by Music Box
Gaby’s eyes widened. “Just over thirteen years ago,” she realized aloud. “Two months before the fire.”
Robert Smythe was a gray-haired man with a full beard and a gruff, somewhat wary manner. “What can I do for you?” he asked, having admitted Gaby and Bryce to the tiny sitting room of his Hertford cottage. “Banks said you wanted to see me, but he didn’t say about what.”
“About a yacht your company built,” Bryce supplied. Perching on the edge of the well-worn sofa, he opened the envelope and extracted the title and letters. “Evidently it was quite a beauty. I was wondering what details you could provide me with, about the construction of the yacht itself, the specific details of the transaction—anything.”
“And why do you want to know all this?”
Bryce cleared his throat. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my reasons, at least not at this time.”
Smythe scowled, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair. “I’m familiar with your name, Lyndley. I know you’re a barrister. Well, let me tell you straightaway that my sons and I are completely honest. Always have been. So if you’re looking for anything shady, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Nothing like that,” Gaby assured him in a soothing voice. “This is a personal matter, Mr. Smythe—our personal matter. Your integrity is not in question, nor is your family’s. On the contrary, according to Mr. Banks, your reputation is excellent.”
“Yeah, well, he’s right.” Somewhat mollified, Smythe leaned back in the armchair. “This deal you’re asking about—did I oversee it? Or did it take place after I retired?”
“Your signature is on the title,” Bryce told him. “And it definitely preceded your retirement; this yacht was built thirteen years ago.”
“Thirteen years ago?” Shaggy gray brows shot up.
“Lyndley, my company has built hundreds of boats. How the hell would I remember anything about a deal that took place thirteen years ago?”
Bryce had been prepared for this potential problem, and he proceeded with the strategy he hoped would eliminate it. “Mr. Smythe, the boats your company builds—they’re mostly small recreational craft, aren’t they?”
“Small, but well-built, yes.”
“I don’t doubt that. How many elaborate yachts did you construct over the years?”
“More than a few.” The builder’s head came up defensively. “As I said, our reputation is excellent.”
“And, as I said, I don’t doubt it. This particular yacht I’m looking into was commissioned by a wealthy, titled nobleman. The duke could have gone anywhere for his yacht. But he chose your company. I think that speaks for itself.”
“The duke?” Recognition—immediate and absolute—flashed in Smythe’s eyes. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’ve had a couple of aristocrats as patrons. But only one duke.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’d say thirteen years sounds about right.” Leaning forward, he added, “Let me see those letters.”
“They’re from His Grace’s steward to you and vice versa,” Bryce explained, placing the papers in Smythe’s palm. “Averley handled all his employer’s business correspondence.”
“Sure—Whitshire, that was the duke’s name.” Scanning the pages, Smythe gave an emphatic nod. “His steward wrote to me, but the duke himself came to supervise the work. He was real lavish with his praise—and his payment. It was nice doing business with him. Always hoped I’d have the chance to build him another boat one day. Not that he’d need it. That beauty I crafted for him was all any man could want. He could hardly wait to sail her away.”
Bryce frowned. Smythe s depiction of Richard Rowland’s enthusiasm for sailing was inconsistent with Hermione’s view.
“You’re certain His Grace meant to keep the yacht for his personal use?” he probed. “Isn’t it possible he intended to buy it as an investment, then sell it at a substantial profit?”
“Sell it?” Smythe started. “Hell, no. Every detail of that yacht was designed for the duke’s taste. We even changed the dimensions of the captain’s cabin to make it more comfortable for him. He didn’t need those high ceilings. Instead, he wanted bigger quarters and a wider berth so he wouldn’t feel crowded.” A chuckle as Smythe patted his protruding middle. “Not that I can afford to talk. I’ve put some extra meat on my bones since I retired; been eating too much of my wife’s fine cooking.”
Gaby had gone very still. “Mr. Smythe, would you describe the duke for us, please?”
