As he turned right into the wing that housed his father’s chambers, a sense of excitement built in him at the idea that he might be on the point of discovering something important.
As they had many times that day, his thoughts drifted to his conversation with Mrs. Kean, who had alerted him to James Henry’s role in his troubles.
He would never forget her kindness, when so many others had turned away. If another young lady had done the same, he would have wondered about her motives. But not with Mrs. Kean. It had been clear from her manner that her intelligence and her true sense of fairness had been offended by Sir Joshua’s unprincipled accusations.
Strange that he hadn’t noticed before what an attractive smile she had.
She had given him this first line of pursuit. He had to discover why James Henry had so willingly thrown the blame his way. There had been a new hostility in his tone when they had talked in his father’s library. Whether he believed that Gideon had killed his father—or from some other cause—his animosity had never been quite so apparent before. Gideon tried to recall the man’s expression throughout their conversation, but his painful feelings in that room had made him less than perfectly observant.
Had James Henry regretted his indiscretion? Did he fear Gideon would hold him accountable for Sir Joshua’s insults? Or had there been something else?
Gideon had often wondered at the amount of trust his father placed in his receiver-general. James Henry wielded all the authority of a superior servant, of the kind seldom employed any longer except in royal households, in which positions like his were still held by men of noble blood. Not so very long ago, every duke or earl would have employed an agent such as he, but as with everything else, customs were changing. Only a man to whom tradition was a major point of honour, like Gideon’s father, would have clung to such a costly way of operating his estate. The difference was that James Henry had no pedigree to recommend him, but Gideon had been too preoccupied with his own education and later his three-year Grand Tour to question the running of Rotherham Abbey. And when he had returned, he had found James Henry more entrenched than ever.
Perhaps he should have asked these questions before.
Nestled among the suite of rooms that included Lord Hawkhurst’s bedchamber, his library, his wardrobe, and his privy, was another with only one door. It had been locked with one of James Henry’s keys, as would be the chest itself. Gideon had come prepared with a stout iron bar tucked firmly through his belt. He forced one end of it between the door and its frame, then pushed with all his weight. He heard the splintering of oak as the door broke free of the lock. The aged wood had held fast except where it had been weakened by a joint with the metal.
He listened for sounds of footsteps, but no noise would have carried through these thick stone walls unless someone had been near enough to see him. Satisfied that no one was coming, Gideon hastened to find a light. His servants knew their duties—an abundance of candles lay close to hand. He lit two and set them upon James Henry’s desk.
He was much more reluctant to rip into his father’s chest, the product of an Augsburg craftsman. It had been in the family for over one hundred years. The keys should have been handed to him the moment he had risen from his sickbed. He had to convince himself now that he risked losing all his fortune if he did not forfeit the chest.
His bar made short shrift of the finer wood, the carved wooden panels, and the flowers that had been painted with such skill. Gideon felt the injury to the chest as if he had torn into himself. Again, however, he pushed his feelings aside and, as soon as he had it opened, felt inside the chest for Henry’s ledger. He found it alongside the neat stacks of notes on London goldsmiths, among the silver and gold coins.
Ignoring the money for the time being—though he would need to replenish his meagre funds—he took the ledger to the only chair in the room. With the light from the candle, he began reading through the household records, starting near the end.
Here were their lives, minutely recorded in James Henry’s small, tight script, every penny accounted for, whether it be a pound and seven shillings for the wood and iron to make two umbrellas or one and six for a gargle for Mrs. Dixon. Gideon noted the payment of his own allowance, as he thumbed through the ledger, along with annual servants’ wages, payments to the grocers and mercers, and the doctors called in on a regular basis to physic the staff. Other entries recorded the purchase of trees for the orchard, beeves for the table, and cloth for the servants’ livery.
The mass of details made him impatient. He had never realized all the tiny bits of recordkeeping that went into maintaining a household of this size. He couldn’t believe that somewhere in this minutiae, he wouldn’t find what he sought.
Then a note caught his eye. A large payment made to James Henry at Michaelmas. A sum of one hundred pounds, when he had already seen another entry for Henry’s salary at Lady Day. Gideon turned back to confirm that a payment had been made in March and found it. Then, with his senses on edge, he checked the other quarter days, and discovered that on each, James Henry had been paid—or had paid himself—another hundred pounds.
Four hundred pounds in one year. A fabulous sum, when most servants were paid only a few pounds per annum. When all their expenses for food, clothing, and shelter, physicking and education, and travel were covered by their master. Even a receiver-general should not expect a salary of more than fifty pounds. Gideon knew, because he had seen the entries, that James Henry’s expenses had always been met when he travelled between Rotherham Abbey and London, or any of the other Hawkhurst manors.
He lived in his own house on the estate and had a separate lodging in London when he might easily have been assigned a room in Hawkhurst House. Yet, here was evidence that he had received enough money to live like a gentleman without any of those other rewards. He had received as much, in fact, as Gideon himself received every quarter from his father for allowance.
