The Music Box

by Andrea Kane

  Reeling with what he was learning, Bryce jumped on the last statement. "Cologne?"

  "Yes, sir. The duke told me it was imported from

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  Paris, made special for him. Even the bottle was elegant. Whitshire gave me my own bottle of the stuff as a gift for a job well done. I used it only on Sundays when I went to church, so it lasted a long time. When it was finally gone, I kept the bottle as a memento."

  Bryce was torn between his own growing tension, spawned by the realization that their goal was in sight, and the spiraling apprehension emanating from Gaby-a palpable entity he could actually feel, and one that worried him greatly.

  Gingerly he took the next step. "May we see this bottle?" he asked Smythe.

  A shrug. "I guess so. If you want to, although I can't imagine why. I'll get it." Smythe rose, left the room.

  "Gaby, are you all right?" Bryce asked the instant they were alone. His wife had gone very pale, and her breath was coming in short, shallow pants.

  "Richard Rowland was tall and broad-shouldered, much like you and Thane," Gaby replied in a high, thin voice.

  "So I've been told."

  Gaby stared at her husband, her blue eyes glazed with shock. "Bryce, the man Mr. Smythe just described ... His description fits Mr. Averley."

  "I know, sweetheart." Bryce captured her hand in his, speaking in a deep, soothing tone. "Let's not panic or jump to conclusions. Let's just hear Smythe out and take it from there."

  "I can't." Gaby jumped up, her eyes wide, terrified. "I can't continue this."

  Swiftly Bryce rose, drawing Gaby against him and holding her tight. "Yes you can. I know you can." He could feel her trembling-a reality that was as damning to Averley as Smythe's description. "We're nearing the end."

  She didn't answer, just pressed closer.

  Smythe cleared his throat as he reentered the room. "You two newly married?"

  "Hold on, Wonderland-I'm with you," Bryce

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  whispered fiercely before turning to face Smythe, one arm wrapped protectively about Gaby's waist. "Yes," he replied. "As a matter of fact, we are."

  "I could tell." A gruff chuckle. "Anyway, here's the bottle." He held out the empty gilded flask.

  "May I?" Bryce asked.

  "Sure." Smythe uncapped the top. "Just be careful."

  "I will." Bryce brought the bottle to his nose, inhaling deeply.

  The lingering scent was still very much presentstrong, distinctive, and thoroughly unmistakable: Averley's eau de cologne.

  Another incriminating piece fell into place.

  But Bryce needed confirmation. And there was only one person who could give it to him.

  Meeting Gaby's alarmed gaze, he nodded slightly, telling her without words what she already knew: that this next step was crucial-and that it was hers. Tightening his hold about her waist, he murmured, "Remember-I'm here."

  He waited for her answering nod. Then he eased the bottle under her nose, proud of her unfailing inner strength, praying he wasn't overtaxing her already depleted emotional reserves.

  She swallowed hard, clearly steeling herself for whatever impact lay ahead. Then her lashes drifted downward and, slowly, she inhaled.

  A choked cry escaped her lips. "The fire . . ." she whimpered. "That smell ... Oh, God." Backing away, she whipped about, pressing her fist to her mouth as ghosts exploded into her consciousness.

  "What's wrong?" Smythe demanded. "What's going on?"

  Bryce knew Gaby couldn't take any more right now. She was at her breaking point.

  "Mr. Smythe," he said quietly, placing the empty bottle on the table beside the sofa. "I need some time

  alone with my wife. May I impose upon you to give us that time? I realize you don't even know us and that none of what's happening here makes any sense to you. But I assure you, the business that brought us here is of the utmost importance. Lives are at stake."

  Smythe's eyes had gone as wide as saucers. "Lives?"

  "Yes. And if that's not enough incentive, I'll be willing to pay you, say, fifty pounds."

  Smythe waved away the offer. "Keep your money. One look at your wife tells me this is serious. I'll go read the morning newspaper. Call out when you're done talking."

