“Mr. Rowland,” said Lady Malcolm, inserting herself between the offending gentleman and her daughter. “Please be aware that we are not interested in any further connection to your family. We will be leaving this place directly following the inquest—perhaps sooner if this kind of behavior continues.”
“I beg your pardon, madam.”
Lady Malcolm sniffed. “I forgive you, as I must, but do not think this means that I shall relax my vigilance. Come, Eliza, we shall read together for the remainder of the morning.”
* * *
Henry sat down at the table and raked his hands through his hair. He had been counting on Sir Arthur’s avarice to advance his suit, but it seemed that Lady Malcolm might be the more formidable of Eliza’s parents. And she—for some unexplainable reason—had taken a pet against him. He chided himself for losing control of his hands. How foolish of him to touch Eliza, and how unfortunate that her mother should enter just then. He had been forbidden—perhaps permanently—from entering Eliza’s presence, and all his racing blood could think about was how much he desired to touch her skin again.
“I could not help but overhear....”
Drat! It was Pevensey again.
“Of course you couldn’t,” said Henry sharply. He frowned as the investigator entered the room and resumed his chair opposite him. He had hoped that the man would be off questioning the servants and viewing the scene of the death, but instead, he was skulking around the house and eavesdropping at the most inopportune moment.
“Your grace, I think it is time for plain speaking between us.”
“I have always appreciated candor,” said Henry, aware that he had exercised very little of that virtue in their previous conversation.
“I am aware that you were not on good terms with your brother.”
“Who is your source for such information?”
“London.”
“London is a very loud-mouthed woman. And you must be aware that her rumors are not always true.”
“But in this case I find her information very persuasive. You received no inclusion, I think, in your father’s will, while your brother received the title and the whole of the estate—”
“As is customary in our country,” Henry interjected.
“Surely, it is more customary for the father to set aside something for a second son—perhaps money to buy an officer’s commission in the cavalry, or money to secure a living in the church. Was your father so uncaring?”
Henry felt his craw stick in his throat. He had asked himself the same question more times than one, but he would not let his father’s memory be demeaned by a stranger.
“My father did provide for me in the way he thought best. He established me as steward at Harrowhaven over the Rowland lands in Sussex with a substantial income that he thought would be enough for my needs.”
“And yet, you are no longer steward here?”
“My brother and I had a falling out”—that term “falling out” hardly described the rage Rufus had shown when Henry confronted him about the matter of the Dower House—“and he elected to dismiss me from the post.”
“And so you have even more reason to resent your brother. Penniless, cast off—”
“One could imagine so, but no. I fell on my feet.” Henry refused to elaborate any further.
“There is still, though, the matter of Miss Malcolm. Your brother was about to marry her.”
“Indeed.”
“While you, it seems, have nursed a partiality for her for months.”
“I have only just met Miss Malcolm.”
“And yet she seems to be under the impression that she has known you for ages—and your own conduct not ten minutes ago would seem to confirm the…familiarity.”
“What are you suggesting, that jealous of my brother’s inheritance and his bride, I took the opportunity to murder him in the forest?”
“You must grant that you have the motive and, since you were a member of the hunting party, the opportunity.”
Henry’s fingers balled into a fist—he stopped his hand from pounding against the table. He had never entertained the notion that he himself would be considered a suspect in the case. But then, he really ought to have known—it was the first direction Eliza’s mind had jumped when he visited her yesterday afternoon.
“And what of the fact that Walter Turold has confessed to shooting him?”
“Yes, that is the rub, isn’t it? Is Mr. Turold such an inexperienced hunter then, that he would fire wildly at some movement in the bushes?”
It was Henry’s previous falsehoods that had placed him in this precarious position, and as much as he wanted to say yes, he resolved to stick to the truth from now on. “No. He is an exceptional hunter. I would not expect him to make that sort of mistake.”
“And does he bear any resentment towards your brother?”
Henry was silent. That subject—the subject of Catherine Ansel—was not a place where he was willing to let Pevensey tread about with his muddy boots and muck-raking fingers. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I intend to,” said Pevensey, “after I confer with the magistrate in charge about the case.”
* * *
Pevensey went to the windows in the entrance hall where he could see Cecil’s approach. After the Banbury stories the new duke had been telling him, he was eager to speak with an impartial witness—presuming that Cecil, as magistrate, was indeed impartial.
“Mr. Cecil gave me to understand that he would return at ten o’clock this morning, sir,” said Hayward, the butler.
“Yes, very good. And is Mr. Cecil a punctual fellow?”
“I have never known him to be unpunctual.”
Pevensey appreciated the butler’s professionalism. “And would you describe him, Hayward, as especially friendly to the Rowland family, in particular to the new duke, Henry Rowland?”
Hayward pursed his lips. “No, I would not say so. They are much of an age and grew up here in the same part of the country, but Mr. Cecil had a sickly childhood, and he kept to his home while Master Rufus and Master Henry roamed the woods and the countryside.”
“Whom did Master Henry play with then? His brother?”
“No, Mr. Pevensey. Master Rufus was often with his father, the old duke William Rowland. Master Henry, in his younger years, played with Mr. Turold and another boy from the village, a tavern-keeper’s son.”