He scratched his head. “Describe him? Like I said, he was a real gentleman. Always dressed in fine wool suits and polished shoes. He wasn’t too tall, and, again like I said, he was a bit round about the middle. But then, he wasn’t a lad anymore, either. About my age, I’d guess, with ruddy cheeks and thinning hair. I don’t have that problem myself.” Smythe ran a hand through his thick gray mane. “Anyway, he was also real generous. Paid me twice what I asked for, so long as I promised not to design the same boat for anyone else and not to talk about our deal with anybody. I guess he was afraid I’d let some of the construction details slip if I did. Well, it didn’t matter to me. I was happy to honor his request, since there wasn’t much call for a boat that fancy. He gave me my money and a bottle of that cologne I always admired. After that, I never saw him again.”
Reeling with what he was learning, Bryce jumped on the last statement. “Cologne?”
“Yes, sir. The duke told me it was imported from Paris, made special for him. Even the bottle was elegant. Whitshire gave me my own bottle of the stuff as a gift for a job well done. I used it only on Sundays when I went to church, so it lasted a long time. When it was finally gone, I kept the bottle as a memento.”
Bryce was torn between his own growing tension, spawned by the realization that their goal was in sight, and the spiraling apprehension emanating from Gaby—a palpable entity he could actually feel, and one that worried him greatly.
Gingerly he took the next step. “May we see this bottle?” he asked Smythe.
A shrug. “I guess so. If you want to, although I can’t imagine why. I’ll get it.” Smythe rose, left the room.
“Gaby, are you all right?” Bryce asked the instant they were alone. His wife had gone very pale, and her breath was coming in short, shallow pants.
“Richard Rowland was tall and broad-shouldered, much like you and Thane,” Gaby replied in a high, thin voice.
“So I’ve been told.”
Gaby stared at her husband, her blue eyes glazed with shock. “Bryce, the man Mr. Smythe just described…His description fits Mr. Averley.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Bryce captured her hand in his, speaking in a deep, soothing tone. “Let’s not panic or jump to conclusions. Let’s just hear Smythe out and take it from there.”
“I can’t.” Gaby jumped up, her eyes wide, terrified. “I can’t continue this.”
Swiftly Bryce rose, drawing Gaby against him and holding her tight. “Yes you can. I know you can.” He could feel her trembling—a reality that was as damning to Averley as Smythe’s description. “We’re nearing the end.”
She didn’t answer, just pressed closer.
Smythe cleared his throat as he reentered the room. “You two newly married?”
“Hold on, Wonderland—I’m with you,” Bryce whispered fiercely before turning to face Smythe, one arm wrapped protectively about Gaby’s waist. “Yes,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, we are.”
“I could tell.” A gruff chuckle. “Anyway, here’s the bottle.” He held out the empty gilded flask.
“May I?” Bryce asked.
“Sure.” Smythe uncapped the top. “Just be careful.”
“I will.” Bryce brought the bottle to his nose, inhaling deeply.
The lingering scent was still very much present— strong, distinctive, and thoroughly unmistakable: Averley’s eau de cologne.
Another incriminating piece fell into place.
But Bryce needed confirmation. And there was only one person w
ho could give it to him.
Meeting Gaby’s alarmed gaze, he nodded slightly, telling her without words what she already knew: that this next step was crucial—and that it was hers. Tightening his hold about her waist, he murmured, “Remember—I’m here.”
He waited for her answering nod. Then he eased the bottle under her nose, proud of her unfailing inner strength, praying he wasn’t overtaxing her already depleted emotional reserves.
She swallowed hard, clearly steeling herself for whatever impact lay ahead. Then her lashes drifted downward and, slowly, she inhaled.
A choked cry escaped her lips. “The fire …” she whimpered. “That smell … Oh, God.” Backing away, she whipped about, pressing her fist to her mouth as ghosts exploded into her consciousness.
“What’s wrong?” Smythe demanded. “What’s going on?”
Bryce knew Gaby couldn’t take any more right now. She was at her breaking point.
“Mr. Smythe,” he said quietly, placing the empty bottle on the table beside the sofa. “I need some time alone with my wife. May I impose upon you to give us that time? I realize you don’t even know us and that none of what’s happening here makes any sense to you. But I assure you, the business that brought us here is of the utmost importance. Lives are at stake.”
