The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  Pevensey crossed his arms over his chest and wrinkled his nose. “Rufus Rowland wanted that estate for some reason. Either that or he wanted to spite his older brother. He didn’t need the money.”

  “What does one want an estate for?”

  “Presumably to live in. Although, given that he already had Harrowhaven and a house in Grosvenor Square, it seems superfluous.”

  Cecil thought hard. “He was about to be married. Perhaps it was to be a gift to his new wife.”

  “Perhaps,” said Pevensey, “although he hardly strikes me as the gift-giving kind.” He pursed his lips. “How far away was Curtis’ estate?”

  “Several hours’ ride. Why?”

  “Just the distance a man would want to separate his wife from his mistress.”

  “Lud, I think you might be onto something there! The need was pressing since he’d just become engaged. And did we not see his light skirt in the neighborhood just yesterday?”

  “His former light skirt, according to Henry Rowland.”

  “Oh, pish, these dalliances with high-flyers are always on-again, off-again affairs,” said Cecil, waving a hand dismissively. He stopped himself and grinned. “Not that I would know from personal experience.”

  Pevensey laughed. “Of course not. Next item?”

  “Item 2: the carriage on the road.”

  “Come now,” said Pevensey, “given our previous conjecture about Curtis’ estate, you should be able to solve the mystery of the carriage easily enough.”

  It only took Cecil a moment to fathom out what Pevensey meant. “It was for the mistress! To take her out of the way to the new location.”

  “Exactly,” said Pevensey, pleased to see his pupil so apt.

  “Item 3: the second shot?”

  “Why is that a question?” asked Pevensey. “You are certain yourself that there were two shots, yes?”

  “Indeed. But Walter Turold denies hearing two. I know I asked you this last night, but I’m asking it again: why?” Cecil took a swig of ale to wash down a large bite of sausage that was clogging his throat.

  “An error on his part,” said Pevensey. “He ought to have admitted hearing the first shot if he wanted us to believe that the shooting was accidental.”

  “What do you mean?” Cecil forgot to take another bite. “Who fired the first shot?”

  “Possibly Turold himself, but not in the clearing, I think—”

  “I can tell you who fired the shot!” a girlish voice interrupted. Both men’s heads jerked around sharply to see a diminutive blond woman standing behind them, hands folded, eyes bright.

  * * *

  For the briefest of moments, Pevensey thought that the figure confronting them was Catherine Ansel—the build and fair features of the woman were so similar to that of the clergyman’s daughter. But no, this woman’s carriage was much more certain, and there was an alluring quality to her stance that would never have occurred to the Reverend’s daughter.

  Cecil rose from his seat instantly, the manners of a gentleman indelibly engrained in him. “Good morning, Mrs. Flambard,” he said, nodding his head.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” said Pevensey, rising a little more slowly with a question in his eyes.

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Flambard, may I present Jacob Pevensey, attached to the London magistrates’ office.” Cecil turned to Pevensey. “Mrs. Flambard is….” Here his manners faltered as he struggled to come up with a suitable introduction.

  The lady smiled coyly. “I think what Mr. Cecil is trying to get at is that I am—I was—a special friend of the Duke of Brockenhurst.”

  Pevensey had guessed as much already. “You seem to have overheard our conversation, madam.”

  “I could not help overhearing in such a public place.” She cast down her eyelids with a counterfeit demureness that only drew attention to the décolletage of her dress. “The innkeeper informed me that you are investigating Rufus’ death, and I…”—she gave an attractive little sob—“I could not remain silent, knowing what I know about the matter.”

  “And what might that be?” asked Pevensey. He saw Cecil offer Mrs. Flambard his handkerchief, and he hoped that his protégé was not about to be taken in by this sharp-witted minx.

  “There was someone—someone quite close to him—who had quarreled with Rufus. It’s a very delicate situation, you understand.” She dabbed the handkerchief against her eyes. “I almost hate to mention it since the quarrel was…oh, how can I say this? The quarrel was over me! But, please, gentlemen, if this could just stay between us.”

