” Shaun cocked his head.
“What are you going on about?” Graham snapped, becoming more than a little irked by his friend’s pointless mutterings.
Moira’s spine went rigid against the settee. “Mr. Paddington, what did you just say?”
Her inquiry sounded nothing like Graham’s, not impatient and testy, but taut with urgency. She deposited her little-touched brandy on the sofa table and shocked them all by taking Shaun’s face between her hands. “Say it again, Mr. Paddington.”
“Pier…son. Piers…”
“Good heavens, you’re right. It’s got to be.”
“Got to be what?” Graham and Parker said as one.
“Oliver Pierson. Piers Oliphant.” She glared—black eyes snapping—into Shaun’s astonished face, then up at Graham and over to the inspector. “Mr. Parker, I believe your dead end just burst wide open.”
CHAPTE
R
20
Leaning forward from her reclining position against the foot of Freddy Foster’s four-poster, Moira plucked another slice of spicy mince pie from the tray in front of her and met Letty’s pointed glance with one of defiance.
“I know this is my third piece, but can you blame me?”
“Not a bit.” Freddy held out his teacup. “More sugar, please, Letty.”
His sister’s disapproval turned on him. “You mustn’t overdo. We don’t need it all coming back up on us. Again.”
“Oh, do stop bullying. I’m much better now. Besides…” He waved the cup beneath her nose. “It’s only tea and sugar. You’re here to ensure I slip in neither whiskey nor laudanum.”
“As if I could stop you if you didn’t wish to be stopped.”
Still scowling, she lifted the sugar bowl from the nightstand and spooned a heaping mound into his cup. Then she tucked her skirts around her crossed legs and said to Moira, “We both know that consuming every confection in the house won’t hasten Monteith’s return.”
They were waiting for Graham and Mr. Paddington to return from another trip to Susan Oliphant’s flat. Upon deducing that Oliver Pierson and Piers Oliphant were, indeed, the same man, Moira thought it prudent, if unpleasant, to explain to Mr. Parker the man’s connection to her stepfather. Upon hearing the tale, the inspector had leapt to his feet, declaring the importance of bringing Miss Oliphant and her child into custody, partly for their safety, partly because the woman might, after all, be involved in the crimes.
At the mention of Graham now, Moira lowered her face and indulged in an extra-large bite of pie. She didn’t know if she wished to see him or not. No, that wasn’t true. She did wish to be with him—truly with him as a woman should be with the man she loved. Ah, but therein she had broken the rules. A grand adventure, a challenging conquest. One spectacular memory to last a lifetime.
But love? Not for Graham Foster. He had made it abundantly clear that permanence had no place in his life.
What business, then, did she have playing love games with a man who would never be hers? She had grown so accustomed to having him at her side, to their easy familiarity and, oh, yes, the desire, those great leaping flames that licked up at the slightest provocation, at the mere sound of his name. Even now, knowing all she knew about him, and about men in general, she longed to be with him, and missed him so much she ached.
She glanced up to see Letty eyeing her with a speculative expression. She changed the subject. “I do wish I hadn’t agreed to remain behind. It’s an insult to have been left at home.” She swallowed another mouthful of sticky mince. “The matter concerns my late stepfather, my late fiancé, and my late solicitor.” Her brows shot up. “Good heavens, I hadn’t thought of it in exactly those terms before.” Her hand snaked toward the cake tray, only to receive a gentle swat from Letty’s fingertips.
“Becoming as big as a house won’t help. Besides, Monteith was right. It would have been too dangerous. That beastly man, Oliver Pierson or Piers Oliphant, may have killed poor Mr. Smythe. What if he should decide to come after you?”
Freddy drained his second cup of tea. “Why would he come after Moira?”
“Because, jingle brains, she’s searching for the very same inheritance these dreadful Oliphants are determined to hide. Perhaps they fear she’ll make a claim, since the child is, sadly, illegitimate.” Her eyes went wide. “That sets Monteith at risk, as well. He is the rightful heir.”
“I’m sure our brother is quite safe, Letty,” Freddy said gently. “After all, he’s with the inspector and his rather resourceful friend.”
“Mr. Paddington…yes, I suppose you’re right…”
“He’s forever making eyes at you, you know.” Freddy grinned.
“Who?”
“Shaun Paddington, goose, that’s who.”
“He is not.” She picked an almond from her anise biscuit and flung it at him.
“Is, too…” He caught the offending morsel in his palm and popped it into his mouth.
“I believe Freddy is right, Letty,” Moira concurred with a smile. “Mr. Paddington appears to have taken a fancy to you, and you must decide if you wish to encourage him or not.”
Letty’s bottom lip crept between her teeth. She tilted her head and considered. “Are you certain?”
Moira nodded.
Freddy gave a self-satisfied harrumph. “Told you so.”
Letty flicked another almond at him.