Smythe’s eyes had gone as wide as saucers. “Lives?”
“Yes. And if that’s not enough incentive, I’ll be willing to pay you, say, fifty pounds.”
Smythe waved away the offer. “Keep your money. One look at your wife tells me this is serious. I’ll go read the morning newspaper. Call out when you’re done talking.”
“Thank you. We will.”
Bryce waited until he and Gaby were alone. Then he came up behind her, caught her quaking shoulders in his hands. “That’s the musky smell you were describing?”
Gaby’s nod was shaky, her voice when she spoke, faint and faraway. “Yes. It was so deeply ingrained in my memory of the fire … that I attributed it to the blaze itself.”
“Instead of attributing it to the man responsible.” Bryce’s mouth set in grim lines. “Well, this certainly explains why your sleepwalking resumed along with your return to Whitshire—and worsened after Averley’s visit to Nevon Manor, for that matter. The scent he wears is not one that’s easily overlooked; it’s strong and sweet. I recognized it as his the instant I held that bottle under my nose. Unfortunately I never connected it with the musky smell you kept describing from the night of the fire.”
Bryce drew Gaby back against him, buried his lips in her hair. “I wish to God we had more time. You need to deal with this bit by bit, not in a crushing onslaught. But we don’t have much time, sweetheart. We need to assemble all the pieces now, while we’re still in Mr. Smythe’s company. We need his word as evidence. Then we need to act—quickly, before Averley figures out what we’re up to and eludes us. Gaby, I know what this is doing to you. If there were any other way …”
“There isn’t.” Gaby turned. Tears were coursing down her cheeks, but the glazed look in her eyes had vanished. “Nor would it matter. Fragments of my memory are flickering back on their own, like tiny sunbursts of recall. The gaps between them are still hazy, but the overall picture is clear, as are my instincts. Averley is the one we’re looking for. He’s a liar, a thief, and a murderer.” Gaby’s hands balled into fists. “I don’t care how painful this is for me to discuss or to thoroughly recall. Averley must pay for what he did.” Marching over to the sofa, she lowered herself to the cushion, her back rigid with purpose.
“I’m proud of you,” Bryce said simply, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his, frowning at how icy cold her fingers were. Staunchly, he reminded himself that, strong or not, Gaby was battling severe emotional shock.
He had no intention of allowing it to win.
“Considering the information Smythe just provided, I must agree that Averley is indeed a liar and a thief.” Deliberately, Bryce began with the obvious, deferring the most painful of Gaby’s accusations until she felt ready to address it. “Averley commissioned a yacht, pretending to be the duke, doubtless using the duke’s funds. Given the circumstances, he never expected his theft to be discovered. After all, why would it be? He was Wiltshire’s steward. He had total freedom with the books, and thorough knowledge of all the duke’s business contacts. Why, he even handled all correspondence with those contacts, including Smythe and Delmore—a task that is perfectly natural for a steward to perform. And such an exemplary steward at that—one whose books were, as he boasted to me, in perfect order.”
“ ‘The books are in perfect order,’ ” Gaby whispered, that odd, faraway light glimmering in her eyes. “Averley did say that to you. In fact, he was uttering those very words the day I walked into your meeting at Nevon Manor.” She massaged her temples, one recollection spawning another. “He also shouted them at Dowell on the night he killed him.”
Bryce swallowed hard, studying Gaby’s tormented expression. “You know that for a fact?” he asked, keeping his voice low and calm. “You actually overheard Averley use those words?”
“Yes.” She shifted forward and was instantly assailed by the potent smell of cologne emanating from the empty bottle that sat on the table beside her.
Details crashed into place.
“I heard yelling—before the fire started, not after. I knew it was Averley and Dowell. The wall separating the shed from the coal room was thin. I could make out everything they were saying; I didn’t understand what all the words meant, but I knew both men were angry. I covered my ears and tried to fall asleep. But I couldn’t. Even my music box couldn’t play loud enough to drown out their shouting. Dowell was yelling that he wanted money. He kept accusing Averley of stealing, said he’d followed him and knew about the boat. Averley yelled back that he was crazy. That’s when he said ‘the books are in perfect order.’ I remember that phrase because I wondered how books were ordered—were the important ones those with more pages or more pictures?”
