by Lynn Messina
As much as Bea respected and admired the duke, his endorsement of a subject increased her interest, for in her limited experience it was always the least likely suspect who turned out to be the guiltiest.
But would Erskine have been devious enough to take to his bed two weeks prior in order to provide himself with a believable story should anyone manage to trace the poison in the snuffbox back to him?
Forget devious, she thought, as she considered the amount of effort constructing such an alibi would require. Would he have been so concerned about discovery as to confine himself to his home for a fortnight? She rather thought he wouldn’t, for it was only due to an unlikely series of events that the list of Lord Penwortham’s mixture buyers had been sought and attained.
“Very well,” Bea said. “We may dismiss Kirkham and Erskine. And my uncle, of course. Is there anyone else you consider not worthy of investigation?”
“I would argue that Summersmith is not a good use of our time,” Kesgrave said as they approached his carriage. “He’s seventy-five if he’s a day and given to fits of incoherency, usually on the floor of the House of Lords. Judging by the increasing length of his disjointed speeches, the affliction has worsened in recent years. I’m not sure he has the mental clarity necessary for deciding to kill someone, let alone actually following through on the impulse.”
Again, Bea pondered the possibility of an elderly peer affecting senility as a way to evade suspicion of murder and decided it was far too improbable.
Nodding her approval of the duke’s ability to cut their list of suspects in half, she said, “That leaves us with Taunton, Parton, Mowbray and Coleman. What do you know of them?”
Before he could answer, Jenkins jumped down from the driver’s seat of the coach and opened the carriage door.
“Where to next, your grace?” he asked.
Without allowing Kesgrave an opportunity to answer, Bea announced their destination as Houghton Street in St. Clement Danes and then swallowed her annoyance when Jenkins looked at the duke for approval. It was irrational, of course, to mind his seeking confirmation, as he was in Kesgrave’s employ and she was just an overly curious spinster who had somehow become a presence in his life. If the groom marveled at the development, he was no more surprised than she.
Displaying no resentment at her presumption, the duke repeated the address and climbed into the carriage after Bea. As soon as they were settled, he said, “Houghton Street?”
“The Melbourne, which is the boarding house where Mr. Wilson took rooms. In my experience, there’s much information to be gained by examining the private quarters of the victim,” she explained.
Kesgrave smiled at this prim response. “And your experience is vast, is it?”
The comment wasn’t without its merit, as only two murders in six and twenty years was hardly the sort of high rate of involvement that made one an expert, but she didn’t let his cynicism undermine her confidence. “It is sufficient,” she said. “Before we interview our suspects, I believe it behooves us to find out all we can about our victim. Or do you have a better method of investigation? I am, of course, open to suggestions.”
“Because we are partners,” he said, visibly entertained by the concept.
It was, she knew, a radical notion for a man and a woman to consider themselves equal participants in a venture, and she fully understood his amusement. It was certainly not an idea that Lady Victoria would expose him to, and she could only assume he took comfort in that knowledge.
Although thoughts of Lady Victoria and the duke caused her spirits to dip, the drop wasn’t as steep as she would have expected. If Kesgrave was foolish enough to embrace the dull and tedious future that awaited him, then he deserved all the tedium and dullness he was sure to get. Indeed, the image of him bored out of his mind while sitting across from his impeccable wife at the dinner table caused no end to her delight.
It was sour grapes, of course, but all she had.
“No suggestions,” he said in response to her query. “I’m happy to follow your lead. You appear to know what you’re doing.”
It was a high compliment indeed, indicative of a deep well of respect, and determined to deprive herself of the satisfaction it produced, she asked if the meeting between Lady Victoria and his grandmother had been happy. “The momentous occasion was quite the on-dit at the Pemberton ball. My aunt could barely breathe for the excitement.”
Kesgrave found nothing untoward about the question, which at once comforted and distressed Bea, for it demonstrated how widely off the mark she was. Nowhere in this philosophy did he allow for the possibility of someone like her as a rival who could experience jealousy. “It went well, thank you. It was a mere formality, as the two families are close and Victoria has always been away during my grandmother’s visits.”
Bea had no idea how to take such a remark, for it presented the occasion in quite an ambiguous light. The mere formality could refer to the meeting itself, which had long been sought and yet never arranged due to timing issues of one or both of the parties, or it could apply to the event it was mean to mark—that was, the engagement between the couple.
Thinking of the former option, she wondered if perhaps her aunt and Lady Abercrombie and the whole of the beau monde had misunderstood his intentions. For years, the Duke of Kesgrave had resisted the parson’s mousetrap, and it struck her as deeply out of character that he would succumb now simply to facilitate a land deal. Would not a man of his mettle consider marrying to enlarge the Matlock estate to be craven and dishonest?
How else to explain what had almost happened yesterday in his grandmother’s drawing room? A man who was truly contemplating marriage to one young lady wouldn’t find himself on the verge of kissing another woman, particularly not the Duke of Kesgrave. He had far too much respect for what he owed his own dignity.
