The Viscount's Deadly Game

by Issy Brooke

  The answer was so very close but as he reached out to it, it skittered away like a frightened animal.

  He briefly considered hunting for the reporter, Horatio Dobson, but thought a little harder about that and decided he didn’t have the stomach for wading through the journalist’s misdirection and sly stabs.

  He went back to the Grey House and turned his thoughts, instead, to dinner.

  DINNER PROVED TO BE a distraction from his wayward daydreams, at least, although he spent most of the night’s meal dearly wishing that Adelia was there. She would have been able to control the sniping comments, bitter muttering, and off-hand remarks that seemed to be how the women were engaging in battle over the dinner table.

  Instead Theodore and Cecil stared in mute helplessness at one another as Grace, Mary and Sibyl wounded one another with words. It was an unfair fight, with Sibyl stranded alone but putting up a valiant defence, and anyway she had started the whole thing by declaring, as they sat down to eat, “Oh, Mary, such a shade of blue for your dress? What a choice; you quite fade away. What a shame your mother could not be here to advise you.”

  Mary smiled and replied, “I am learning to be humble and feel it is my duty, as mistress of this household, to put myself in the shade deliberately, fade away as you say, so that others may step forward and shine.”

  Grace took up the charge and said, “There are some people would not be able to shine even if you went outside and sat in the coal-hole, dear.” She did not look at Sibyl as she said this and everyone knew it was directed straight at her.

  Things only went downhill from there.

  By the end of it Mary had stopped talked, because Grace’s increasingly barbed comments were threatening to bring Sibyl to tears. Even Theodore could see that, and he was a little ashamed of his own mother. He managed to get her alone later that evening, once the food was cleared away.

  “I am glad to see your cold has gone, mother, but it seems to have taken your good manners along with it.”

  Grace had been drinking relatively moderately. She tapped her son on his forearm and laughed lightly. “I have done nothing but answer impolite conversation like for like.”

  “That may be so, but does it not befit the better person to rise above it and refuse to be drawn?”

  “Oh, I’m old and still ill so she can forgive me.”

  “Mother, those are mere excuses. I’d suggest an early night.”

  “No. I must stay with Mary for reasons of solidarity.”

  “Together you are a terrible influence.”

  “The cheek of it!” Grace said, already moving away from him. “I was the biggest influence in your life and are you suggesting you have done badly from it?”

  Theodore knew he was beaten. “No, mother.” He let her go. Now his only option was to sit near Cecil and drink brandy and talk about the death of Lord Beaconberg, and Sir Arthur’s secrets, and Douglas Mackie’s shady character, and try not to think of what his wife was doing, hundreds of miles away.

  THEODORE SPENT THE following day walking and thinking as hard as he could. He tried to piece together the death, following the footsteps of himself, Lord Beaconberg, and Sir Arthur. He inserted Douglas Mackie into the fantasy and he realised that he could make things fit.

  But was he not doing exactly what he advised Mary not to do? He was starting from an assumed guilty suspect and looking then for ways to convict them.

  He went back to basics. Lord Beaconberg had been drunk and drove home in an intoxicated fury; his carriage left the road and he drowned.

  The traces had been cut and he had been found in the carriage not the driving seat, with foreign plant matter in his hair, suggesting he had met his death on land.

  He had left his business to his partner Sir Arthur, and his wife was now virtually destitute, saddled only with debts.

  His daughter could now be free to marry whoever she liked as long as they didn’t expect any kind of dowry. His wife was likewise free, but penniless. Only Sir Arthur benefited from all of this, and Sir Arthur had a secret that he was in collusion with Douglas Mackie about.

  Therefore logic insisted that Sir Arthur was the true culprit.

  Except that Theodore himself had been with Sir Arthur that night.

  If another witness was still claiming to have seen Sir Arthur, Theodore would have doubted them. Should he doubt himself? No. What of an alibi for Mackie? Mackie was the key.