Gaby was staring ahead, once again the five-year-old child who was seeing the walls of the storage shed, hearing the voices from next door. “Dowell laughed, but it wasn’t a nice laugh. He called Averley some names, said if he didn’t share, he’d go to the duke and tell him what was going on. Mama used to tell me to share, too, so I understood why Dowell was angry. Then I heard a commotion and a dull thud, as if something had fallen. It must have been Dowell, because after that, Mr. Averley started stamping around, ordering Dowell to get up. Dowell didn’t answer, and Mr. Averley stopped asking. There was a funny, hissing sound, and then a door slammed. It got warm and quiet after that, so I curled up in the blankets with my music box and lay there until I fell asleep. The next thing I knew I woke up and the wing was on fire.” She blinked, dragging herself back to the present, no longer a cowering little girl but a cognizant, fully grown woman who was as horrified of the truth as she was certain of it. “Dowell blackmailed Averley. And Averley killed him for it.”
“Not only him, but everyone else who died that night,” Bryce added, focusing on the final part of Gaby’s recollection. “My guess is that Averley stole much more than just that yacht. In fact, based on the argument you just recounted, I suspect Dowell stumbled upon major discrepancies in the household accounts. Who knows? Maybe Averley inflated the quantity of garden supplies he purchased. I’m not certain. All I know is that Dowell figured it out and wanted a share of the profits.
“I’d also venture a guess that the hissing sound you heard was a match igniting some rags, and that your shed got much warmer after that because the coal room was burning. Averley obviously tried to cover up what he’d done by setting fire to the place so everyone would think Dowell perished in a tragic and accidental blaze. But things got out of hand. The fire didn’t stop with the coal room, or even the woodshed. It burned the whole damned wing to the ground, killed everyone in it. Averley must have been panic-stricken; that’s why he reported the fire so quickly—he was hoping to limit its destruction.”
Gaby’s entire body was trembling, but she shook her head when Bryce reached for her, determined to see this ordeal through. “That explains Averley’s murders of thirteen years ago. It also explains why he tried to kill me when he learned about the male voices I remembered: he was afraid I might implicate him. But where does Mr. Delmore’s murder fit into this?”
“My guess?” Bryce replied, aching to absorb Gaby’s pain. “When Richard Rowland fell ill, Averley was probably frantic to sell the yacht before it passed to Thane, who might question the existence of a boat he’d never seen or heard of, purchased by a man who loathed sailing. Averley knew from Whitshire that Delmore was an enthusiastic yachtsman. He figured he’d sell the boat to him at an excellent price and wash his hands of the whole matter before Whitshire died. Only it didn’t work that way. Whitshire died before the title was transferred. Averley was in the midst of a transaction with Delmore, pretending, through his correspondence, to be acting on Whitshire’s behalf. He would have been vulnerable as hell, if anyone had linked him to his fraud.”
“Which Mr. Delmore could do.”
“If he met with Thane and discovered that Richard Rowland never bought the yacht he was allegedly selling, yes. So when Averley learned that Delmore was on his way to Whitshire to conclude the transaction, he knew he had to stop him. And he did.” A contemplative pause. “Now that I think about it, that’s why Averley asked me so many questions about my credentials that first night I visited Whitshire, and why he was so uncomfortable about my examining the records. He was probably scared to death that I’d notice a discrepancy or that my business association with both the Rowlands and Delmore might put me in the position of inadvertently discovering something that would implicate him.”
“Have we covered everything?” Gaby asked weakly, turning away from the lingering scent of cologne that hovered nearby.
“Yes.” Bryce shoved the bottle to the far edge of the table, then drew Gaby against him, enfolded her in his arms. “As I told you once before, you’re extraordinarily strong,” he said fervently, his lips in her hair. “I’m prouder of you than you can imagine.” His expression hardened. “One more day, Gaby, and all this will be over—forever.”