By now Victoria, Patrick, and Quentin had been able to piece together the reasons behind each of the Professor’s blackmail threats, using the information listed on the pages in his various journals where the packets of money had been discovered. At times damning, at other times downright silly, the reasons were many and varied, but all had seemed important enough to each victim to have him paying for their suppression in the Professor’s “history.”
After several informal meetings—peppered with Quentin Quinton’s highly imaginative suggestions for ways to snare the murderer—it was Patrick who at last came up with the idea of placing both of the remaining suspects together in the same room and revealing the reasons they had been blackmailed in the first place—thus startling one of them into confessing.
It was to this end that Sherbourne had engineered the small, informal dinner party that was now taking place in the narrow house in Ablemarle Street, with Quentin Quinton cast in the role of host. Victoria and Patrick would have leading roles in the execution of their plan, and Patrick—with Victoria’s reluctant agreement—had tracked Pierre down at one of his clubs, brought him up-to-date on just what was going forward, and then gained his promise of assistance in case things “got sticky.”
Victoria stood near the doorway, dressed in a becoming ivory gown of finest watered silk; the soft brown ringlets that Wilhelmina had earlier combed so carefully over the curling stick framed her face while she watched the proceedings attentively. Slowly the room filled with guests—and murder suspects.
Patrick, looking even more handsome than usual in his severely tailored midnight-blue evening clothes, his dark blond hair showing an endearing tendency to fall forward onto his forehead, was standing beside Victoria, his hand reassuringly cupped around her elbow.
Sir Perkin Seldon, never tardy when free food was to be had, arrived a full quarter hour early, rushing through his expressions of delight at the engagement he had read about in the Post in order to divest the passing Wilhelmina of a heavy silver tray containing a multitude of fancy sandwiches which now, its contents badly depleted, resided on his generous lap as he reclined comfortably in Patrick’s favorite chair.
Philip Spalding had been the second to arrive, bearing gifts for everyone as usual, and was already firmly ensconced on the drawing room settee beside a flustered Emma Hamilton, reading to her from an ode he had written, “To the Dimple in Her Rounded Chin.”
The suspects now both in residence, they were awaiting only the arrival of their co-conspirator, Pierre Standish, who had told Patrick he would be happy to attend the party because “I have always been partial to the farce.”
“Mr. Standish is late,” Victoria whispered in Patrick’s ear, waggling her fingers politely in Sir Perkin’s direction as that man tried to get her attention. “You don’t suppose he’s changed his mind and decided not to—Oh, drat it anyway, what does that silly man want? Patrick, dear heart, please go see what’s bothering Sir Perkin.”
Looking over to where Sir Perkin sat gesturing very pointedly to the empty side of the silver tray, Patrick hazarded a guess at the problem. “I believe the slivered ham sandwiches Willie labored over were a tremendous hit with the man, though both the tongue and cucumber concoctions missed the mark. Excuse me a moment, my love, while I go search out your housekeeper before Sir Perky fades away to a mere shadow of himself.”
“Do that, darling,” Pierre Standish drawled urbanely, causing Victoria to utter an audible gasp, as she had not realized that he had at last arrived. “It will give me a moment to attempt to persuade Miss Quinton of the folly of her actions, agreeing to wed one such as you when everyone knows I am by far the better man.”
“That you are, Pierre, you sly dog.” Sherbourne grinned, clasping Standish’s hand in greeting. “Why else do you think I snapped her up so quickly, before you could steal a march on me? I hope you’re ready to play your part in our little melodrama?”
“Can you ask?” he answered, raising one expressive eyebrow. “I might even be inspired enough to create a small plot twist of my own, just to ensure that everyone has a lively evening.”
“How good of you to come, Mr. Standish,” Victoria said, wishing yet again she could feel more at her ease in the man’s presence. “My uncle has gone off to seek out another bottle of sherry, but he should be back shortly. Ah, here he is now. Uncle Quentin,” she called out quietly, stopping Quinton as he was just about to walk past them, a dusty bottle in one hand. “Our final guest has arrived. Please come over here and allow me to introduce you.”
