“Even if they suspect someone was there, I know I did not leave any evidence behind that would point to me.”
“You said you bribed a clerk to give you the keys. Can he not identify you?”
“Of course, but what does that signify? If he accuses me, then he accuses himself at the same time. I hardly think that likely.”
“Do you not? And how long do you think it will take for him to break down under persistent questioning? Will he not attempt to save his own skin by accusing you?’’
“But there is no reason for anyone to question him,” Collier insisted, beginning to feel a bit more nervous.
“Unless you left some sign of your entry.”
In his mind Collier could already hear the clang of the bars shutting behind him when they locked him up in Newgate Prison or wherever they kept condemned felons. “The risk seemed justified to me since this is a matter of life and death,” he finally said.
“I strongly doubt you considered the risk at all,” Demetrius said. Then, taking the papers with him, he stalked away.
* * * *
Someday, Demetrius decided, he would have to let Collier suffer the consequences of his rash actions. But not this time—not when Collier’s entire future hung in the balance.
Signaling a hack, Demetrius gave the driver instructions to drive him into the City. Jouncing along, he gradually became convinced that he was riding toward a disaster that he would not be able to prevent.
When he entered the solicitor’s office, it was as bad as he had feared. Instead of the solemn decorum of his previous visit, this time nobody greeted him or asked him to state his business. Instead, all the employees, from head clerk to lowest office boy, as well as the junior partner, had left their desks and were clustered around the door to Mr. Wimbwell's inner office.
Expecting the worst, Demetrius shouldered his way through the crowd until he could see into the adjoining room. The junior partner, who two days before had been so dignified, now had tears streaming down his cheeks.
Kneeling on the floor was a man who appeared to be a doctor. He was checking Mr. Wimbwell, who was lying on his back on the carpet. Even to Demetrius’s untrained eyes it was readily apparent that the doctor’s services were no longer required.
While everyone else’s attention was focused on the body, Demetrius glanced quickly around the room. He could spot no evidence of his brother’s visit, but something about the room jarred him.
The box of bonbons on the old man’s desk, he realized, coupled with chocolate smears on the deceased’s fingers.
“Apparently he has suffered a heart attack,” the doctor said, rising to his feet. “Hardly surprising, considering his age.”
“If I might have a word with you in private,” Demetrius said. Then, as if it were his own office, he directed the junior partner to clear the room and then shut the door.
“I’m Stephen Jamison, my lord,” the man said as soon as the others had returned to their desks. “As junior partner, I suppose I am in charge here now until Mr. Wimbwell’s son can be sent for. He is senior to me, but unfortunately he left yesterday morning to attend to some pressing business in Edinburgh. I fear it will be most difficult to send word to him.”
“The possibility exists that Mr. Wimbwell may have been poisoned. I suggest you have the candy analyzed,” Demetrius said quietly.
“Poisoned?” Mr. Jamison collapsed weakly onto a chair.
“What candy?” the doctor inquired, looking around. “Ah, yes, that candy.”
“It seems likely that the deceased was eating it just before he died,” Demetrius pointed out. “Where did it come from?”
“A m-messenger boy b-brought it an hour ago,” the partner stammered.
“And who sent it?” the doctor asked, picking up the box to inspect it.
“I couldn’t say, sir,” the partner replied.
A search of the room revealed nothing more than a card with Mr. Wimbwell’s name and direction on it.
“Now, then, sir,” the doctor asked sharply, “I should like to know what your interest in this matter is.”
“B-begging your pardon, sir,” Mr. Jamison interposed, “but this gentleman is Lord Thorverton. And this is Dr. Creavy, my lord. He has the offices directly above us.”
Demetrius extended his hand, and after a brief hesitation the doctor took it, although there was still a hint of suspicion in his eyes.
“Four days ago,” Demetrius explained, “I was set upon by a hired assassin. The day before yesterday I called upon Mr. Wimbwell in these offices to question him about that attempt.”
“Surely you did not think that old man capable of such a deed—no, of course you did not. Excuse me for interrupting, I am afraid my nerves are a bit on edge. Pray continue,” the doctor said, wiping his forehead with a large handkerchief.
“I believe the attempt was connected to a trust that Mr. Wimbwell is administering, and that documents in his files will reveal the killer’s motives,” Demetrius said, only with difficulty managing to keep his hand from automatically reaching up to check the incriminating papers now reposing in his inside jacket pocket.
“Killer? But you are obviously still alive, my lord.”
“But four other men are dead, and quite likely at the hands of the same assassin, who has been identified as Black Jack Brannigan.”
“If you know who attacked you, why do you not question him directly?” the doctor asked.
“Because he has also been murdered,” Demetrius said. “Which leads me to think that Mr. Wimbwell may also have died an unnatural death.”
Jamison gave a moan and covered his face with his hands, but the doctor picked up the box of bonbons. “I cannot like the implications, but I believe your suspicions are well enough founded that I shall certainly arrange to have these candies checked for poison.”
“And if they have indeed been tampered with, will you please send me word?”
