A counterfeit suitor, p.23
A Counterfeit Suitor, page 23
The corpse was still warm, and the blood only just beginning to dry, so the murderer had not been gone long. Possibly they’d been watching the house, waiting for the cook to go out for her shopping so they could more easily steal in and take care of their work. A knife still protruded from Sparkes’s rib cage, leaving no doubt as to how he’d died.
Adam stood, wiping his hands needlessly on his breeches. Anger tightened his jaw, but he set that aside, too. He turned, looking at the plain, private room. Sparkes had clearly been a man of neat habits. Nothing was out of place, the brass-framed bed was fully made up.
No struggle. Taken by surprise. Probably sitting in the chair when the murderer arrived. Jumped up when his attacker burst in, and was stabbed straight through. He might not even had had a chance to scream.
He scanned the thin carpet, but there were no footmarks. The murderer had gotten out as quickly as he’d come in and had left no blood trail in his wake. No drawer had been left open, and nothing except the chair was knocked over or disarranged. There’d been no search, then, nor any attempt at robbery, at least not in here.
If Sparkes had been downstairs, Adam might have been tempted to believe he’d surprised someone who had come to rob the house. But that was not the case. Whoever had entered this place had come here with the express intent to kill Sparkes.
Removing the knife from Sparkes’s chest was a grim but necessary task. As before, it was a plain, well-used tool. The grip was worn smooth. The blade beneath the gore had the marks of having been resharpened several times.
Adam wrapped it up thoroughly in his handkerchief and, grimacing slightly at the necessity, stowed the weapon in his coat pocket. Closing the door behind him, Adam descended the main stairs to the elegant foyer. The first thing he saw was that the door to the book room was open. He caught a glimpse of a black skirt and pale gray coat at the threshold.
Rosalind had not waited in the carriage after all.
It took all his discipline to ignore this and go instead to the backstairs door and down into the kitchen. He put his bloody hands into his pockets and kept them there.
Perkins was sitting with Mrs. Harding. Between the two of them, they had managed to brew up a pot of tea and each now held a mug. Mrs. Harding looked much more composed than she had when he left her and Perkins.
She got to her feet. “If you’re done with Mr. Sparkes, sir, I’d like to see him made decent.” She smoothed her apron. “He wasn’t a bad man. Strict, maybe. But then the master liked things just so and came down like fury whenever aught was out of place.”
“Yes, of course,” said Adam. “Perkins can help you.” Perkins did not look particularly excited about this, but he didn’t object. “We will need him taken to the coroner. I’ll have to send for a cart.” He paused. “Do you know if he had family?”
“He did not, sir,” said Mrs. Harding. “No life at all outside this house.” Her face twisted up, showing plainly what she thought of that.
“Did anyone come to the door today? Any tradesmen? Any messengers?”
“Not that I know of. We had a mess of them newspaper writing sorts earlier, all hanging about making nuisances of themselves with the neighbors. Your young constables, though, they chased them off sharpish. And, of course, I can’t say what happened while I was out doing my marketing.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harding.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Then, “Do I . . . Will I have to stay here at all?”
“No, you can go home as soon as you’ve seen to Mr. Sparkes, if that’s what you want, but let Perkins know your address. You’ll be needed to give evidence at the inquest.”
“Yes, sir.” Adam understood by Mrs. Harding’s tone and her expression that she did not mean to stay in this house a minute longer than necessary.
He couldn’t blame her at all.
“All right, Perkins,” he said. “You’ve got a job ahead of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Perkins muttered. He touched his forehead without enthusiasm and followed Mrs. Harding up the backstairs. Adam winced in sympathy. This was a very bad day for the young man. They’d talk later. Just now, however, he had some urgent matters to attend to.
The kitchen sink had a pump, which gave him a chance to wash his gory hands clean. That done, he started opening the drawers, searching for the knives. On the third try, he found what he was looking for. The working cutlery was all slotted neatly into their places—butcher knives, carving blades, paring knives, and cleavers. He pulled the knife that had killed Sparkes out of his pocket and unfolded his now thoroughly stained handkerchief so he could compare it with these others.
