by Allison Lane
William swore.
“We spoke for a quarter hour. Sir Nigel’s temper was very erratic in recent months. She does not think it odd that he was up after midnight. Apparently he’d fallen into the habit of checking on Peter – or so she implied. Sally has always been astute.”
William exhaled in frustration. “This becomes more puzzling by the hour. Why would Sir Nigel need help? I saw no sign of intruders.”
“Not when we arrived, but suppose Sir Nigel found Peter’s room empty and noted a light in the library. He might have assumed that Peter was searching for money. Instead he saw a stranger – that would account for the night candle on the mantel. So he shouts for help and rushes off to fetch Gramling. Unfortunately, he ran into the table.”
“But where is his own candle, then? He would hardly look for Peter in the dark.”
“If he was secretly checking up on the boy, he would hardly advertise his presence by carrying a candle. Or maybe a servant moved his candle out of the way when Gramling was examining the body – it was Gramling who claimed there was no candle; the other servants didn’t hear the question.”
“Why was there no sign of this supposed burglar, then?” William sounded disgusted.
“But there was. I noted several drops of blood in the library yesterday morning, and one of the fireplace bricks had been pried loose. Perhaps they grappled before Sir Nigel raced out. Or maybe Sir Nigel’s shout alerted the intruder – people often injure themselves when startled. After Sir Nigel fell to his death, the staff rushed to the hall and stayed there. An intruder would have had two hours to hide signs of his presence and slip away.”
“And then return today, leaving a disturbance the servants spotted? It doesn’t make sense. He must have realized on Saturday that the house was bare.”
William was right. An intruder could have searched nearly every room while Sir Nigel lay dead. “Maybe the two incidents have no connection. Or maybe he searched the upstairs on Saturday, cleaning up after himself so no one would realize he’d been there, then returned today to search the main rooms.”
“Don’t rush your fences. We don’t know which rooms are disturbed. Nor do we know that anyone was there on Saturday.”
Andrew stifled frustration. Every instinct swore that Sir Nigel had interrupted a burglary. Why else had the library contained blood? “Ask Gramling if any doors were unlocked Sunday morning. A burglar must have left a door open behind him. And ask every servant privately about candles. They didn’t hear Gramling’s answer, so they would have no reason to parrot it.”
“Excellent idea.” But William shook his head. “Not that it changes my verdict about Sir Nigel. His death was clearly an accident.”
“True. But if he surprised an intruder who returned to Fields House today, then everyone at Fields House remains in danger until the culprit finds what he seeks.”
The carriage halted at the foot of the steps. Again the servants huddled in the hallway, though this time Peter was with them.
“I can’t explain it,” he slurred. “Someone vandalized the place – holes in the walls, broken fireplace surrounds, ripped mattresses…. Can’t be the dunns. Nothing is overdue.”
“Where?” asked William.
Gramling looked ten years older. “Sir Nigel’s bedchamber, Master Kevin’s bedchamber, the library, and the billiard room, my lord. Also, the drawing room seems disturbed, and I’m convinced that someone moved chairs in the dining room. After Sir Peter discovered the destruction in the library, we searched the house.”
“And that was when?” William looked at Peter.
“About half past seven. I spent the afternoon in Exeter, then went upstairs to study the estate records.”
Andrew shook his head. Had the boy been gaming again?
Peter bristled. “I wasn’t gaming,” he swore. “I had hoped a barrister could overturn that damnable trust. But the bastard claims the courts can do nothing.” He drank deeply from the glass clutched in his hand.
William turned to Gramling. “Where was everyone today?”
“After the funeral guests left, Sir Peter went upstairs. The staff met in the servants’ hall for an hour – a bit of the funeral meats, you understand. Once Sir Peter left for Exeter, Sally made up his room and Miss Chloe’s. I started the monthly inventory of the wine cellar. Simms was packing – he left before dinner. Molly cleaned Mrs. Harper’s apartment, under Mrs. Harper’s supervision – she is not fully trained yet. Cook remained in the kitchen.”