  "Thank you. We will."

  Bryce waited until he and Gaby were alone. Then he came up behind her, caught her quaking shoulders in his hands. "That's the musky smell you were describing?"

  Gaby's nod was shaky, her voice when she spoke, faint and faraway. "Yes. It was so deeply ingrained in my memory of the fire ... that I attributed it to the blaze itself."

  "Instead of attributing it to the man responsible." Bryce's mouth set in grim lines. "Well, this certainly explains why your sleepwalking resumed along with your return to Whitshire-and worsened after Averley's visit to Nevon Manor, for that matter. The scent he wears is not one that's easily overlooked; it's strong and sweet. I recognized it as his the instant I held that bottle under my nose. Unfortunately I never connected it with the musky smell you kept describing from the night of the fire."

  Bryce drew Gaby back against him, buried his lips in her hair. "I wish to God we had more time. You need to deal with this bit by bit, not in a crushing onslaught. But we don't have much time, sweetheart. We need to assemble all the pieces now, while we're still in Mr. Smythe's company. We need his word as evidence. Then we need to act-quickly, before Aver

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  ley figures out what we're up to and eludes us. Gaby, I know what this is doing to you. If there were any other way ..."

  "There isn't." Gaby turned. Tears were coursing down her cheeks, but the glazed look in her eyes had vanished. "Nor would it matter. Fragments of my memory are flickering back on their own, like tiny sunbursts of recall. The gaps between them are still hazy, but the overall picture is clear, as are my instincts. Averley is the one we're looking for. He's a liar, a thief, and a murderer." Gaby's hands balled into fists. "I don't care how painful this is for me to discuss or to thoroughly recall. Averley must pay for what he did." Marching over to the sofa, she lowered herself to the cushion, her back rigid with purpose.

  "I'm proud of you," Bryce said simply, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his, frowning at how icy cold her fingers were. Staunchly, he reminded himself that, strong or not, Gaby was battling severe emotional shock.

  He had no intention of allowing it to win.

  "Considering the information Smythe just provided, I must agree that Averley is indeed a liar and a thief." Deliberately, Bryce began with the obvious, deferring the most painful of Gaby's accusations until she felt ready to address it. "Averley commissioned a yacht, pretending to be the duke, doubtless using the duke's funds. Given the circumstances, he never expected his theft to be discovered. After all, why would it be? He was Whitshire's steward. He had total freedom with the books, and thorough knowledge of all the duke's business contacts. Why, he even handled all correspondence with those contacts, including Smythe and Delmore-a task that is perfectly natural for a steward to perform. And such an exemplary steward at that-one whose books were, as he boasted to me, in perfect order."

  "'The books are in perfect order,"' Gaby whis

  pered, that odd, faraway light glimmering in her eyes. "Averley did say that to you. In fact, he was uttering those very words the day I walked into your meeting at Nevon Manor." She massaged her temples, one recollection spawning another. "He also shouted them at Dowell on the night he killed him."

  Bryce swallowed hard, studying Gaby's tormented expression. "You know that for a fact?" he asked, keeping his voice low and calm. "You actually overheard Averley use those words?"

  "Yes." She shifted forward and was instantly assailed by the potent smell of cologne emanating from the empty bottle that sat on the table beside her.

  Details crashed into place.

  "I heard yelling-before the fire started, not after. I knew it was Averley and Dowell. The wall separating the shed from the coal room was
thin. I could make out everything they were saying; I didn't understand what all the words meant, but I knew both men were angry. I covered my ears and tried to fall asleep. But I couldn't. Even my music box couldn't play loud enough to drown out their shouting. Dowell was yelling that he wanted money. He kept accusing Averley of stealing, said he'd followed him and knew about the boat. Averley yelled back that he was crazy. That's when he said `the books are in perfect order.' I remember that phrase because I wondered how books were ordered-were the important ones those with more pages or more pictures?"