  Theodore turned and headed into York.

  THEODORE DETOURED VIA the river as it was such a nice day, but the Romani had gone now. He hoped the children would be all right. He could not help worrying about whether it was the most healthy lifestyle for a child, but then had to stop and question that feeling. Maybe it was more natural to roam the hedgerows than be swaddled in a nursery? On the other hand he could end up like Mary, seeing everything in a rosy glow of idealised perfection. Some of the children had poor bones, and bad skin, and parasites too. Mary couldn’t quite square that with her romantic notions of a free life where the sun always shone on the open field and no one spent the winter huddled under an oiled canvas, eking out meagre rations and praying for the spring.

  The travelling lifestyle, he decided, was definitely one that was finer in the imagination than the reality. But isn’t it interesting, he thought, that so many people think that true happiness is something you have to travel to? Even Mary seemed convinced that her peace and contentment would not be found at home, and no wonder that the social commentators were getting so alarmed about the breakdown of the family! Every week another strident voice wrote to the papers about the dangers of women looking beyond their boundaries for fulfilment, and making dire predictions about how that sort of thing would bring about the complete collapse of civilisation. Western, Christian civilisation, that was.

  And here he was, he thought, almost merrily, with my own wife gadding about in a different county. And then his merriment died as he missed her, all over again, with a pang to his heart.

  He picked up the pace. He wanted to be in York as quickly as he could, now. He strode to the village and found a boy would who drive him in a cart, and soon he was in the city, surrounded by a hustle and bustle of people that helped to dampen down the cacophony in his head.

  The police station was full of life, as it had been on his every visit. By now the desk sergeant recognised him and waved Theodore through to the brown-painted corridors at the back of the building. Theodore experienced a pang of pride. They see me as a detective, he realised. I am one of them! He grew a little taller as he sought out Inspector Benn in his office.

  Inspector Benn’s office was cleaner than the average dairy, and that was saying something. He looked up from a pile of manila files as Theodore tapped on the glass of his door, and was waved in. Inspector Benn smiled and stood up to shake Theodore’s hand with enthusiasm though he wiped his palm hastily on a handkerchief as he sat back down.

  “We’ve made an arrest,” the Inspector said. “I suppose you’ve heard?”

  “I have not! But that’s excellent news.”

  “Can you guess who it is?”

  Theodore tried to say “Sir Arthur” but it stuck in his throat. So he shook his head.

  “Douglas Mackie,” the Inspector informed him.

  “Ah! That was who I was going to speak to you about. So, he must have no alibi for the night of the murder!”

  Inspector Benn’s face clouded. “Actually, he does, but we are sure that it is a lie. My men are looking into it.”

  “If it is not a lie...?”

  “Inconceivable. The lad is a slippery sort of fish, and has lied about many things, we are quite sure of it. He shall be found out and then we shall have him on wasting police time as well as murder!”

  Theodore thought that if the young man was brought up before the bench for murder, then other charges hardly mattered, but it seemed very important to the police, so he let it pass without comment. “I assume that he is denying everything?”

  “Of
course and I expected no less.” Inspector Benn leaned forward and said, earnestly, “Lord Calaway, I must say that I could not have done it without your input. We were ready to see it as a mere accident – yes, I admit it completely! But it was your insight that led us to look more closely at how it might have played out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, no, don’t brush it off as if it were a matter of no importance! You spotted the plants in his hair that could only have got there if there had been a struggle at some distance from the river. You spotted the cut reins which showed the carriage had been rolled into the water deliberately. The fact that the body was half in and half out of the carriage only confirmed that there had been foul play. You encouraged us to look more closely at Mackie rather than just Sir Arthur, and though Sir Arthur must be involved in some way, it is on Mackie’s head that the real crime lies.”

  “And Lady Beaconberg?”

  “I suspect she is guilty by association. She knows things and she is scared of what she knows. She is, after all, merely a woman.”