“My dear Mr. Quinton,” Pierre said, bowing slightly in the older man’s direction, “it’s good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too,” Quentin responded, transferring the bottle to his left hand before wiping his right hand on his coat and extending it politely. “Er, we’ve met?”
Pierre’s dark face took on a hurt expression. “How soon they forget,” he bemoaned to Patrick, who was looking confused and a bit wary. “Let me see if I can jog your memory, dear sir. Two months ago, at Ramsgate? A rather well-endowed barmaid named Rosie, I believe? I had docked my yacht there and retired to a nearby inn for a meal. Does it come back to you now, my dear fellow?”
Quinton’s lively blue eyes widened in shock. Looking about himself swiftly for any sign of Wilhelmina, he leaned close to Pierre and whispered urgently, “Keep your voice down, sir, I implore you. I had been at sea quite a long time, you understand, and needed a bit of comfort. Please, I’m soon to become a happily married man!”
“Your distress affects me deeply,” Pierre replied, tongue in cheek. “Surely my silence on the matter isn’t an out of the way demand. But I would beg a boon, my dear fellow. Please, could you tell me why, since you have been in England for quite some time, you waited until after your brother’s funeral to make your existence known to your niece?”
Victoria, who had been standing mute with shock ever since she realized that her Uncle Quentin and Pierre were acquainted, seconded this question, adding hopefully, “But perhaps you hadn’t yet come to London at the time the Professor was murdered?”
By this time Sir Perkin, whose hopes of securing more of the delicious ham had been raised, only to be shot down by Standish’s arrival, had decided to take matters into his own hands, and approached the small group to tug on Patrick’s sleeve. “I say, Sherbourne,” he said brashly, “have you seen that buxomy redhead about lately? Surely you weren’t planning on serving only one platter, were you? Though I could push on to Lady Beresford’s. Her chef does a fine buffet.”
Patrick wasn’t in the mood to worry about Sir Perkin’s appetite. Pierre, drat the man, had been keeping information from him again, and now it appeared that the Professor’s own brother could be a murder suspect. “Run along over there and ask Mrs. Hamilton to help you,” he said shortly, disengaging his arm from Seldon’s grip. “Just don’t smile at her, else Spalding may call you out.”
Once the other man had toddled off, already calling plaintively to Emma, Patrick returned his attention to the matter at hand, saying, “Please, Quentin, we’re all friends here. Answer Victoria’s question.”
Quentin took a deep breath, looking at each of them in turn, then said gloomily, “I was in London, all right. I came here directly from Ramsgate.”
“Oh, Uncle!” Victoria sighed sadly. “Please, say no more! I don’t want to hear any more, really I don’t.”
Suddenly the crestfallen man became indignant. “Well, I don’t know why not, for pity’s sake!” he exclaimed hotly. “All I did for nearly a month was kick my heels like some lovestruck lunatic while I waited for my new wardrobe to be finished. I had been in foreign parts for a long time, you know, and didn’t want to present myself to Willie until I was fitted out fine as five-pence.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Pierre put in kindly, sneaking a quick look at Patrick.
“Then you didn’t come to see the Professor? But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you attend the funeral?” Vict
oria asked, hating herself for needing to know.
“So much for my darling fiancée’s declaration that she would be happier to remain in ignorance,” Patrick put in, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Don’t answer if you don’t want to, Quentin. None of us here believes you conked your own brother over the head and then left him to die.”
“It wasn’t me, because I didn’t think of it!” Quentin shot back tightly. “I was here, you know, that same night, only it was earlier in the evening I imagine, as the old bas—, er, m’brother was still very much alive. I’d come to see Willie, of course, but he told me she had moved back to the country to nurse her sick sister. Damn me for a fool, I believed him. By the time I had chased myself to Surrey and back again, Quennel had been carried to bed on six men’s shoulders. After that, I didn’t see any reason to mention my first visit to anyone. I’m that sorry, you know, if I upset anybody.”