“Of course,” the doctor agreed, taking Demetrius’s card and sticking it in the pocket of his waistcoat. “And I appreciate your assistance in this matter, my lord. Although I am still hopeful that the chemist will find nothing more dangerous than cream fillings.”
* * * *
Meribe’s sister and aunt were just setting out on a shopping expedition when Demetrius arrived at the Prestwich residence.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” the aunt said in what was for her a remarkably civil tone. “If you are looking for my younger niece, she is in the garden. I suppose I have you to thank for encouraging her in this madness she has for dirtying her hands?”
“I regret that I cannot take credit for her interest in plants,” Demetrius replied.
The aunt snorted. “And her ridiculous desire to learn to sit on the back of a horse without falling off—I suppose you will try to convince me you had nothing to do with that either?”
“Why, no, madam, I will claim full responsibility for putting that idea in her head.”
With a look of disdain the aunt set off down the street at a fast pace. Apparently her supply of civility was easily exhausted. As for the sister, she had managed the entire time to ignore Demetrius as completely as if he were invisible.
On the other hand, the butler had mellowed considerably since the last visit. “Good afternoon, my lord. Miss Meribe will be so pleased to see you. She is working in the garden. If you will be so good as to follow me?”
Reaching a door at the back of the house that apparently led to the outside, the butler paused before opening it. “I must tell you, my lord, how pleased some of us are that the restrictions against gentlemen callers have been lifted. I understand we have you to thank for that.”
With a smile Demetrius corrected him. “No, I rather think that was all Miss Meribe’s doing. She has acquired enough resolution to face down the dragon, as it were.”
“Ah, but when one asks how she acquired that resolution, then one must clearly look to you,” Smucker said, opening the door with a flourish.
&n
bsp; Spotting a figure kneeling on the ground at the end of the garden, Demetrius headed in that direction. Wearing a bonnet to protect her face from the sun, Miss Prestwich was kneeling on a folded cloth, but the gloves she should have had on her hands were lying beside her on the ground. At his approach, she looked up.
Her face was glowing with such pleasure, he felt his heart leap within his chest. But then he remembered the bad news he was bringing her. Once he told her what had transpired, her adorable smile would fade, her dark eyes would again become sad...
He did not think he could bear it.
“Oh, my lord, it is so wonderful to be able to work in the garden again.” She held up her hands and smiled ruefully. “My aunt insisted, of course, that I wear gloves, but I could not resist running my hands through the dirt, although the soil here is not the best. I would dearly love some compost to work into it.”
“Can you not get all you need from the stables?”
Shaking her head, she explained with a smile, “Horse manure must be aged a year before it is safe to use. Besides which, it is so full of grass seeds, I would be forever at my weeding. But our groom says he knows a man who raises rabbits, and their droppings make the best possible fertilizer. He is confident he can get me all I need for such a small garden.’’
Demetrius tried to smile also, but the knowledge of how hurt she would be when she found out the contents of the trust made it difficult.
Reaching over, she picked up a clod of dirt with scraggly green things sticking out of the top. “Is this not disgraceful? These poor little bulbs should have been transplanted years ago. They have multiplied until they are so tightly squeezed together it is all I can do to separate them. You will be amazed when you see how beautifully they will bloom once they have room to grow.”
She looked up at him so trustingly, he wished there were some way to postpone the inevitable. But there was not.
“I have brought you a copy of the trust your father established for you and your sister,” he said, and the smile faded from her face. Without further explanation he held the papers out to her.
She started to reach for them, but then she paused and held up her hands for him to see. “I am afraid I am every bit as grubby as my aunt predicted I would be. Could you perhaps read it to me?”
“It does not contain good news,” he warned.
“No,” she said, picking up a clump of bulbs and beginning to separate them, “I did not think it would.”
“The original will was substantially as you had understood it to be, but shortly before his death your father wrote a second will.”
Tears rolled down her cheek, and she reached up and rubbed them away with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt in their place.
Wishing he could take her in his arms again, he instead unfolded the papers, found the pertinent section, and began to read. “‘I, John Prestwich, being of sound mind and memory, praise be to God, do hereby revoke any and all previous wills made by me.’ There follow some instructions concerning proper burial, payment of debts, and bequests to servants; then he goes on, ‘Item: Since it appears unlikely that my elder daughter, Hester, will ever marry, my will is that she shall have her grandmother’s estate in Suffolk and all the income therefrom for her own use and behoof for as long as she shall live, and at her demise it shall descend to my eldest grandson, to be held in trust for him until he shall arrive at the age of twenty-one, and failing that, it shall descend to my eldest granddaughter, to be held in trust for her until she shall arrive at the age of twenty-five, and if neither of my daughters shall leave issue legally begotten of her body, then this estate shall pass to my nearest legal male heir.
“‘Item: To my younger daughter, Meribe, I leave all my property in Norfolk and all the income therefrom for her sole use and behoof as long as she shall live, and at her demise ...’ and there he gives the same terms as for your sister, but at the end he adds also, ‘provided she, my younger daughter, Meribe, shall marry before the age of twenty-one, and if she does not, then she shall have her grandmother’s estate in Suffolk and her sister, Hester, my elder daughter, shall have the estate in Norfolk whereon I now live.’