Sickened, Gideon checked as far back as he could in the ledger. These payments had been started only three years ago. No statement had been recorded as to their purpose—when normally not a shilling left the chest without its full purpose being inscribed. Even the guineas withdrawn for Lord Hawkhurst’s personal use, or a gratuity of a few pennies for the bargeman or a beggar woman coming to the door had been faithfully noted and explained.
Gideon simmered as he wondered what sort of business James Henry had waged against his father. Something dangerous it was sure. Such a threat, he guessed, that his father had been forced into making these quarterly payments.
Had his father refused to pay more? Was that why he had been killed?
If Sir Joshua would have accepted this ledger as evidence Gideon would have carried it to him. But it would take more than a supposition to convince Sir Joshua of his innocence. And Gideon knew he needed to know more before he could be satisfied himself.
He started to replace the ledger inside the great trunk, before recalling his need for money. With a sense of irony, he counted out a quantity of coins, which would have amounted to his next quarter-day allowance, and slipped them into a sturdy bag used for carrying them to the goldsmiths in London. By next quarter day, Midsummer Day, he fully expected to be back in his country seat with the keys to the money chest in the trust of a better man than James Henry.
Gideon did not forget to record his own withdrawal from the chest. On James Henry’s nearby desk lay quill and ink. He noted the day with his own hundred pounds for his personal use. Then, in a large flowing hand, much like his father’s, he boldly inscribed the name that no one had yet called him, the name that was his right.
Hawkhurst.
Hear and believe! thy own importance know,
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed,
To Maids alone and Children are revealed:
Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste
Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embraced:
For Spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.
What guards the purity of melting Maids,
In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,
Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark,
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,
When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,
When music softens, and when dancing fires?
‘Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,
Though Honour is the word with Men below
CHAPTER 10
As Gideon made his way back through the house, a patter of paws caught up with him at the entrance to the small bedchamber. He drew his father’s dog inside by its wide brass collar and spent a few valuable minutes scratching its ears. He considered taking Argos with him. His need for this one small contact with his father and his home was strong, but he realized that even the comfort of a dog would prove a serious distraction, when he had his father’s murder to solve. Resolutely, he put the dog back outside the room, before returning to the hidden stairwell.
As he stepped behind the wall, his boot met something in the dark. In a hurry now, he felt blindly about the floor until his fingers came upon a roll of papers, left presumably by his father, for no one else should have known of this passageway. Gideon couldn’t see them without his torch, and he had no wish to spend another second more than necessary inside the dank space. But the papers must have been important for his father to have hidden them in here. He took them to examine in the light of day.
Tom was waiting for him—not inside the undercroft, but out in the open air. He gave a start when Gideon parted the tangle of vines.
“My lord!” The relief in his whisper was palpable. “You was gone that long—did you find what you was looking for?”
“I did. And it appears we have another errand tonight.”
“We do?” The moonlight on Tom’s face revealed his dismay.
“Yes.” A resurgence of Gideon’s anger stoked his impatience. “We have a visit to pay.”
James Henry’s house stood but a mile away. It had never been part of Rotherham Abbey, but had belonged instead to a prosperous Kentish yeoman, who had died without heirs. Gideon could recall when his father had bought the estate, which lay contiguous to his own. He had originally let it to a tenant, but for the past few years it had served as the receiver-general’s residence.
The main house was a half-timbered building with a clay tile roof. As Gideon and Tom rode near it, they halted their horses beneath a grove of trees on a higher piece of ground.
“It’s just as I said, my lord. There’ll be no way to get in. Them windows and doors is certain to be latched.”
Gideon ignored Tom’s warning as he studied the house by the light of the moon and the stars. A dry breeze had cleared the air, and with the help of the sky and his eyes now accustomed to the dark, he could see almost as well as if by day.
“On a night like this, I would sleep with a window open to let the fire smoke out of the room.”
“And likely die from the poisons in the air. I tell you, my lord, Mr. Henry is too smart to leave his windows open by so much as a hair.”
“I hope you are wrong. However, if you are right, I shall have no choice but to go in by the front door.”
Tom smothered his reaction. Gideon heard him grind his teeth with the effort to muffle his disagreement. He had told Tom of his findings on their way here. He’d had no need to explain his suspicions.
He guessed that it was now past one o’clock, time for all good farmers to be deeply asleep. In the past few years, since his mother had died, his father’s household had kept country hours except when in London, where they could not seek their beds until well after midnight. Here, away from Court, Lord Hawkhurst had involved himself in county matters, and his clock had been dictated by the farming activities on his estate.
James Henry would have retired late, but not so late as to arrive at work after breakfast. Without a master to rule the house, he would be even more vigilant. He should be upstairs and fast asleep, unless affairs had taken him to London.