The handles were a match for style and coloring, and the blades of a similar shape. Adam stowed the weapon away again and shut the drawer.
The man, if it was a man, watches the house for his chance. He creeps in when the constables are occupied with clearing the sidewalk. He uses the side door, or one from the back garden. He hides in the house, perhaps even in one of the rooms down here, and waits his chance. When Mrs. Harding leaves to go to her marketing, he helps himself to a knife, does what he came for, and leaves.
Very neat, very cool, and very determined.
If that was what had happened, the only conceivable reason for Sparkes’s death was that someone was afraid he might decide to talk about the other murder that occurred in this house. Someone had decided not to risk that.
Lost in these unpleasant thoughts, Adam climbed the stairs to the foyer. The door to Fullerton’s book room was still open, and Rosalind was still inside.
She stood at the desk, her fingertips resting lightly on the marble top. She still wore her bonnet, so he could see nothing of her face. But he did not need to, he realized. He knew what her expression would be—solemn, clear-eyed, with only the slightest furrow to her brow to betray her anger.
The carpet was gone. The lamp was back in its place. The fireplace had been cleaned and fresh coals laid. All was ready in anticipation of Fullerton’s return.
“What did you find?” Rosalind asked him. He’d made no noise when he entered, but she’d known he was there anyway. Adam’s heart thudded oddly.
“Sparkes, Fullerton’s manservant, is dead,” he answered. “Stabbed.”
“Like my father?”
“It was at least as swiftly done, but I think there was only one blow this time. I suspect the murderer was watching the house for their chance, and perhaps even hid inside for a while.”
She nodded, absently, he thought. “I imagine it was to silence him.”
“I know of no other reason. The newspapers reported that the only person in the house when Sir Reginald died was a manservant who offered no useful information. The murderer most likely decided to make that fact permanent.”
She was silent for a long time. She was thinking of her sister—wondering if Charlotte was capable of being involved in these deaths, angry at herself for wondering, and equally angry for wishing she could ignore the possibility. He was as sure of all this as he was of his own name. When had that happened? He’d spent only a handful of hours in this woman’s company, and yet he understood her more completely than he ever had any other person.
She turned to face him, her face determined. The furrow on her brow deepened, a telltale sign of the distress she wanted to hide.
“What did Sparkes tell you he’d seen?”
“He said he saw nothing. That he was up in his room. Sir Reginald had told him he could go to bed.” Adam paused. “In fact, Sir Reginald had said that those were Fullerton’s orders.”
Rosalind looked to the desk again. There had been some attempt to clean the ink, but the porous marble had drunk too much of it. The stain was now a part of the stone.
“I don’t imagine Sparkes gave you any idea who my father might have been waiting for?”
Adam drew back, startled. “How do you know he was waiting for someone?”
Rosalind’s smile was thin. “My father was a selfish man. He believed that his needs should be well catered to at all times. The only reason for him to send away a servant was that there was something he did not want seen.”
“Or heard.” Adam nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. So it may be that Sir Reginald was expecting someone—”
“Someone he did not want Fullerton to know about. He would have known that Sparkes was his employer’s spy.”
Because the only reason Fullerton would leave him alone was if he believed he was well guarded.
“Therefore, he did what he could to get Sparkes out of the way,” Rosalind went on. “While he waited here for his guest.”
“Who then killed him. That was why there was no real struggle. Sir Reginald was off his guard.”
“Yes,” said Rosalind. “Unless . . .” She paused and crossed to the door. She turned swiftly, her skirts swirling about her ankles. She stared at the chair, one gloved hand in the threshold. Adam followed her gaze with his own. He saw the chair, the desk, the lamp, and the shadows of a windowless room.
And he knew.
