“Tomorrow I will be.”
And Henry knew that was true. She had buried two husbands, and soon, one son, and she would carry on, her head held high, and do whatever was required of her.
Henry’s boots beat a tattoo on the stairs. He found the investigator waiting in the entrance hall.
“Mr. Jacob Pevensey, your grace,” said Hayward.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” said Henry. “I admit, I did not expect you until tomorrow morning.”
The slight, red-haired man smiled. “Sir Richard Ford at the London magistrates’ office was eager for us to assist, and so I came on right away.”
“Hayward, ask Mrs. Forsythe to ready a room,” said Henry. He looked at the visitor appraisingly, trying to decide if the man was as competent as Stephen’s father had claimed. “You must forgive me—I am not familiar with the normal procedures in such matters. Now that you are here, what do you need to do first?”
“Normally, I would speak with the magistrate and constable in charge of the case. Your letter mentioned a Mr. Cecil. Is he still here?”
“No, I regret he has returned home for the night. He will come back in the morning.”
“Then the morning will be the best time to get started.” Pevensey cocked his head. “Or perhaps I might ask you a few questions tonight to familiarize myself with the people involved?”
“Yes, of course. Let us go to the study.”
Henry led the way through the saloon and over to the dark-paneled study that was now his. The investigator sat down lightly in the chair opposite the desk and crossed one leg over the other.
“Well?” Henry did not mean to be abrupt—he simply thought it better to dispense with the pleasantries and relate to Jacob Pevensey as a man of business.
“Please acquaint me with the members of the family.”
“There is my mother, the Duchess of Brockenhurst, in residence. My father, as you must know, has been dead three years or more.”
Pevensey gave a slight nod and folded his hands in front of him.
“There is Robert Curtis, my mother’s son by her first marriage.”
“And Mr. Curtis is in residence?”
“Not permanently. He is here on a visit. And then there is my sister Adele—a permanent resident until such time as she weds.” Henry paused. “That is the extent of the family.”
“You leave out yourself,” replied the investigator.
“I believe my existence is implied since you are speaking with me.”
“But your residence is not, I think, permanent?”
“No, no, I reside in London.”
“And you are here, as your brother Robert, on a visit to the late duke?”
Henry hesitated. “Yes.” There did not seem to be any point in explaining that it was not the duke he had been visiting.
“Are there others visiting?”
“Yes, there is Walter Turold, whom I mentioned in my letter. There is Stephen Blount, a friend of the family. And there are Sir Arthur and Lady Malcolm and their daughter Miss Malcolm.”
Pevensey’s hands were still folded in his lap. Henry marveled that the man was not pulling out some notebook to jot down the details.
“You said in the letter that Mr. Turold takes responsibility for the shot that killed the duke?”
Henry inclined his head. “Indeed. He says he mistook the movement for a deer and fired unawares.”
“And you believe him?”
They had moved out of the realm of fact into a scrutiny of Henry’s insides. “I’m sure my belief is of no consequence. It is for you to discover whether his statement is true.”
“I should not like to conjecture,” said Pevensey, leaning forward in his chair a little, “but such an answer leads me to suspect that you do not believe him. Why not?”
Henry frowned. “You are very precipitate, Mr. Pevensey. I assure you I am simply keeping an open mind on the matter. It could very well have been an accident, as Turold says.”
“Ah.”
That single monosyllable made Henry feel as if he were on trial here. “Is there anything else you need to know tonight?” he demanded, trying to take charge of the conversation.
“Could you explain the relationship of the guests to the family? Why were they visiting?”
“Walter Turold was a friend of my brother’s. They were inseparable—Walter always visited Harrowhaven anytime my brother did.”
“Is Mr. Turold a man of property?”
“No, his late father lived roundabout on a small parcel of land, but I believe Walter converted it to ready money many years ago and has been living off of it ever since.”
“And Stephen Blount.”
“A friend of the family, as I said.”
“Of which member of the family?”
“Of mine.”
“But as you said, you are not in permanent residence here. Did Mr. Blount come down from London with you?”
“No. He is courting my sister, Adele, if you must know. Although I do not see how that is pertinent to your investigation.” Henry was beginning to view these questions as an invasion of his family’s privacy.
“Every detail helps to give me a fuller picture,” said Pevensey smoothly. “And the Malcolms? Why were they visiting?”
Henry’s collar felt much too tight around his neck. “They were visiting Rufus.”
“Were they longstanding friends like Mr. Turold?”
“No.” Such prying was beginning to be insufferable.
Pevensey paused. “Was this their first visit to Harrowhaven?”
“I do not know. I believe so.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about the family?”
“No, I was not acquainted with them prior to last week.”
Pevensey rose from his seat. “Thank you for your thorough explanation of the matter.”
Henry could not tell whether there was a hint of irony on the word thorough.
“I will conduct interviews with the family and the guests in the morning. And might I also have your permission to interview the servants?”