“Oh, Uncle,” Victoria cried, embracing Quentin, “don’t be sorry! We’re sorry we questioned you. Besides, it’s all Mr. Standish’s fault for bringing it up in the first place, isn’t that right, Patrick?”
The Earl pulled a wry face and looked at his friend, who was standing at his ease, surveying the touching scene unfolding in front of him. “Consider yourself reprimanded, please, dear Pierre, for I refuse to demand retribution. After all, I’m soon to be a married man, and must think of my poor wife and unborn children.”
“I offer my apologies, of course, for departing from your prepared script for the evening, my friends,” Pierre responded coolly. “I had already assured myself of friend Quinton’s innocence, you know. I merely wished to introduce him as a suspect to prove to you all how misleading bits and pieces of seemingly damning evidence can be.”
“And how some questions are best left unanswered? Such as an explanation of the contents of a certain wooden box now in your possession?” Victoria, who had grudgingly begun to admire this strange man, questioned incisively.
“Patrick you have unearthed a genuine jewel,” Pierre said in a soft, drawling voice. “Guard her well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AT THE CONCLUSION of the meal served in the narrow dining room, informal toasts were proposed all round to the happy couple before Wilhelmina (who had steadfastly refused to be one of the party) wheeled in the pièce de résistance, a five-tiered cake decorated with meringue swans and bits of greenery that elicited appreciative murmurs from everyone but Sir Perkin, who had immediately leaped to his feet to propose yet another toast—to the cook.
It was while the cake was being served that Patrick looked down the table at Victoria and gave her a barely perceptible nod. Promptly taking her cue, she turned to Philip Spalding, who was seated at her left, and said, “Patrick and I are leaving London within the week to visit his parents—they’re spending the season in Bath, you know—to formally announce our engagement, but we wanted to have this small, intimate party here with my uncle in attendance.” She then hesitated a moment before adding in a voice heavy with regret, “If only the Professor had been here to give me his blessing.”
“Ah, yes,” Spalding replied commiseratingly, “it is such a pity, isn’t it?”
Victoria sighed deeply. “It seems it was only yesterday that I was sitting in the library, copying down his dictation. Patrick is going to complete the Professor’s work, you know, so I believe we can look forward to having the history published in the next year or so.”
“He isn’t!” Philip exploded hoarsely, then quickly lowered his voice. “That is to say, he is? How wonderful. You must be very pleased, Miss Quinton.”
Pierre Standish, seated on the opposite side of the table from Spalding, murmured smoothly, “Ah, Miss Quinton, well done. A flush hit, I’d say. May I?” he asked pleasantly, leaning forward slightly to look pointedly at the uncomfortably fidgeting Spalding.
“By all means, Mr. Standish,” Victoria returned with utmost politeness. “After all, I believe I owe you at least that much.”
“My dearest Philip,” Pierre then began urbanely, addressing the patently confused man, “you seem to be upset about something. Perhaps the cake is too rich for your system—too laden with cream for your taste? A pity. I myself have quite a fondness for the stuff. As a matter of fact, I number among my happiest memories those times I would sneak off to the dairy when the servants were making cream. There was one dairymaid I remember in particular—”
Pierre’s words were cut off as Spalding, suddenly comprehending, sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste as he accused dazedly, “You know! How do you know? He promised me no one would know. He promised!”
“Obviously there will be no need for the thumbscrews after all,” Standish said to Victoria, his lips twitching in wry amusement. “I must admit I am surprised. I truly hadn’t thought him to be our man. Perhaps a few more pointed questions are needed?”
“Philip!” Emma, tugging at his perfectly constructed coat sleeve, cried anxiously, unwittingly casting herself in the role of one of the man’s tormentors. “Say it isn’t so, please! Please say you didn’t kill him!”
“Kill him?” Philip repeated hollowly, staring down at Emma, a confused look on his face. “Kill who?”
“Whom,” Pierre slid in quietly, clearly enjoying himself.
“Why, the Professor, of course,” Emma told him, tears forming in her soft blue eyes as visions of her beloved—dirty, disheveled, and clad in tattered rags as he wallowed in his straw-lined cell—pushed her toward the edge of hysterics. “Was it you who killed the Professor?”