So an intruder had needed to avoid only Sally. Once the servants sat down to dinner, even breaking holes in walls would have gone undetected. But only a man familiar with the household would know that. Was Simms the culprit? If the two incidents were unrelated, Simms might have damaged the house before leaving, either in pique over his paltry inheritance or because he’d had words with Peter.
William nodded. “We will examine the damage in a moment, but while the staff is assembled, did anyone find unlocked doors or windows since Sir Nigel’s death?”
“The conservatory was unlocked yesterday morning, though I’d checked it before retiring,” reported Gramling.
“And the kitchen,” added Mrs. Harper. “Molly steps out with the groom and has slipped out at night more than once.” She glared at the girl.
“I trust she remembered to lock the kitchen door last night.” William stared at Molly, who blushed scarlet. “Does anyone know how the conservatory door came to be open?”
Guilt flashed across Peter’s face. “That was me. Father refused to give me a key. Unlocking the conservatory door let me return without waking Gramling.”
Andrew nearly choked. Peter would never consider a servant’s convenience. He left through the conservatory so Sir Nigel would not hear him – the conservatory was under the library. Kevin had done the same as a boy.
But that meant that anyone could have walked into Fields House Saturday night. He could have left the same way or through the kitchen. Either would have offered easy egress once the staff reached the hall.
That did not explain today’s intrusion, however. Either the man had stolen a key on Saturday, or he had entered through the front door. With the interment and general upheaval, Gramling might have forgotten to lock it during the will reading. It had definitely been unlocked when he and Chloe had left.
But they could address today’s entry point later. He could not embarrass Gramling by asking further questions in front of the staff.
As he followed William upstairs, Andrew considered possibilities. The first was simple – Sir Nigel had fallen in a house empty of all save servants. Today’s trouble was a separate problem.
The second was equally straightforward. A chance burglar had found the door open on Saturday. Sir Nigel’s shouts and his subsequent death had frightened the culprit away. Someone else had caused today’s destruction, possibly Simms. Unfortunate, and they would have to find the culprit, but it posed no continuing danger.
The other possibilities were troubling. If the same person had entered twice, then he was either deranged – anyone of sense could see that nothing of value remained – or he was seeking something specific.
Or the culprit was Peter. In which case the fall might not be so accidental. Had Sir Nigel run into the table, or had someone moved it to explain his fall? The toe could just as easily have smashed on the floor or balusters.
Sir Nigel’s room was a mess. Clothing and bedding littered the floor. The marble fireplace surround was cracked. In the dressing room, the bottom of the wardrobe was torn up. Empty drawers leaned drunkenly against the wall.
Kevin’s room and the library were worse. Every book was on the floor – as if each had been searched, then stacked out of the way. Bricks had been pried from the fireplace. Two walls sported holes.
The billiard room had met a similar fate. Cabinets sat askew. The felt was ripped from the table.
While William interviewed the servants, Andrew returned to the library. The extent of the damage proved that this was no or
dinary burglary. Either it was deliberate destruction, such as a disgruntled employee might inflict, or the intruder was seeking something specific. Something hidden. Something small. A paper, perhaps, that could be slipped between the pages of a book. Had Sir Nigel hidden evidence against Simms for some secret misdeed?
It seemed ludicrous.
Finding Peter’s room intact was equally suggestive. Either the man knew Peter did not have the prize, or Peter was the searcher.
Andrew pushed speculation aside. It was too early to assign blame. Instead he skimmed the papers atop the desk. The shares in the Gray Gull remained. The burglar must not know their value.
The top drawer yielded the estate ledger. A quick glance confirmed that Fields House was on the verge of bankruptcy. Half the farm workers had been turned off. Crops like timber had been sold years early to cover gaming and investment losses – it would be a decade before another harvest was possible. A hefty mortgage payment was due next week. Had desperation driven Peter to a rapid, destructive search for valuables?