Pevensey felt a jump of excitement at this new piece of information. “Are Mr. Turold and Henry Rowland still close?”
“No,” Hayward put his hands behind his back. “They grew apart when Master Henry went to Eton. Mr. Turold is now closer…or should I say, was closer to Rufus Rowland. They shared certain proclivities….” And then, as if suddenly aware that he was sharing too much of the Rowland family business, the butler grew quiet and placed his hands behind his back.
Pevensey felt the trail had gone cold and did not press any further. A few moments later he saw a slim young man dismounting near the steps. “This must be Mr. Cecil.”
The man bounded rapidly up the stairs, rapped three times on the door, and was soon handing his beaver and gloves to Hayward.
“Jacob Pevensey at your service,” said Pevensey with a nod.
“Excellent!” said the man, his enthusiasm as springy as the black curls covering his head. “I must tell you, Mr. Pevensey, I am delighted to learn from your expertise in this matter. Where do we begin?”
“I thought we might begin by taking your statement,” said Pevensey, motioning towards the empty morning room. “You were there, were you not?”
“Indeed,” said Cecil. “I was on the scene almost directly.” He found a chair and, lifting up his coattails, sat down with alacrity.
“And dealt with the aftermath, I understand?” Pevensey took a seat opposite the young magistrate.
Cecil shrugged. “I was alarmed, as were the others. But someone had to manage the women…and deal with the body.”
“Could you start at the beginning of the day yesterday, when you arrived for the hunt?” Pevensey pulled out his notebook, and Cecil had hardly begun his tale before his profile materialized on the page.
“Rowland organized a hunt and invited the whole neighborhood. I suppose I should specify which Rowland—it was Rufus. He’s mad about hunting. Always has been. And when he sets up a shooting party, one goes, even when it’s not one’s favorite sport.”
“As in your case,” said Pevensey with a smile.
“Exactly. My sister Edwina was keener on it than I. She wanted to spend time with Lady Adele, I suppose, who’s been in town all season—”
“So there were women who rode out with the hunt?” interrupted Pevensey.
“Yes. You’ll want to know their names, to be sure.” Mr. Cecil began to count off on his fingers. “There was my sister, Edwina Cecil, and then Miss Bertram, a neighbor, and Lady Adele, and Miss Malcolm. The Duchess of Brockenhurst, I believe, was indisposed and did not ride out that day. The ladies climbed aboard their mounts in the stable yard, but when we rode out into the woods, they took a different route—along the road, I believe—since none of them were armed, and their sole purpose was to watch.”
“Which gentlemen attended the hunt?”
Mr. Cecil began to count on his fingers again. “There was myself, Rufus, Henry, Robert Curtis, Walter Turold, Sir Arthur Malcolm, Squire Ashbrook, his two sons, and….” He listed off three or four more gentlemen from the neighborhood. “We left the stable yard all in a pack with the hounds in front. There was a good deal of shouting and jesting about who would see the stag first.”
“And did you continue in a pack?”
“No, and that is the queer thing. Usually, Rufus is up there at the front, and nine times out of ten, the kill is his. But yesterday, I lost sight of Rufus almost immediately. The hounds picked up the scent and we were all caught up in the thrill of the chase. I sighted a goodly pair of antlers up ahead, but he must have doubled back at the stream, for the hounds lost his scent there, and that is when we all split up, Henry off one way, Walter Turold off another. Squire Ashbrook and a few others decided to follow the water with the dogs, and Sir Arthur and I struck north to the road where we met up with the ladies.”
“Go on,” said Pevensey. It was a curious story, this tale of the scattered hunters, for if all was as Cecil said, then there would be more than one man without a confirmation of his whereabouts.
“We met the ladies at the road, and that is when we heard the first shot.”
“There were more than one?”
“Yes, there were two.”
“How far apart?”
“Five minutes, I would hazard. At the time, we conjectured that someone had wounded the stag and then fired a second shot to finish him off.”
“And what do you conjecture now?”
Mr. Cecil sighed and rubbed the palms of his hands on his buckskins. “I’m not sure. Perhaps Rufus saw the stag, fired, and missed. And then Walter, thinking he saw the stag, fired and hit Rufus.”
“Hmmm….” said Pevensey. His pencil had completed the black, corkscrew curls, and the frank, open eyes. “What did you do after hearing the shots?”
“The ladies were eager to see the kill—the stag, you understand, not the duke—and we headed into the woods after the first one. The second one came from farther away, and I bade them wait while I found the others so I could show them the proper trail.”
“And when you came upon the scene?”
“Walter Turold was in a clearing, seated upon his horse looking down at the duke’s body. The duke’s horse was standing nearby. Turold’s pistol was in his hand, and he looked over at me with a stare of absolute wretchedness on his face. ‘I’ve shot him, Cecil,’ he said. ‘I thought he was the stag.’”
“And those were his exact words?”
“As far as I can recollect.”
“Was the duke lying on his back or his front?”
“His back. His eyes were all glassy…I was certain with one look at him that he was dead.”
“Did you get down from your horse and check?”