Gideon wanted to get inside the house. He could not rest until he had had this confrontation.
Abruptly, he turned his horse to circle the house. He drew close to a garden wall where the land sloped downward to the garden behind. He was grateful for the silence in the barn and the henhouse, for James Henry had no need to produce his own food. For years all his meals had been taken at the Abbey with Lord Hawkhurst, except when Gideon was at home, when he had eaten with the upper servants in their hall.
The fluttering of a drapery at a window caught his eye. And he saw it—his way in.
Motioning to Tom—for they were too close to the house to speak aloud—he handed him Penny’s reins and made a sign for him to stay. Then he tickled Penny’s ribs to make her sidle near the wall, raised himself into a crouch upon her saddle, and launched himself onto the top of the wall.
“Be careful, my lord,” Tom whispered after him.
Gideon pulled himself up the rest of the way, then crept doubled along the foot-wide wall until he came to a place where the house was nearest. He studied the structure until he found what appeared to be a foothold—a place where two low gables met. He wished he had brought a length of rope, but he had not come prepared to break into a second house. Wryly, he promised himself that if housebreaking were to become a habit, he would have to learn to be more prepared.
Taking a breath, he leapt again and, grappling, caught hold of a corner that protruded from the roughcast walls. The weather-beaten wood had splintered and it drove sharp, little pieces into his arms. His sword dangled interferingly at his hip, as he worked to swing his legs onto the beam. He hung from his elbows a few moments to rest. Then, calling on all his resources, he pulled himself up and onto the roof.
He rested there for a few minutes, his wounded shoulder aching and his chest heaving, until his breathing returned to normal.
James Henry had been right to feel safe with that window cracked, Gideon reflected later, after he had crossed over the top of the roof, slid down the other side, and hung precariously until he had found a toe-hold near the open window. No burglar would have been foolish enough to risk his life to reach it. But Gideon’s need for justice had propelled him where another man would have quit.
Carefully, he perched on a small ledge, looked about for the window, and gingerly inched his way towards it. One hand inside the open casement was all the grip he needed to pull himself onto the sill. For another few seconds, he sat pressed against the glass, peering as deeply as he could into the shadow-filled room. For, once inside it, he would lose the moonlight that had illuminated his way.
The sound of steady breathing coming from the bed decided him. Without a sound he swung open the narrow casement and squeezed himself through it.
The person in bed could only be James Henry. The room was much too large to belong to anyone but the master of the house.
Gideon unsheathed his sword. Moving to a table beside the bed, he struck a match and brought a candle to life.
He grasped the bed curtain and ripped it open.
Wakened from a deep sleep, James Henry threw up one hand to shield his eyes. Fighting momentary blindness, he saw Gideon and started up violently. But Gideon had already brought the point of his sword to James Henry’s throat.
Never a fool, James Henry leaned back against his bolster and fixed his eyes on the intruder’s face. With a curling lip, he asked, “Have you come to kill me, too, St. Mars?”
Gideon reacted with all the fury he had suppressed, shoving the point of his blade under the other man’s skin.
James Henry made a strangled noise, as a trickle of blood slid onto his nightclothes.
Silenced, he glared at Gideon with more hatred than fear.
A sickening seized Gideon’s stomach. His loss and the insults he had suffered were making him insane.
But he refused to take any more of them from a man who had cheated his father and possibly killed him.
With Henry pinned against his headboard, Gideon eased his hip onto the bed.
Facing his father’s servant comfortably, he addressed him in an anger-filled voice, “You thought you could throw the blame on me, but I have been to the Abbey, Mr. Henry, and I have examined your books. You will find it hard to explain to a magistrate how you managed to extort such an exorbitant sum from my father.
“What happened?” he continued, as Henry’s gaze widened in surprise. “Did my father threaten to expose you for the thief you are?”
Henry said nothing. But he betrayed none of the fear Gideon had expected him to feel. Instead, he scrutinized Gideon’s face as if searching it for the answer to a long-held secret.
Gideon lost all patience. With gritted teeth, he tightened his grip on his sword. “You will tell me now why you murdered a man who placed so much faith in you.”
“I didn’t kill him. Nor did I extort any money from him.”
“Then what were those payments for?”
To his surprise, James Henry gave a smile of disbelief. “You cannot pretend you do not know. You cannot think me such a fool as to believe that.”
Gideon stared back, confused. A momentary doubt threatened to divert him from his purpose, but refusing to heed it, he said, “Answer me now. Either I can kill you, or I can let you dress and we can go see Sir Joshua together.”
“If you do that—” James Henry spoke with an astonishing calm— “you will force me to divulge a secret your father would rather have kept.”
Here it was—the reason why his father had paid this man so much money—the secret James Henry had used to extort hundreds of pounds from his master.
The Birth of Blue Satan Page 16