  “Of course,” Cecil murmured. “A lady cannot be too careful of her reputation.” Pevensey caught the note of irony in the young magistrate’s tone and knew that all was well.

  “Are you referring to Walter Turold?” asked Pevensey, coming straight to the point.

  “Lud, no!” said Mrs. Flambard, forgetting to ply the handkerchief. “To Rufus’ brother—Henry! He was quite jealous of Rufus, you know. Resented the fact that his brother got the estate, the money, the woman he wanted for himself.”

  “You refer to yourself?” Pevensey had encountered this type far too often in his investigations.

  “Oh, I am being much too open with you, far too bold,” simpered Mrs. Flambard, fluttering her eyelids down at her neckline once again. “But I must speak out—for Rufus’ sake!”

  “So Henry quarreled with Rufus over property, money, and you,” said Pevensey. “Go on.”

  “It all came to a head the last time Henry was here,” said Mrs. Flambard. “They quarreled so violently, and in my presence! I thought that Henry was about to throttle Rufus then and there, but Rufus threw him out of the room. And then Henry stood at the door and swore—such terrible oaths!—that he would have his revenge on Rufus. I tremble to remember the scene.” She put her hand on Cecil’s sleeve to steady her nerves.

  “So, you believe that Henry shot his brother during the hunt on Wednesday?”

  “Oh, yes! I am certain of it.”

  “Walter Turold is not. He has confessed to it.” Pevensey wondered how she would counter that piece of evidence.

  “From what I have heard, he simply fired at random into the bushes. And there was another shot, they say. Someone else fired first. I think if you examine the matter, Mr. Pevensey, you’ll find that Rufus was dead before Mr. Turold even fired.” She still had not let go of Cecil’s sleeve.

  “I have considered the notion,” said Pevensey dryly.

  “And when I went to Harrowhaven the following day,” said Mrs. Flambard, “his brother as good as admitted it to me!”

  Cecil patted her hand gently and removed it from his arm. “Henry admitted to shooting Rufus?”

  “Yes, he was disgustingly proud of himself. As if I would ever care for him after that!”

  Pevensey saw Cecil’s forehead wrinkle in perplexity. He decided to take the matter in hand. “Thank you for this new information, Mrs. Flambard. We shall, of course, take it into consideration as we continue our investigation. I do have one question for you.”

  She tilted her chin at an attractive angle and waited.

  “Since Rufus Rowland was engaged to be married, he undoubtedly would have been severing all connection with you. Is that correct?”

  She laughed. “Mr. Pevensey, you disappoint me. Surely, you understand the ways of the world. That redheaded giraffe would never have satisfied him in the arts of love. She wasn’t at all the type of woman he admired. She was simply the quiet little mouse that Rufus needed to keep his house for him. He would never even have noticed her if a friend had not pointed her out.”

  “And how do you know that?” asked Cecil.

  “I have my sources,” Mrs. Flambard replied archly.

  “I see,” said Pevensey. “Good day, then Mrs. Flambard.” He resumed his seat. “Oh, and I hope you weren�
�t kept waiting too long for the carriage on Wednesday?”

  “The carriage?” Her face had a look of bewilderment.

  “Never mind,” said Pevensey, waving her away with the bare minimum of civility, and coolly resuming his seat. “Cecil, do sit down. Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  25

  The two men waited for Mrs. Flambard to leave the room before they continued their conversation. Cecil had hardly opened his mouth to speak, however, before they were interrupted again. “I couldn’t help but overhear….” said the bearded innkeeper.

  “Is that so, Ned?” said Cecil.

  Pevensey merely smiled and took out his notebook. There was quite a rash of eavesdroppers in a village like this, eavesdroppers who did not mind being discovered and sharing their own opinions on the matter. And in Pevensey’s experience, when he had not yet solved a case, it was best to continue gathering as many clues as possible. Who knows? Perhaps this young innkeeper might hold the key to unlock the mysteries that still plagued them.