“Arrrgh!”
“Sir Perkin, are you all right?” Quentin asked, pounding the suddenly choking man sharply between the shoulder blades with one beefy fist.
Patrick and Pierre exchanged knowing looks, then turned to Victoria, who surprised them by looking a bit crestfallen rather than triumphant. “We wouldn’t publish anything even remotely embarrassing, Mr. Spalding,” she told Philip quietly. “Not that having a dairymaid for a great-grandmother is such a terrible thing.”
“You know too?” Spalding asked, clearly agonized with shame. “The Professor promised me he’d burn his notes. I sold my matched bays to pay him what he—Oh, what difference does it make? Now that Standish knows too—and the rest of you—I imagine everyone will soon be snickering up their sleeves at me. I’ll tell you what— I shall have to retire to the country, that’s all there is for it, I guess.”
“So dramatic, my dear Philip,” Pierre drawled sarcastically. “Mrs. Hamilton,” he went on, turning to look at Emma, who was crying silently into her handkerchief. “Has the knowledge you have gained in these past few minutes colored your opinion of dear Mr. Spalding here? Come, come. Don’t be bashful; a man’s future hangs in the balance.”
Bright color suffused Emma’s cheeks as she raised her face to peer up at Spalding. “I think he is still the grandest, most noble man that ever lived,” she declared at last, before adding thoughtfully, “even if his great-grandmother was a Common Nobody.”
“You do?” Philip squeaked incredulously. “Don’t it even bother you that I was so vain as to pay the Professor not to print that bit about my ancestry?”
“She thinks you hang out the sun, dear boy,” Pierre snapped, beginning to lose patience with the ridiculous man. “Don’t belabor the point. Now, why don’t you escort Mrs. Hamilton to the drawing room—I’m sure you have quite a bit to discuss. Miss Quinton and the rest of us have pressing matters still to resolve.”
Offering his hand to Emma, who took it gingerly, Philip helped her to rise, then drew her arm lovingly through his and guided her slowly out of the room, his passionate gaze never leaving her beautiful face. “Was that your maternal or paternal great-grandmother, my dear Mr. Spalding?” Emma was heard to ask pointedly as they walked along.
“Ah, true love,” Pierre said emotionlessly once the couple had disappeared through the doors Wilhelmina needed no prompting to close in their wake. “I do not believe there is anything else in t
his entire mad world that I find so singularly dull and uninteresting.”
“And I believe you doth protest too much,” Victoria replied bluntly, extremely curious about this enigmatic man who was her fiancé’s dearest friend. “Someday I should like to hear the story of how you came to be the cynic you portray so convincingly.”
Pierre’s dark face suddenly became an emotionless mask, his dark eyes unreadable. “I shall not soil your ears with that sad tale, my dearest Miss Quinton,” he snapped coldly, then added more kindly, “Besides, I do believe Sir Perky is about to say something that will interest you. It seems I may have been right all along—though it is tactless in me to remind you, isn’t it?”
Indeed, Sir Perkin was recovering from the fit of coughing that had been brought on by Emma’s impulsive remarks, wiping at the stream of tears his choking had provoked with Quentin Quinton’s immense handkerchief.
Rising to walk to the head of the table, Victoria gratefully sank into the chair Patrick had vacated for her and allowed her hands to be taken in Sir Perkin’s compulsive grip.
“He tried to blackmail me too,” he began almost incoherently, his lower lip trembling in his agitation.
“Yes, Sir Perky,” Victoria assured him kindly, “I know; we all do now, having found certain incriminating papers in the Professor’s library. You were not the only victim, I fear, as it appears the man blackmailed a great many people over the years. You just heard Mr. Spalding confess to having paid so that he could keep his own secret safe, didn’t you? I can tell you in all honesty, Sir Perky, that Professor Quinton was a vile, soulless man.”
“I can’t really say I liked him above half myself,” Sir Perky admitted, murmuring into his cravat.
The questioning Miss Quinton Page 17