“Of course,” said Henry, rising from his own chair and walking toward the door. “One of the footmen can show you to your room.”
Pevensey bowed. “Thank you, your grace.” He lifted an eyebrow “It is ‘your grace,’ isn’t it?”
Henry nodded, maintaining perfect control of his features. “Yes, the title devolved on me at my brother’s death.”
“Of course,” said the investigator with a smile, and he disappeared down the corridor leading back to the saloon.
Henry clenched his right hand into a fist and hit it against the side of his leg. Stephen’s father had been right—this fellow was good at his work. He would certainly get to the bottom of whether Rufus’ death was accidental or intentional, but Henry feared he would also get to the bottom of other things as well….
* * *
Pevensey laid out his clothes for the next day across the back of the chair in his room. The housekeeper had ordered up a tray of chilled soup and cold meats for him, a kind gesture. He placed an exploratory hand on the bed and found a generous pile of down over the straw ticking. In his profession, he was used to being treated on the level of a tradesman, but here they were feting him almost as if he were a guest.
The footman who had brought him to his rooms, a friendly fellow by the name of Frederick, had proven remarkably more loquacious than the new duke. Pevensey, with very little trouble to himself, had learned the names of all the servants as well as some further information about the inmates of the house. The most startling piece of news? Miss Malcolm, the daughter of the family that Henry Rowland had mentioned, had apparently just entered a betrothal with the now-deceased duke.
Pevensey sat down on the edge of the chair and removed his
boots, his feet enjoying the freedom after the long day in London and the hot ride to Harrowhaven. Why had Henry Rowland omitted this? What other matters had the new duke withheld from his attention? He was beginning to think that he ought to confront Henry Rowland regarding this misinformation before proceeding with the rest of the investigation.
Pevensey stood up to take off his jacket, taking care to remove his notebook and pencil from the pocket before laying the garment out neatly. There was a small table beside the chair, and he settled down to sketch. A picture of Henry Rowland soon materialized—dark, broad-shouldered, broad-featured, handsome in a way that women would find attractive. There he was leaning back in the chair behind the desk, masculine, confident, secure, as if the study in which he sat had always belonged to him.
From what the footman had said, Rufus Rowland could have been depicted in much the same manner, save for the fact that his hair was red, not brown. Two masterful men, little more than two years apart in age, yet divided by the vast gulf of primogeniture. Pevensey’s inquiries in London had unearthed some interesting stories surrounding the Rowland inheritance—and the ill-feeling it occasioned. One brother, with the sole advantage of being born two years earlier, had obtained the title, the land, and the money that accompanied them. The other, nothing but the remote expectation that he might inherit if his brother died childless.
And Rufus had died childless—yet, seemingly, on the road to producing an heir. His marriage with Miss Malcolm would reportedly have taken place in short order, and if the lady were fertile, an heir might not have been far behind. Had Henry Rowland tried to catch the nearest way to wealth by eliminating his brother before it was too late?
Pevensey closed his notebook and laid it on the table. It was too early to tell. But as he fell asleep, his last thought was that there might be far more to this shooting than the word “accident” conveyed.
18
Eliza debated whether to come downstairs for breakfast. Henry had said that an investigator was coming…surely, it was too early for him to have arrived already? She decided to chance it, and after Ollerton had laced up her blue morning dress, she glided down the corridor to the top of the stairs.
She remembered yesterday morning, when he had been there, waiting for her. She remembered her hand traveling down the banister toward his, and stopping just short of contact with him. She remembered his fingers reaching up to close the distance. “Do not marry my brother!”
There was no one standing at the foot of the stairs today, but Eliza caught her breath sharply to see a man standing on the landing. His back was to her, as he stared at the portraits on the wall. His bright red hair was the same color as Rufus’. For a moment she thought she was staring at a ghost. But no, he was smaller, much smaller—two of him could have fit inside of Rufus’ frame.
The stranger turned around. He had seen her. She could hardly retreat quietly to her room now. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand on the banister and began to descend the stairs.
“Good morning!” said the intruder, his freckled face splitting into a smile. “You must be Miss Malcolm.”
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” she said, reaching the landing and finding herself an inch taller than him.
“Jacob Pevensey at your service. Attached to the magistrates’ office in London.”
“Oh, I see. You must be the investigator H—his lordship spoke of.”
“Yes, exactly. I am especially hoping to speak to you this morning. I realize that it is a difficult time, but your words might be able to shed some light on this dark tragedy.”
Eliza opened her mouth to reply, but a firm voice from the bottom of the stairs preempted her.
“Any questions can wait until Miss Malcolm has had her breakfast.”
She looked down to see that Henry had entered the saloon.
“How thoughtless of me,” said the investigator. “Of course, you are eager to break your fast. May I escort you to the dining room, and perhaps we can talk there? I will be taking the witnesses’ official statements later, but there are just a few preliminary questions I wanted to ask you.”