The loss of timber wasn’t the estate’s only problem. Without workers, many fields lay fallow. Rising prices might improve profits from the rest, but the money would disappear several times over in higher costs for products the estate had to buy. Poor weather wasn’t helping. And with three mortgages…
The ledger’s last entry had been made two weeks ago, before Sir Nigel had turned off John Rivers, the last footman – another man who might have a grievance. But Sir Nigel’s journal should explain.
He opened the second drawer and gasped. The journal was gone.
Kevin had often laughed about Sir Nigel’s fanaticism over his journal. The man could not retire for the night until the day’s entry was complete. Boxing Day meant gifts for the tenants and a new journal for Sir Nigel, with the old one being enshrined with its predecessors in a special section of the library.
Andrew glanced at the journals, now stacked on the floor. More than fifty of them, recording every petty detail of Sir Nigel’s life.
He should have checked the journal Saturday night or while waiting for Chloe this morning. It might have told him why Sir Nigel had been up, why he’d let various servants go, or whether he was watching Peter at night. And Sir Nigel would have recorded anything he’d hidden.
Had the intruder taken it?
With new questions crowding his mind, Andrew joined William in the servants’ hall. But again the staff was no help. They had seen nothing, heard nothing, suspected nothing until Sir Peter summoned Gramling to explain the damage in the library.
And no one had seen the missing journal.
It was time to investigate Peter’s activities – and Sir Nigel’s. Jinks could ask questions around the neighborhood.
* * *
Chapter 7
Tuesday
Andrew parted company with Gray’s courier in Exeter, cursing his throbbing leg as he turned his horse over to the ostler at the White Hart. The courier set a more brutal pace than Wellington’s worst marches. Only pride had kept Andrew going – and the knowledge that he need cover only five miles.
The leg had a long way to go to regain its former strength – which raised new concerns about his future. By leaving for London now, he could have taken two weeks to make the 175-mile journey, arriving sufficiently rested to hide any lingering weakness. Several months at sea would have given him ample time to recover before reaching India.
Now he would arrive in pain and probably limping. Could he convince Major Barnfield that the leg would improve? The major had heard Harvey’s prognosis.
Half an hour in the taproom helped. When he could walk without limping, he sought out Exeter’s house agent.
Two hours later, he stood outside Rose Cottage while Mr. Weedell wiggled a key in a vain attempt to unlock the door. This was the fourth cottage they had visited. So far none had been acceptable. How could Chloe consider living in places like this? Kevin would have been appalled.
But at least Chloe needn’t deal with Weedell. If Andrew had had a choice, he would have fled rather than endure the man’s ingratiating voice and insatiable thirst for gossip.
“I was saddened to learn about Sir Nigel,” Weedell had said the moment Andrew identified himself. “We were close friends. I hear you were there when he died.”
“Hardly. He was alone.”
Weedell’s eyes gleamed. “How do you know?”
Andrew had made a vague comment about servants and tried to ask about cottages, but a quarter hour had passed before he’d succeeded. Weedell had demanded particulars of the death and subsequent burglary, his questions sharpening whenever Andrew grew vague – which was often, for he refused to divulge his suspicions. Weedell seemed particularly curious about what might be missing from Fields House. Was he merely a gossipmonger, or did he have another motive? It seemed odd that a man claiming to be a close friend had missed the burial. Where had Weedell been during the burglary?
But he couldn’t ask without inspiring a new burst of curiosity, so he concentrated on cottages. Jinks could discover the answer.
On paper, Rose Cottage seemed Chloe’s best choice. It looked charming, was only a quarter mile from town, and appeared sound despite its age – which he estimated at two hundred years.
The roses that gave the cottage its name were overgrown from neglect, but not badly. A large kitchen garden on the south side soaked up sunlight, sheltered from wind by the cottage itself. The thatched roof had been replaced five years earlier.
The previous owner had died in June. Since her only child lived in Plymouth, Rose Cottage was up for sale. Despite several offers to lease the place, the owner demanded a buyer – or so Weedell claimed. Andrew wasn’t sure if he could trust the man’s word. Weedell was the sort who would say anything to further his goals – goals that clearly surpassed selling one small cottage.