  “Yes, it is so, Mr. Cecil,” said the innkeeper. The twinkle seemed to have gone out of his eye. “And what that Mrs. Flambard said to you—don’t know as to why she calls herself Mrs., for I can guarantee to you there weren’t never any Mr.—what she said is a raggedy, patched-up bag of moonshine.”

  “Which part?” asked Pevensey. He could see that the innkeeper felt very strongly about the players in this tragedy.

  “Master Henry never would have entertained such a thought as murdering his brother. And as to the quarrels they had—faugh!—they certainly weren’t over the likes of her. I mean, they were, but not in the way she says.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what the quarrels were about then,” said Pevensey. “And perhaps a little bit of background as to how you know so much about what goes on at the big house.”

  “Master Henry and me go back a long ways,” said Ned.

  Cecil nodded in confirmation of this fact.

  “When the old duke died, he left the estate to Master Rufus, and Master Henry was the steward. It was a fool’s arrangement, but there you have it—it’s what the old duke wanted. It didn’t take long for Rufus to set up with some harlots from town in the old Dower House. Henry objected, and Rufus quieted down his riotous living for a time. But then not a few months had gone by and he imports this Mrs. Flambard—and she preening it like a peacock all over the village, letting it be known that she was the duke’s favorite. Master Henry couldn’t stand no more of it, and he told his brother to stop dragging the Rowland name into a swamp of lechery. But Rufus wouldn’t listen, and he was the one who went into a rage. He stripped Henry of the steward’s job and tossed him out on his ear. Master Henry made his way up to London—he comes down on occasion to visit his mother—but he don’t hold no grudges. Leastwise, none that would end in murder.”

  “Hmm…quite a different narrative of events,” said Pevensey. “Did Mrs. Flambard remain in residence following Henry’s expulsion?”

  “Aye, for a right long time. But something happened in the spring of this year. Maybe she grew too greedy, or else Master Rufus just grew tired of her. But one day she was preening about the village, and the next day she was gone. The Dower House went empty, and a little later Master Rufus went up to London and stayed there for a few months until just a fortnight or so ago.”

  “I see,” said Pevensey. He looked over at Cecil. “So just about the time he started showing interest in Miss Malcolm.” He drummed his fingers on the table in front of them. An idea was forming in the recesses of his brain. He pulled out his notebook. “Cecil,” he said. “Who is this a picture of?”

  “Why, Mrs. Flambard,” said Cecil, leaning closer to examine the notebook page. “No, wait! It is similar, but not quite her. It is—”

  “—Catie Ansel,” said the innkeeper, looking over Cecil’s shoulder.

  “Yes, exactly,” said Pevensey, snapping the notebook shut. “The resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” said Cecil, “but what does it mean?”

  Pevensey ignored the question for the time being, and asked another one of his own. “Cecil, on the evening you visited Harrowhaven—Monday, I think—was Walter Turold there with the other guests?”

  Cecil pursed his lips as he cudgeled his brain. “No…I don’t believe he was.”

  “Did anyone mention where he was?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Er…yes! Someone mentioned, I think, that he had a dinner invitation elsewhere.”

  “At Reverend Ansel’s?”

  “Possibly. I know that Ansel was a mentor, of sorts, to Turold after his father died. But Rufus was also absent. Could they have both dined at the Reverend’s?”

  The bearded innkeeper shook his head. He had given up all pretense of working to focus on the conversation. “The duke and the Reverend weren’t exactly on friendly terms. Land disputes.”

  “Ah,” said Pevensey, his fair skin lighting up behind his freckles. “Better and better.”

  “But what does it mean?” asked Cecil. “And what does Catie Ansel have to do with it?”

  Pevensey pushed back in his chair and stood up. “I think it’s time to head back to Harrowhaven, Cecil. If you’ve finished your breakfast, we have a murderer to catch.”