  Lady Beaconberg had never been “merely” anything. Theodore said, “What will happen to her if she returns?”

  “It will depend on what Mackie says. We will prise the truth from him, don’t you fear! He is only a poor stable-lad and will crumble eventually. Tonight will be his first night in the cells here. I expect that he will be singing like a lark by tomorrow’s breakfast.”

  Theodore said the thing that had been bothering him. “What do you think Mackie’s motivation was?”

  “To inherit the stables. Money, you see, money’s a great motivator. Someone in your position – begging your pardon, but you know I speak plainly – for someone in your position, it might not seem like such a big thing. But for a lad like Mackie, it’s everything. You would not believe the lengths people go to, just for a little money!”

  “You mistake me,” Theodore said, softening the correction with a smile just as Adelia had taught him to over the years. “I do fully understand. I should love to keep informed of the progress of this case,” he continued as he got to his feet. “I can see you are busy so I shall not impose upon your time any longer.”

  Inspector Benn rose and continued his thanks and praise for Theodore all the way to the front of the station. As they passed the public reception desk, the sergeant called out, “Sir! The lad – he’s asking for you, been asking all day.”

  Theodore met Inspector Benn’s eyes. “Me?”

  “Yes,” Inspector Benn admitted. “But don’t worry. We do not give in to the demands of the guilty.”

  Theodore tipped his hat and left the building and it was only when he was halfway back to the Grey House before it occurred to him that no one was definitely sure that Douglas Mackie was guilty, at least, not all on his own.

  THEODORE ARRIVED BACK at the Grey House at the same time that a letter came from Adelia. It was brief but reassuring.

  We are travelling back now and we have achieved our mission; all is explainable and no one here is guilty. She added that they expected to arrive the following day. The cryptic nature of the wording made Theodore smile. Adelia was as keen on being a detective as he was. He began to wonder how they might formalise their activities. It wasn’t that he wanted to make money from the enterprise; he hardly needed more. But it would be so very nice to be useful to as many people as possible.

  His warm glow of smug satisfaction was instantly destroyed as he walked into the drawing room to find Sibyl Ramsgreave in floods of tears. She pushed past Theodore rather rudely and fled the room, leaving him alone with Mary, who was only just managing to fight back her own tears.

  “Oh, papa, I don’t think I can do this,” she said with a tremble in her voice.

  “Do what? Come here. Sit down. Tell me everything.”

  She settled herself alongside him on a long couch and fiddled with some lace trimming on her dress as she spoke. “We weren’t very nice to Sibyl last night and I regret it now. I spoke with grandmamma but she doesn’t regret anything. I was ... disappointed about that.”

  “One of the hardest things about growing up is discovering that the people whom you might have utterly idolised as a child are actually flawed, as flawed as any of us. But try to see that as a positive thing. The bar for our own successes is not as high as we might have thought,” he said, patting her hand. “My mother has certain strengths, such as seeing through to a person’s heart, but along with that goes a certain ... ahh ... lack of compassion for the knowledge that she gains.” He himself had been accused of a lack of compassion but in his case, he was always mortified when it was pointed out to him.

  Grace could never see if she were wrong.

  “I did apologise to Sibyl but she took it as if I were mocking her all over again,” Mary said. “I don’t know what to do for the best.”

  “For whose best?”

  “Hers. Oh and mine, and the household generally.”

  “You are mistress here,” he reminded her. “Put yourself first – yes, I know! It does not come naturally to you. But try it. Settle on what will make you happy because if you are happy then the rest of the household will take its lead from you. I’ve been in some dreadfully unhappy houses and it always comes down from above. Your husband will be happy if you are happy, and from you both, all other things will lead.”

  “That all sounds awfully sensible but just a bit vague.”

  “I am not going to tell you what to do. No, Mary, not here in your own house.”

  She hung her head.

  He stroked her hand. “I am sorry.”