  Gaby was staring ahead, once again the five-yearold child who was seeing the walls of the storage shed, hearing the voices from next door. "Dowell laughed, but it wasn't a nice laugh. He called Averley some names, said if he didn't share, he'd go to the duke and tell him what was going on. Mama used to tell me to share, too, so I understood why Dowell was angry. Then I heard a commotion and a dull thud, as if something had fallen. It must have been Dowell,

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  because after that, Mr. Averley started stamping around, ordering Dowell to get up. Dowell didn't answer, and Mr. Averley stopped asking. There was a funny, hissing sound, and then a door slammed. It got warm and quiet after that, so I curled up in the blankets with my music box and lay there until I fell asleep. The next thing I knew I woke up and the wing was on fire." She blinked, dragging herself back to the present, no longer a cowering little girl but a cognizant, fully grown woman who was as horrified of the truth as she was certain of it. "Dowell blackmailed Averley. And Averley killed him for it."

  "Not only him, but everyone else who died that night," Bryce added, focusing on the final part of Gaby's recollection. "My guess is that Averley stole much more than just that yacht. In fact, based on the argument you just recounted, I suspect Dowell stumbled upon major discrepancies in the household accounts. Who knows? Maybe Averley inflated the quantity of garden supplies he purchased. I'm not certain. All I know is that Dowell figured it out and wanted a share of the profits.

  "I'd also venture a guess that the hissing sound you heard was a match igniting some rags, and that your shed got much warmer after that because the coal room was burning. Averley obviously tried to cover up what he'd done by setting fire to the place so everyone would think Dowell perished in a tragic and accidental blaze. But things got out of hand. The fire didn't stop with the coal room, or even the woodshed. It burned the whole damned wing to the ground, killed everyone in it. Averley must have been panicstricken; that's why he reported the fire so quickly he was hoping to limit its destruction."

  Gaby's entire body was trembling, but she shook her head when Bryce reached for her, determined to see this ordeal through. "That explains Averley's murders of thirteen years ago. It also explains why he

  tried to kill me when he learned about the male voices I remembered: he was afraid I might implicate him. But where does Mr. Delmore's murder fit into this?"

  "My guess?" Bryce replied, aching to absorb Gaby's pain. "When Richard Rowland fell ill, Averley was probably frantic to sell the yacht before it passed to Thane, who might question the existence of a boat he'd never seen or heard of, purchased by a man who loathed sailing. Averley knew from Whitshire that Delmore was an enthusiastic yachtsman. He figured he'd sell the boat to him at an excellent price and wash his hands of the whole matter before Whitshire died. Only it didn't work that way. Whitshire died before the title was transferred. Averley was in the midst of a transaction with Delmore, pretending, through his correspondence, to be acting on Whitshire's behalf. He would have been vulnerable as hell, if anyone had linked him to his fraud."

  "Which Mr. Delmore could do."

  "If he met with Thane and discovered that Richard Rowland never bought the yacht he was allegedly selling, yes. So when Averley learned that Delmore was on his way to Whitshire to conclude the transaction, he knew he had to stop him. And he did." A contemplative pause. "Now that I think about it, that's why Averley asked me so many questions about my credentials that first night I visited Whitshire, and why he was so uncomfortable about my examining the records. He was probably scared to death that I'd notice a discrepancy or that my business association

  with both the Rowlands and Delmore might put me in

  the position of inadvertently discovering something

  that would implicate him."

  "Have we covered everything?" Gaby asked

  weakly, turning away from the lingering scent of

  cologne that hovered nearby.

  "Yes." Bryce shoved the bottle to the far edge of the

  table, then drew Gaby against him, enfolded her in

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  his arms. "As I told you once before, you're extraordinarily strong," he said fervently, his lips in her hair. "I'm prouder of you than you can imagine." His expression hardened. "One more day, Gaby, and all this will be over-forever."

  She tilted back her head, gazed up at him. "What are we going to do?"

  We. The fact that she could still say that, after all she'd endured-such courage was astounding.