Watching the Foster twins revert to their childish antics, Moira questioned, however briefly, the wisdom of confiding in her stepcousins. Of course, the alternative would have been a lonely, maddening wait by a window, chewing a hole through her lip while imagining all manner of violent encounters between Graham, his companions, and Piers Oliphant.
At any rate, Letty and Freddy were Fosters. The matter concerned them nearly as much as it did her. And it hadn’t hurt to occupy their thoughts with something other than Freddy’s recent disgrace. Awakening an hour earlier in a reassuringly lucid state of mind, he had promptly announced the return of his appetite, thus instigating a foray down to the kitchen.
She must admit lounging on Freddy’s bed and indulging in pilfered delicacies had been fun. She felt…oh, part of a family again; part of the easy, unthinking acceptance among those who simply belonged together for good or ill.
Liar. She had confided for none of those reasons. They were merely a happy by-product of her having done so. No, her motives had much more to do with the simple—no, desperate—need to turn her thoughts to matters other than Graham.
He arrived home within the hour. Minutes after she heard the rumble of carriage wheels, he appeared on Freddy’s threshold to regard them all with eyes smudged with fatigue, and something more. Disheartenment. Regret. She had heard it in his reluctant footsteps dragging along the corridor, and saw it now in his veiled expression.
She suppressed a shiver of yearning as his dimples made a halfhearted attempt to dance. “What a cozy scene.”
She looked away, unable to endure the emotion burning in his eyes, or the yearning pulsing inside her. She contemplated the design of the coverlet. “Is Susan Oliphant in custody?”
When he didn’t respond, she stole another glimpse at him. He sidled a look at his brother, another at his sister.
Freddy shrugged, but Letty met his gaze unblinking.
“We know all about it, Monteith. Moira’s told us everything.”
He looked back at her for confirmation.
“I saw no reason not to tell them,” she said. “They are Fosters, after all.”
He released a breath and nodded. Pushing away from the door frame, he approached them with head bent, broad shoulders bunched. “We discovered no sign of Pierson or any trace of Piers Oliphant. And nothing at all to link the one identity to the other. It gets worse.”
Dragging a chair closer to the bed, he settled into it with a sigh that traveled under Moira’s skin and left her nerve endings tingling. “Parker’s superiors down on Bow Street refuse to invest the manpower to pursue Oliphant unless someone can reasonably prove he’s also Pierson.”
“But that makes no sense.” Letty swung her legs over the bed to face him. “Moira’s presented the proof. Everett Foster’s will. That is what connects Oliphant to Mr. Smythe, and thus to Pierson.”
“True enough, Letty, but the inspectors feel the codicil hardly gives Oliphant a motive for murder.” Graham ran a hand over features gone pale with fatigue, drawn with frustration. “Since the funds are not entailed to the Monteith estate, there is no question that the inheritance legally belongs to Piers Oliphant’s nephew. As Michael’s closest male relative, Oliphant is the trustee, which gives him a good deal of power over the funds. So while Pierson may have had some purpose in disposing of Smythe, Piers Oliphant seems to have had none at all.”
“Piers, Pierson…” Letty gave a snort. “It makes one’s head positively spin.”
“Yes.” Graham’s express
ion was grim. “And once again Inspector Parker is up against a wall.”
“But he must have questioned Susan Oliphant,” Moira said. “Could she provide no clue at all? Didn’t anyone think to ask why she continues living in that squalid flat when those stock accounts could provide a decent home? Even if the accounts are still on hold, she could easily obtain credit.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clasped hands resting on the mattress. He drew closer to her, so close she might have tousled his sun-tipped hair, stroked his shoulder, caressed his cheek. She gripped her hands together.
“I’m afraid it is to remain a mystery for now,” he said. “No one was able to ask Susan Oliphant anything. She and the baby have vanished, and none of the neighbors will admit to having seen them leave.”
The trip to Susan Oliphant’s flat had left London’s lingering odors of soot and grime on Shaun’s clothing. He returned to his room, intending to change as quickly as possible. He had stripped off his coat and waistcoat and even his shoes when a thought—no, a revelation—struck him a blow that sent him racing across the upper gallery in shirtsleeves and stocking feet.
He slid to an abrupt halt in the doorway of Freddy’s room just as Miss Hughes said, “I fear for the child. Susan Oliphant’s disappearance can only mean she is an accomplice in her brother’s crimes.”
He paused to catch his breath and straighten his shirt before calmly entering the room.
“Ah, Shaun, we could use another viewpoint.” Graham gestured to an empty chair. “Join us. You all right? Looking a bit flushed, old man, not to mention a little unkempt.” Without waiting for an answer, he returned his attention to Miss Hughes. “Susan Oliphant may not be guilty. Or perhaps no more than an unwilling accessory. I’m beginning to suspect some legality is preventing Oliphant from controlling the funds, and he’s attempting to cover it up.”
Miss Hughes regarded him a moment in silence, then shook her head. “If only they had left some clue to the direction they took.”
“They may have left no clues,” Shaun put in before Graham could comment, “but that doesn’t prevent us from making an educated guess.”