Flustered, Eliza took the arm that Mr. Pevensey offered and continued down the staircase with him. She could see Henry’s eyes narrowing, but he turned and led the way to the dining room, throwing open the doors and pulling out a chair for her to sit down. Mr. Pevensey walked around the table and sat opposite to her while Henry walked over to the sideboard to fill a plate with food.
Eliza could see the investigator watching her, studying her. She dropped her eyes to the glaring white of the tablecloth. If only he would ask his questions and get it over with. She had nothing to hide except her fear of strangers. Henry gently placed a full plate in front of her, complete with fork and knife, and returned to the sideboard to fill another plate. Eliza’s palpitating heart hoped that he was planning to sit down as well. Whatever she was going to say to Mr. Pevensey could surely be said in front of Rufus’ brother.
“Bacon, Pevensey?” Henry asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Eliza’s face fell. Apparently, he was merely serving breakfast to the investigator. She watched him slide another full plate to the place across from her.
But then, instead of leaving the room, he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. He was not eating, but he was also not leaving. He would not abandon her to face the investigator alone. “Well then, Pevensey?”
Mr. Pevensey’s thin red eyebrows lifted, but he made no objection. It was surely not normal to have a chaperon of this kind, but he did not deny her the comfort of Henry’s presence.
“Miss Malcolm, as I investigate the cause of the late Duke of Brockenhurst’s passing, I must ask questions to everyone on the premises that day. Please answer me to the best of your ability.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Eliza murmured. She gripped the handles of her fork and knife, having forgotten to take a single bite of her breakfast. She saw Henry place his right arm on the table and look intently at the investigator.
“How long have you been acquainted with the duke?” said Pevensey.
“About one month.”
“Where did you first make his acquaintance?”
“In London, at a ball.”
“And how quickly did your acquaintance progress?”
Eliza blushed.
“What I mean to say”—the inspector corrected himself—“is how well did you come to know him during the past four weeks?”
“I…I only knew him slightly. My father talked with him more than I did.”
“Why did he ask your family to visit him at Harrowhaven?”
Eliza set down her silverware, hands shaking. Surely, he must already know the answers to these questions—otherwise, why would he ask them?
“Miss Malcolm?”
“I believe he wanted to improve our acquaintance.”
“What day did you arrive here?”
“On Saturday.”
“And how would you characterize the time that you spent with his grace during the past five days?”
How would she characterize it? Difficult. Uncomfortable. Demeaning. She glanced over to Henry, her green eyes begging for help.
Henry leaned forward. “Perhaps you are not aware, Mr. Pevensey, that my brother proposed marriage to Miss Malcolm the day before the sad event. They were engaged to be married.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, miss,” said Pevensey, a glint of something inscrutable in his eyes. He looked at Henry. “Your grace failed to mention as much last night.”
“It must have slipped my mind.” Henry’s voice was unapologetic.
The investigator’s eyebrows lifted again. He took several bites of his eggs and bacon. “Miss Malcolm,”—he paused a moment to swallow—“now that we’ve reviewed your acquaintance with the late duke, perhaps you might enlighten me as to you
r acquaintance with the new duke. How long have you known this gentleman?” He pointed a fork at Henry.
Eliza’s heart raced. How ought she respond to that? Under the table she felt a gentle pressure on her right slipper as Henry touched it with his boot.
“Oh! Mr. Rowland and I met in London ages ago.” She smiled wanly.
“Ah, how interesting!” The investigator’s eyes flicked back and forth from Eliza to Henry. “I think, Miss Malcolm, that I shall postpone the rest of our interview until a time when we can be less encumbered by an audience.”
Henry’s lip curled up into a devilish smile, but Mr. Pevensey was no longer looking at him. He stood up and carried his plate, still half full, back over to the sideboard and placed it on the shelf below for dirty dishes. “Until later, Miss Malcolm.” The redheaded investigator departed from the dining room to take his interviewing elsewhere.
Eliza and Henry sat in conspiratorial silence until they were sure that Mr. Pevensey had moved far out of earshot.
“Did I say the right thing?” Eliza asked anxiously.
Henry laughed. “Well, considering that I told him we had just met last week, probably not.”
“Oh, Henry, how awful! He will think me a liar. I suppose I am one….”
“Not at all, my dear. I’m certain he thinks I’m the one telling taradiddles. Ah well—what does it matter? It’s not as if this has anything to do with his investigation.” He took her right hand in his and began to rub his thumb over the back of it.
“No, of course not,” said Eliza. Her face turned pink all the way up to the roots of her auburn hair. She nearly drew away her hand, but the feel of his skin against hers was too compelling.
She hoped that his interest in her had nothing to do with the investigation….
“Elizabeth Malcolm!”
Standing in the open doorway was the stern and angry figure of Lady Malcolm. Eliza gasped and snatched her hand away from Henry’s. Her mother advanced to her chair and pulled it back so she could rise from the table. Henry stood as well, a look of seriousness suffusing his face.
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