  "We're going to expose Averley for the murderer he is," Bryce responded. "All we need is a bit of help from Thane and a confirmation from Mr. Smythe, both of which I'll arrange for immediately. When we're through with Averley, the only cabin he'll know is a very small cell in Newgate."

  The critical note was dispatched to Whitshire posthaste. The chat with Smythe was terse and candidand yielded instant results.

  By late afternoon, Bryce's carriage rolled into the drive at Nevon Manor, where Thane was waiting, the requested items in his possession.

  The meeting was short, the outcome decisive.

  And the plan was devised.

  The new day was just under way when Averley approached the duke's study the next morning, knocking politely at the door. "You sent for me, Your Grace?" he inquired, stepping inside.

  Early morning sunlight drizzled through much of the room, but the far corner was still cast in shadows, awaiting the first blush of day.

  "Hmm?" Thane sat hunched over his desk, leafing through some papers and looking thoroughly piqued, while Bryce paced about, scowling at a document_ in his hand.

  Averley cleared his throat. "You did want to see me?"

  Thane glanced up, as if noticing his steward for the

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  first time. "Ah, Averley. Yes. I did." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mr. Lyndley and I were conducting some legal business, and we came upon a document that pertains to a purchase my father made. Supposedly this purchase was made some time ago, but there seems to be a discrepancy about the timing. Given your long-standing position as Father's steward, we are hoping you can shed some light on the matter."

  "I'll be happy to, sir."

  Pausing near the French doors leading out to the courtyard, Bryce leaned against the doorframe, still frowning at the document in his hand. "Averley, do you recall when the late duke commissioned his yacht to be built?"

  A bit of the ruddiness faded from Averley's cheeks. "Yacht?"

  "Yes. Take a look at this." Bryce waved the paper in the air.

  With an uneasy cough, Averley walked over, skimming the title Banks had supplied Bryce with. "Ah, the sailing vessel His Grace commissioned. You'll have to forgive my memory, Lyndley. It's been some time since that transaction occurred. But, yes, I remember it. His Grace contracted Mr. Smythe's company to build him a rather luxurious yacht. That's the title transferring ownership of the craft from Smythe to His Grace. I don't understand where the discrepancy lies. The date is clearly penned on bottom: March 14, 1862."

  "Precisely," Thane concurred, leaning back in his chair. "But the problem is that all my recordscorrespondence, old business drafts-indicate that Father was in Scotland on a prolonged venture when this transaction occurred."

  A frown. "That's impossible, sir."

  "Exactly. Which could only mean that the title is dated incorrectly." Thane shoved his papers aside, raking a frustrated
hand through his hair. "Since your records are far more painstaking than mine, would

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  you kindly check your books and determine when, in fact, Father purchased the yacht so we can amend my papers?"

  The slight tension permeating Averley's stout frame was the only indication that he was unnerved. "Of course, sir. I'll fetch my records for the entire year and bring them to you at once."

  Bryce and Thane waited until the steward's footsteps had faded away.

  Then Bryce whipped about, yanking open the glass door and beckoning for the man outside to enter. "Well?" he demanded as Smythe stepped into the room.

  The builder shook his head in stunned disbelief. "I never would have believed it-always thought myself a good judge of character."

  "Is that the man you sold the yacht to?" Bryce pressed.

  "It sure is. He's older, grayer, and a bit portlier, but that's definitely the man who called himself the Duke of Whitshire."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive. I'd recognize him anywhere. Like I said, I only had one customer who was a duke . . ." Smythe broke off, his lips thinning into a grim line. "Or rather, one customer who pretended to be a duke. The bloody bastard." A deep sniff. "There's that cologne of his, too. You can't miss it. Yeah, it's him all right."

  "Good." Thane folded his hands neatly before him. "Then we have only to wait for my honorable steward to return."

  Bryce glanced toward the far corner of the room, still untouched by daylight. "Sweetheart, are you all right?" he asked quietly.