“Certainly, that was my first instinct. He had no pulse.”
“Did Turold dismount as well?”
“No, Turold remained on his horse. He seemed to be in shock. I told him to give me his weapon, and he handed it over without a word. Curtis rode up then, and Ashbrook with his sons. And Henry came after a minute. I left the body with them and went back to warn the women away. Sir Arthur accompanied them to the house. I went back to the clearing. Henry had already sent Ashbrook to ride for the village to find the doctor and the constable. The church was nearby and I checked there and at the parsonage, but neither Ansel nor his curate were there.”
“Did anyone answer?”
“No, nobody. Their housekeeper must have had the day off. I returned to the clearing then and Henry said that we must bring Rufus’ body back to the house.”
“Before the doctor or constable had seen it?”
“Yes. Was that wrong of us? I hope we did nothing improper. We laid the duke over the back of his horse and led the beast out to the road. And there was the carriage from Harrowhaven. Sir Arthur must have sent it when he returned to the house with the ladies. The groom helped us put the duke inside, and Henry drove the carriage.”
“I see,” said Pevensey. He wondered how many clues had been lost by this hasty shuttling of the body to another location. This Mr. Cecil certainly had zeal, but it was without adequate knowledge. “Where did the bullet hit the duke?”
“The back. The body is still here, I believe. It was in this very room yesterday, but no doubt they moved it somewhere more convenient. Would you like to see it?”
19
The servants, under Mrs. Forsythe’s directions, had placed the corpse in the cellar—a rather macabre addition to the pickles and preserves but necessary given the summer’s heat. The plan, Mrs. Forsythe told Pevensey, was to have it removed tomorrow for burial, but for now, it was under lock and key down below the house—the housekeeper being the one to hold the keys lest giddy housemaids become too curious.
Mrs. Forsythe stood solemnly at the door while Pevensey and Cecil examined the corpse. He was naked, except for a white sheet that had been thrown over him. The dead duke’s skin was just as white as the sheet, a ghastly, uncanny whiteness that contrasted blindingly with his red hair. Pevensey motioned for Cecil to roll the body forward a little so he could see the wound.
The bullet had entered jaggedly beside the shoulder blade, at an angle it seemed, for after piercing the heart, it had come out through the side of the duke’s pectoral muscle. “A well-positioned hit,” said Cecil with a whistle.
Someone had taken the trouble to clean up the blood and dirt from the body. “Mrs. Forsythe,” said Pevensey, “do you have the clothes that the duke was wearing?”
“I’ve sent them down to be laundered and mended,” said the housekeeper, “and if his valet doesn’t want them, they’ll go to one of the footmen.”
Pevensey’s lips compressed into a thin line. Any clues the clothes could provide had probably been irrevocably destroyed. Nevertheless, he did not forget the wonders a polite smile could produce, and his face soon radiated friendliness once again. “Mrs. Forsythe, your industry is remarkable. I wonder, though, if perhaps you could send to the laundry and discover whether they have been thrown in the lye yet. I would love to see the stains if I might.”
“Of course, Mr. Pevensey,” said Mrs. Forsythe, surprised. She stepped outside the cellar to say a word to one of the staff.
“First rule of investigations,” said Pevensey, giving a wink to Cecil. “Always get the housekeeper on your side.”
�
��And second rule—never let the domestics tamper with the evidence,” said Cecil. “My apologies.”
“You’re a fast learner, Cecil.” Pevensey eyed the young man thoughtfully. In his experience, most gentry folk had as much common sense as a popinjay, but this fellow seemed determined to listen and learn.
“Is the shot consistent with Turold’s story?” asked Cecil.
“Possibly.” Pevensey eyed the exit wound one more time. “Although it has the appearance of something fired at closer range and not at a distance through a stand of brush and trees.”
“The constable took a statement from Turold. He should be here shortly, and I’ve instructed him to bring both the statement and Turold’s pistol.”
Pevensey smiled. “I never use another investigator’s notes. I’ll need to take the statement again.”
“Do you think his line of questioning will have been inadequate then?”
“Maybe. The important thing is to see the one you’re questioning. It’s not so much the things he says as the way he says them.”
“Ah,” said Cecil. “Well, I’ve cleared my schedule for the day—postponed meetings with tenants and tea with the Bertrams—so if it is all the same to you, I would like to sit in on the statements.”
“Commendable of you,” said Pevensey with a twinkle in his eye, “for in the end, it’s you that will have to recommend at the inquest whether there’s enough evidence to send it up to the county assizes.”
“Indeed,” said Cecil gravely. “Where do we begin?”
“Servants first,” said Pevensey. “They see and know far more than your class gives them credit for.”
“My class.” Cecil smiled. “And what class do you consider yourself, Mr. Pevensey?”
“Me? I am part of no class. I am invisible—only here when you do not want me and likely to be forgotten again as soon as I leave.”
“I doubt that very much, Mr. Pevensey.” Cecil adjusted the sheet over the corpse as they prepared to leave the cellar. “And after the servants?”
“The least likely suspects to the most likely.”
“Why that order?”
The Duke's Last Hunt Page 18