“Lord Seabrook will wed soon,” said Weedell as the lock finally gave way. “You will need a place of your own, and I know the perfect estate.”
“I won’t—”
“Fields House,” Weedell said over his objection. “A bit run down at the moment, but sound land. There is another interested party, but Sir Peter would rather it went to a local.”
“I didn’t know it was for sale,” said Andrew, scanning a sitting room best described as cozy. His hair brushed the ceiling beams, but Chloe was several inches shorter.
“Not officially. Sir Nigel refused every offer I brought him, though everyone knew he’d have to sell in the end. Sir Peter will see reason the moment he studies the books. I’ll call tomorrow and help him decide. He will leap at a chance to realize some cash from his inheritance.” Weedell’s tone raised images of hands rubbing together in anticipation. But he was doomed to failure this time. Andrew had seen the books. Fields House was mortgaged for more than its value. Selling would leave Peter in worse shape than ever.
Perhaps he should mention that to Peter. Weedell seemed determined to wrest an agreement from the lad. Had Weedell helped Sir Nigel to his death so he could sell the estate?
The question jerked his attention from Rose Cottage. How much would the agent make from such a transaction? Perhaps he had financial difficulties of his own.
“Fields House would require a huge investment to restore the land,” he commented.
“Not as much as you might think.” Weedell’s smile grew crafty. “And you have two wealthy lords in the family. Either of them would extend you credit. It would be an ideal situation for you – land you know well, adjacent to Lord Seabrook’s holdings, tenants who would welcome the change—”
“I’m not in the market for an estate,” Andrew said firmly, interrupting what promised to be a lengthy sales pitch – and for a property that wasn’t even for sale. “I will rejoin my regiment in a fortnight.”
“Ah. That’s why you need a cottage for your young lady,” he replied knowingly.
“Not at all.” His glare sent Weedell back a pace. “My sister’s companion is retiring f
rom service. Since I had business in town today, I offered to see what was available. But if you intend to insult her—”
Weedell paled. “No, no. Of course not. I misunderstood entirely.” He inhaled deeply. “As you can see, the cottage is fully furnished and—”
Andrew ignored his patter, too busy castigating himself to care about details. He’d done Chloe a disservice by agreeing to help. Weedell suspected that he sought lodging for his mistress. When he discovered Chloe’s age and her relationship to the impoverished Sir Nigel, he would be sure of it. How would that affect her plans to teach?
He wondered if she realized how precarious her position would be once she left the protection of her own class. Any man who helped her would be suspect, yet buying a cottage on her own would leave her open to insult, if not fraud. He could perhaps shield her from the worst of it, but her age and appearance would hamper her for years.
At seven-and-twenty, Chloe was too young to set up her own household, even with a companion. Doing so would tarnish her reputation, making it difficult to find students. And her looks would compound the problem. Even merchant-class mothers would think twice before inviting a pretty girl into the house, no matter how menial her position.
But he had promised to help, so he would do his best.
Rose Cottage was smaller than it appeared from the road. Besides the tiny sitting room, it contained only an equally tiny dining room, with two cramped bedrooms upstairs. Cooking facilities and space for one servant filled a shed addition on the back. The only outbuilding was a hen house.
Weedell wanted an immediate answer on Rose Cottage and was again pressing for an offer on Fields House, certain that he could convince Peter to sell on the morrow. An hour passed before he finally accepted defeat and returned to his office.
Andrew shook his head. The cottage met Chloe’s requirements for price and location, but his gut didn’t like it.
Had she thought clearly about her plans? Teaching the squire’s daughters while she lived at Fields House was one thing, but he doubted anyone from the gentry would hire her once she moved into her own establishment. Some would openly brand her a harlot. Weedell might be an obsequious coxcomb, but his reaction was typical. Even with a companion, the situation would appear scandalous. And if she failed to attract students, she might well become a harlot. Her savings could not support her for long.