But even as she had these encouraging thoughts, Bea recognized their desperate futility. The fact that she was still able to find some speck of hope demonstrated how very far gone she was, and embarrassed yet again by her foolishness, she titled her eyes down and kept her gaze firmly fixed on the floor for the rest of the ride to the Melbourne.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bea and the duke alighted from the carriage in front of the gentlemen’s residence, a three-story mansion near Piccadilly that was formerly the home of Viscount Sidsmouth. The building, with its generous windows and pleasing symmetry, had been divided into apartments two decades before, and as Kesgrave escorted her down the front path he commented on the poor condition of the courtyard, which was riddled with pot-shaped holes.
“I’m sure what the Melbourne lacks in rigorous maintenance, it makes up for in reasonably priced accommodations,” Bea observed, climbing the steps. “His rooms are on the first floor. I suggest we walk directly to the staircase as if paying a visit to a tenant upstairs and not stop to consult the clerk at the lobby, as he might impede our progress.”
“Of course we will consult him,” Kesgrave said imperiously, “as we are in need of the key. Or do you propose we damage the door to gain entry?”
Bea ardently decried the charge of vandalism, but in fact she had been imagining some variation on his proposal that would have left the premises a little less pristine than when they’d arrived. Breaking down the door was far more dignified, she thought a few minutes later, than receiving assistance from an obsequious clerk who could not wait to invade his resident’s privacy at the bidding of a duke.
“He won’t mind, Mr. Wilson won’t,” the man said as he eagerly handed over the tenant’s key without asking a single question. Whatever the duke’s purpose was, he was unmistakably confident it was correct and appropriate by virtue of being the purpose of a duke. “He’d be honored by your interest. Honored, I’m sure. Like me, Mr. Wilson respects his betters. If he were here, he’d give you the key himself, I’m sure of it. Top of the stairs, first door on your left.”
Kesgrave thanked the clerk and even went so far as to call him “my
good man.”
Mr. Dodd simpered.
As they climbed the stairs, Bea said, “You must be relieved.”
“I must?” he asked curiously.
“To have your self-worth restored by Mr. Dodd’s enthusiastic toadying,” she explained. “After Mr. Hamish’s implacable circumspection, I mean.”
“Have I truly not demonstrated by now that my self-worth is impervious to the treatment of others?” he replied with exquisite disdain as they reached the landing. He turned left, identified Mr. Wilson’s rooms and unlocked the door with smooth efficiency. “After you, my dear.”
Bea swept into the space, which was compact but orderly, with only three small rooms: a parlor with a bookcase to the left of the fireplace and a table with chairs to the right, a bedchamber with barely enough space to walk around its most prominent feature and a dressing room.
“He lived simply,” Bea said, peering into the dressing room, which was mostly bare. Four shirts were neatly folded on the bottom shelf, and two pairs of trousers rested on the one above it. A single coat hung from an exposed rod, and a handkerchief sat on the top of the clothespress.
Kesgrave examined the bookshelf, which was as sparsely populated as the closet, and selected a slim volume with a brown leather binding. “He wasn’t an avid reader.”
“Perhaps the majority of his possessions have yet to return from India,” Bea suggested as she opened the top drawer of the clothespress. She found a nightshirt, two nightcaps and stockings. The next drawer contained underthings and a dark-blue waistcoat that should have been hung to preserve its shape. The bottom drawer was empty. She sighed and rested one shoulder against the large piece of furniture. Thoughtfully, she fingered the handkerchief, appreciating the superior quality of the smooth silk, which had the initials JBW. “The expense incurred in shipping a trunk from one continent to the other must be great. Maybe he was still acquiring the funds.”
“His father was steward to the fifth Marquess of Taunton,” Kesgrave announced.
Surprised that the duke had gathered such an interesting piece of information so quickly, she put down the handkerchief and walked into the parlor. “Was he now?” she murmured.
He handed her a book of the first canto of the Faerie Queene opened to the title page, opposite of which there was an inscription dated a decade before and addressed to Mr. Wilson: “For your years of service as a faithful steward, with gratitude and respect, Taunton.”
“That aligns with something Mrs. Otley said, for she vaguely recalled that Wilson had inherited his position after his father had died. She couldn’t be sure but thought the estate somewhere in Yorkshire,” she said.
“Bestlemore Castle is in Norfolk, near the coast,” he explained. “The old earl died about five years ago and his son inherited. Taunton turned forty a few years ago, which would make him about the same age as Mr. Wilson. That means they most likely grew up together.”
“Plenty of opportunity for resentments to form,” Bea said as she put the book back on the shelf and examined another. As Kesgrave had noted, the selection was thin, and she chose A Tale of a Tub by Swift. She flipped quickly through it, looking for another revealing dedication, but all she saw was the bookplate with the Taunton family crest. Although she hardly expected to find an accusatory inscription detailing a young Taunton’s dissatisfaction with the son of his father’s steward, she was still disappointed to find nothing of note. She replaced the book on the shelf with a sigh. “I believe that moves him to the top of our list.”
“I do not believe that an old childhood resentment would serve as a plausible motive for murder, but I agree the connection requires further investigation,” Kesgrave said. “An interview with Taunton is certainly in order.”