“Well,” Meribe said, smiling up at him, “that is not at all bad news. Even though the property in Norfolk is greater than the one in Suffolk, the difference is not sufficient to warrant murdering anyone.”
“There is more,” Demetrius said simply. “He leaves you the lifetime income from all the rest of his property under the same conditions—that if you do not marry before the age of twenty-one, it shall go to Hester.”
“All the rest? I know of no other property.”
“Your father had extensive investments—government consols, shares in the East India Company, and shares in various other commercial ventures—and the income from them is ten times the amount from the properties in Norfolk and Suffolk. If you do not marry in the next month, your sister will be a very wealthy woman.”
Meribe’s shoulders were shaking now, but not a sound came out. Raising a tear-streaked face to him, she said, “But she is my sister—I love her so much. How could she have done such wicked things? No, I cannot believe she could be so cruel, not even for money.”
With a heavy heart Demetrius said, “I am afraid that the income we are talking about amounts to over twenty thousand pounds per year.’’
Shaking her head, Meribe cried out with such anguish, he felt as if his heart were also breaking. “I do not want her to be the one!”
* * *
Chapter 8
“Hester must have been terribly hurt when she discovered how our father had virtually disinherited her,’’ Meribe said. She was seated beside Lord Thorverton on a little bench at the very back of the garden, and she could not help wishing his arms were around her. She needed comfort now more than anything else, and the memory of the last time he had held her in his arms had not faded in the slightest.
“Hester was even more grief-stricken than I was after Father died, which was understandable since she was closer to him than I was. But then a week or so later she changed—and now that I think back, it was about the time Mr. Wimbwell came to visit us that Hester changed: she started letting Aunt Phillipa and all the servants and me feel the sharp edge of her tongue, which she had never done before.
“Really, I cannot imagine why Mr. Wimbwell did not make a greater effort to persuade Father not to alter his will. Granted, it is probably a well-written document, but it is patently unfair, and so I shall tell him when next I see him.”
Beside her Lord Thorverton was silent. Looking up into his eyes, she saw great sadness. He started to speak, but she shook her head, not wanting to hear more. Then his arm was around her shoulders, but as comforting as that was, every word he said added to the pain in her heart.
“I stopped by Mr. Wimbwell’s office just before coming here. I am afraid he is ... dead.”
“Oh, that poor old man. I should not have spoken so harshly of him.’’
“There is more.”
Meribe felt her heart skip a beat. “More?”
“There is a possibility that Mr. Wimbwell did not die of natural causes. Someone sent him a box of bonbons, and he was eating them just before he collapsed. At my suggestion, the doctor is having them analyzed for poison.”
“Bonbons? Were they perhaps ... ch-chocolate with ... with cream centers?”
His hand, which had been stroking her arm, became quite still. “Yes, as a matter of fact, they were. How did you know?”
“They were his favorites. For as far back as I can remember, he always brought us that kind.”
“Us?”
She did not want to say the words that would condemn her sister.
“Who besides you knew what kind of candy he preferred?” Lord Thorverton asked, not letting her evade the knowledge she was trying desperately to deny to herself.
“My sister knew. My aunt may have, but she was not living with us until after Father died, so I am not sure she eve
r met Mr. Wimbwell in person.”
Lord Thorverton did not speak for a long time. Finally he said, “There is, of course, always the possibility that the chocolates were not poisoned.”
“You said no one knows who sent them?”
He was quiet for a long time, then said, “Yes, they were delivered anonymously.’’
“Which in and of itself makes them highly suspect, does it not?”
“But on the other hand, why would your sister have sent them now?” he asked, calmly and casually putting into words what Meribe was most afraid of—that her sister was behind these terrible deeds. “It occurs to me to wonder why—if we are to assume that she has known the terms of the trust from the beginning, and that she has been responsible for the ‘accidents’ that have befallen your suitors—why would she suddenly, after all these years, have decided today to poison that poor old man?”
Relief flooded Meribe’s heart. Yes, it was true: Hester had no motive for killing Mr. Wimbwell—at least not at this particular time.
“Unless, of course, you told Hester we spoke with him this week?” Lord Thorverton added, a question in his voice.
“No, no, I did not,” Meribe said eagerly. “I told her nothing of our suspicions—nothing of our visit to the City. Oh, of course she could not have done such a vile thing, and it was wicked of me to suspect her even for a minute. Now I am sure the chemist will discover that nothing was wrong with the chocolates either.’’
Lord Thorverton did not immediately answer. When he did speak, his voice held no conviction. “Doubtless you are correct.”
* * * *
Meribe stayed in the garden after Lord Thorverton took his departure. She found a measure of comfort working with the plants, and did not put away her tools until the last of the bulbs were transplanted.
Entering the house, she met Smucker, who gasped when he saw her. “Miss Meribe, you have been crying! Has Lord Thorverton done something to upset you? Perhaps I should not have left him alone with you in the garden?’’
“No, no,” she said, wishing she had had a chance to wash her face before anyone saw her. “He brought me news that my father’s solicitor, Mr. Wimbwell, died today.”
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