  * * *

  Hayward had brought the morning post on a silver salver, and Henry had just begun sorting through it when he heard voices entering the saloon.

  “Twenty pounds?” said a shocked voice. “Where on earth would he get something like that?”

  “Gormley thinks he stole it,” said a calmer voice that Henry recognized as Jacob Pevensey’s, “but I’m inclined to think otherwise. I think it was payment.”

  “Oh, yes, of course!” said the first man. Henry now recognized the voice of Edward Cecil. “For the carriage and keeping quiet. From Rufus?”

  The Bow Street Runner must have either nodded or shook his head, for Henry heard nothing of a reply. There was a letter on the tray from Mr. Maurice. He pocketed it for later reading and left his study to discover what was afoot.

  “Ah, Brockenhurst!” said Pevensey as Henry came into view. “We were just coming to look for you.”

  Henry preempted him. “What’s this about my groom?”

  “It appears,” said Pevensey, “that Martin is in possession of a large sum of ready cash. I believe that your brother Rufus paid him this money on the day of his death. Do you have any guess as to why?”

  A sick feeling came over Henry. “No, not at all.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Turold knows why. With your permission, I will send for him.”

  Henry nodded and listened dully as Pevensey instructed a footman to usher Turold down to the morning room. The three men entered the morning room themselves, took seats on the sofa and chair, and waited. Henry’s face set into a grim look of resignation. Cecil offered him an encouraging smile, but he did not reciprocate. He knew what was about to come.

  Turold entered the room. He had dressed hastily, by the looks of it. His hair was pulled back into a tangled queue and he was missing a cravat.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Turold,” said Pevensey, waving a hand towards the empty armchair. He acted as if he were the owner of the house, thought Henry. No—more than that. He acted as if this room were his court and he was the all-powerful judge.

  Turold obeyed, sitting down on the edge of the seat, his slim body leaning forward, alert, taut, like a fox scenting the air for signs of danger.

  “What was the relationship between Rufus Rowland and Catherine Ansel?” asked Pevensey. There were no preliminary pleasantries. The Runner had cut right to the core of the matter.

  Henry licked his lips. He could feel Turold’s eyes locked on him, willing him to remember his promise. Why had he ever given such a promise, and to the murderer of his brother? He closed his mouth, said nothing, and
waited.

  “Neither of you will tell me?” said Pevensey, his red eyebrows lifting into arches. “Very well. Then I shall tell you. Rufus Rowland was attempting a seduction of Catherine Ansel.”

  His eyes flashed back and forth between them. “What do you say to that?”

  They said nothing, more fully united in their silence than they had been in the last ten years of their separated lives.

  “Cum tacent, clamant,” murmured Cecil.

  “Neither of you denies it?” said Pevensey. “Good. Then I shall tell you more. He was attempting a seduction of Miss Ansel, and on the day of the hunt, he had paid his groom Martin to wait in the carriage on the road near the church. While the rest of the household was distracted with the hunt, he headed for the church building. He knew that the Reverend was away for the day to conduct a wedding. The timing was perfect. Miss Ansel is a simple and trusting young woman. She would be easy to lure away from the house and into the carriage. The well-paid groom would lock the carriage doors and transport his prisoner to Fontbury, the estate the duke had just recently acquired from his half-brother. The duke would return to the hunt and, with any luck, still be the one to shoot the stag. A week or so later, after the hue and cry over Miss Ansel’s disappearance had receded, he would venture out to examine his new estate and complete the seduction of the clergyman’s lovely daughter.”

  Turold let out an oath and slammed a fist into the arm of the chair. Henry kept quiet by sheer force of effort. It was a story he had refused to rehearse in his mind, but he knew that it was all true—and that Pevensey’s dramatic description of the event was having the desired effect.

  “Unfortunately, for the duke, someone got wind of his plan. Someone knew he had the intention of carrying off Catherine Ansel that day. Someone followed him to the church.” Pevensey paused and looked from Henry to Turold and then back again. “That someone could have been either of you two gentlemen.”