Bea nodded and inspected the other items on the shelf, most of which consisted of a seemingly random assortment: a gold-trimmed teacup with a pink thistle design, a pair of scissors, a silver locket with the inscription “vous seule” from a man named George, another snuffbox, this one far less ornate than the last, with its humble coral exterior and brass interior. Finding nothing of interest among the collection, she turned her attention to the table, which was small and square and could accommodate no more than two people comfortably. It seemed logical to conclude that Mr. Wilson had few visitors.
On its surface were two packets of letters wrapped in neat ribbons as well as a worn copy of The Book of Common Prayer. Suspecting that it, too, was a gift from the library at Bestlemore Castle, she turned first to the inside cover. In place of a bookplate was a note from his father wishing him wisdom and prosperity at university. Mr. Wilson had studied at Cambridge.
Bea closed the book and turned to the first packet of letters, which were carefully folded in their original envelopes. She opened the first one, which was dated July 1814, and immediately scrolled down to the bottom to read the name of the author: Mr. Erasmus Robinson.
As Kesgrave disappeared into the bedchamber to examine its contents, she wondered if Mrs. Otley would have any insight into Erasmus Robinson. The letter was sent to Mr. Wilson in India and, she realized once she started reading, from India as well. Mr. Robinson was a clerk in the employ of the East India Company and worked for an administrator who reported directly to the governor-in-council for Bombay. He expressed gratitude to Mr. Wilson for sending the introduction from a mutual acquaintance in London and felt confident they could come to a business arrangement that would suit them both. He looked forward to hearing more.
Bea did too and immediately read the next letter and the next. There were, she noted, five letters in all, and taken together they detailed a devious scheme to deprive Mr. Otley of his poppy fields and his income from smuggling the illicit drug into China. The plan itself was relatively simple and required only the passing of information from one person to another. Mr. Otley had managed to preserve the autonomy of his little agricultural concern in the midst of John Company’s vast empire by paying a bribe every month to the local administrator, who, in exchange for the generous stipend, ensured that his presence remained unknown. Determined to leave India and fill his coffers in a single stroke, Mr. Wilson arranged for Mr. Robinson to reveal the particulars of this illegal compact to his superiors. The clerk in Bombay was handsomely rewarded for the information, which was doubly valuable, as it revealed both an untrustworthy employee and an unknown drain on the company’s income.
For betraying his employer’s trust and destroying the livelihood of his lover’s husband, he was paid a sum of three thousand pounds.
It was not a princely amount, but it was certainly significant and would easily cover the purchase of a small farm and maintain it until it turned a healthy profit. Mrs. Otley knew of her lover’s plans, but did she know the source of his windfall? Had she discovered his devious scheme that had deprived her family of income and exposed them to ruin? If she had somehow found out, she would have undoubtedly resented his coldhearted betrayal. Would that bitterness and anger not account for the violence of Mr. Wilson’s death? How grievously she must have wanted him to suffer when she learned the truth.
But how did she know of nux vomica and where would she get it?
It was naïve, Bea realized, to believe Mrs. Otley had gleaned nothing about India during her years of marriage. Despite her claims to indifference to business matters, the country was the source of her family’s wealth and the focus of her husband’s attention. He must have discussed some aspects of it with her and could have easily revealed the information.
Just because the widow appeared not to listen to anyone did not mean she heard nothing.
Reentering the parlor, Kesgrave announced that there was nothing of interest in the bedchamber. “And the dressing room is an embarrassment. In order to avoid thinking ill of the dead, I’ve decided to assume your original assessment was accurate and the majority of his possessions are still in transit. What do you have there?” he asked, his tone rising with interest as he spotted the letters.
“A detailed accounting
of Mr. Wilson’s underhanded plot to destroy his employer’s livelihood and return himself to England,” she said, sliding the packet across the table for his perusal. “Reading it makes for a strange experience, for I find myself in sympathy with poor Mr. Otley, for he had no idea his trusted associate and Mr. Robinson were conspiring behind his back to destroy his business, and yet I know him to be a dyed-in-the-wool villain undeserving of my compassion.”
“Mr. Robinson?” he asked, looking up from the letter he was unfolding.
“Yes, clerk to the chief administrator of the governor-in-council for Bombay.”
At once, Kesgrave stiffened in surprise. “Erasmus Robinson?”
“Yes,” Bea said, considering him with astonishment. “How did you know?”
He sat down in the chair opposite her and explained that Erasmus Robinson was the new Earl of Mowbray. “He had no expectation of inheriting when he left for India, for he was not directly in line for the title. But the old earl died in a freakish coach accident along with his two sons, which left him the title and the estates. Naturally, he returned immediately from India to claim both. That was about six months ago now. What do you mean ‘conspiring behind his back’? Was he involved with Otley’s losing the poppy fields?”
“Oh, yes, he was quite instrumental,” she said before laying out the details of the scheme as revealed by the letter. “Now what did you mean by ‘freakish coach accident’?
“The horse threw a shoe while a drunk farmer careened around a bend just as the axle on the carriage broke,” he said. “Each misfortune on its own would cause difficulties, but all together they were a fatal combination and the occupants of the carriage as well as its driver perished. By all accounts it was quite gruesome.”