  Twenty-three

  Theodore was waiting outside the Grey House from an early hour the next morning, looking out for Adelia’s return. He wanted to go into York to discuss the progress of the case with Inspector Benn especially as Mackie now would have had his night in the cells. If Inspector Benn was correct, Mackie would now be willing to tell them everything he knew. But Theodore didn’t want to miss the return of his wife and her note had given him no clue when he might expect her.

  He sat on the low wall that ran along the edge of the steps that rose up from the driveway to the porch that housed the double doors which led to the main entrance hall. From here, he could see straight down the driveway to the main road just beyond the ironwork gates. Unlike the opulence of Dovewood, where everything in the grounds was landscaped to keep the house private and hidden from view, the Grey House was much more workaday and practical. He listened to the early morning birdsong and identified the calls of blackbirds, thrushes and even the piping of a wren which stayed well out of sight.

  Another noise intruded into his consciousness. It was a raised voice coming from the house behind him and he realised, with a sinking heart, that this business between Mary and Sibyl was not yet over. This was another reason he was keen for the return of Adelia. She could put things right, he thought. All this petty arguing was quite beyond him.

  A slammed door and a strangled sob, bordering on a scream, lifted him out of his reluctance to get involved and he forced himself to enter the house. Perhaps things were escalating beyond merely “petty.”

  This time the noise was coming from the first floor. Sibyl appeared at the top of the flight of stairs and she was wearing a coat and carrying a carpet bag. Mary pursued her but as she put out her hand to touch Sibyl’s wrist, Sibyl wrenched herself out of the way and began to descend the stairs. “This is exactly what you want, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ll take the boys and we’ll go and live with those travelling folk. That will please you all, won’t it?”

  “Sibyl, you’re being unreasonable,” Mary pleaded. She spotted her father and said, “Papa, please tell her she must not leave. Wait, Sibyl. Let me find Cecil. He’d be devastated if you left.”

  “But you wouldn’t, would you? Where are my boys? Someone run to the schoolroom and tell them to come down. We are leaving.”

  “Sibyl, you can’t live with the Romani.”

  “You think I can’t? You have a
funny idea of me, that’s certain.” Sibyl had reached the ground floor and she dropped her carpet bag to the floor so she could point her finger at Mary who was coming rather more cautiously down the stairs. “I am not at all who you think I am. You have this idea of me, and I have tried to be that person – the meek, mild widow – but I’m not her, not at all, and I cannot live like this, here, under another woman’s thumb. No! Not for one more moment. I was strong, in my youth. Did you know that I travelled through Italy when I was only seventeen? No, because you have never asked about me and my past. To you, I am nothing but a worn out husk of a bitter old woman with no past and no experiences worth listening to.”

  “Stay, please stay, and I will ask you everything,” Mary said. “You can’t go!”

  “I can do anything that I wish to do. You think I won’t survive on my own? Hundreds of women do.”

  “Yes but they do so by ... means which you do not have.”

  This was exactly the wrong moment for Grace to appear and cut in, but she did, with her impeccable timing. “She’s right, Sibyl,” Grace said, leaning over the bannisters. “You’ll make a poor living on the street corner unless you loosen up a bit.”

  Sibyl gasped and Theodore winced. With an effort, Sibyl replied frostily, “I was not actually referring to those means of survival. I can sew very well and I can make my living by my needle, I am sure.”

  “As a seamstress? Toiling from dawn to dusk, with your eyesight? You haven’t thought this through. Now, stop it, take off your coat, and come and have a cup of tea. Honestly! All this fuss and I haven’t even been down for breakfast yet. You’ll be curdling the milk, Sibyl, and I thought you had better sense than to provoke arguments before midday.”

  Mary crossed the hall and took the final few steps to reach Sibyl. “I’ve never been to Italy,” she said. “Seventeen? Surely you were not on your own.”

  Sibyl sniffed. “Of course not. I had a small circle of friends, and my cousins, and my governess, and I was somewhat obsessed with Byron.”