“Unless it was a mistake?” he said. “The room is dim. Sir Reginald is hunched at the table. The assailant or assailants enter quietly. They see a gray-haired man in Fullerton’s clothes, in Fullerton’s study, writing at Fullerton’s desk. They are already agitated because of the thought of murder. They stab him in the back, through the slats of the chair, and do not realize they have the wrong man until he falls at their feet.”
“The two men.” Rosalind inhaled sharply. “Assuming they were men.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fullerton enjoys ensnaring women. The two who were seen leaving this house could easily be two of his female victims, dressed as men.”
“It’s possible. The only description we have of them is that they both wore great coats, which would fully conceal the person underneath.”
“Especially if they were muffled against the cold,” agreed Rosalind. “And assuming they existed at all.”
“I hate to have to admit it, but they may have,” Adam admitted. “Especially if Fullerton had somehow gotten himself mixed up with Bonapartist spies.”
Rosalind said nothing for a long moment, and when she did her voice was low and harsh. “Or my father did.” She paused again. And finally, “Or my sister.”
CHAPTER 34
An Unscheduled Visit
In London, people are judged by the surface.
Catherine Gore, The Debutante
Even to Alice’s jaded eye, the neighborhood of Berkeley Square was breathtaking. Stately homes, including the magnificent Lansdowne House, surrounded the lovely square. The winter park with its silver trees and snow-covered statuary took on an appealing and fanciful appearance.
For the consideration of a few pennies, the man shoveling muck in the street pointed out the correct turning to take her to Merrick Black’s house. He assured her she’d know it by the red door and the new brass lamp beside it.
Her informant’s description proved highly accurate. Mr. Black’s home was a grand, but not a great, house. Clearly, it was entirely new, with everything in the latest style.
The light was already fading, and lamps shone brightly in the windows, as well as beside the red door.
Alice, in a gesture to both economy and optimism, paid off her cab rather than choosing to keep the driver waiting. Drawing her shoulders back, she marched up the steps and rang the bell.
A footman in red and buff livery answered. As soon as the door opened, Alice strode boldly forward. Startled, the man fell back and just like that, she was inside. It was amazing what you could do if you simply refused to be stopped.
“I have a message for the lady of the house.” Alice held out the note she’d composed when she started out the day. The problem, she realized on the way, was she was not entirely sure what name Charlotte was using with her new protector and/or fiancé. She might be Charlotte Thorne, or Cynthia Sharps, or someone else altogether. “And you may give her this as well.” She brought out her visiting card.
“It is the dinner hour,” said the footman. “My master and mistress are not—”
“This is an extremely urgent matter.” Alice pulled her gloves off. “I am prepared to wait for as long as necessary to speak with her, so you should probably just get on with it.”
The footman was a stout fellow and looked likely to become belligerent. Alice returned her most implacable regard. He relented first, as most people did. With a frown to let her know she was very much in disgrace, he headed up the tightly curved staircase. Alice strolled about the foyer, admiring the tasteful art, the hothouse flowers in the graceful Chinese vase, and the branching chandelier.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs jerked Alice around. Charlotte hurried down the curving stairs, her half-fastened scarlet dressing gown flying out behind her.
“Alice? What is it? Is it Rosalind? Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s quite well,” Alice answered. “Or she was when I left this morning.”
Charlotte halted on the last stair. “Then what it is?”
“You’re joking.”
“Why would I be joking?”
Alice stared at her. Charlotte’s eyes were wide, and she couldn’t see any hint of concealment in her expression.
“I think we’d better go up to your rooms,” she said finally. “I do have some news.”
Charlotte frowned, looking very like Rosalind when she was at her most displeased. “If you insist.”
“I’m afraid I do.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes, clearly imploring someone above for patience with importunate lady writers. “All right. Come along, then.”
Alice did.
Charlotte’s suite waited at the top of the stairs. It was cleanly furnished—bright, airy, and comfortable. Charlotte always did have good taste. Her time in Paris, and Mr. Black’s fortune, had combined to refine it.
Alice closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
“Now—” began Charlotte, but Alice didn’t let her get any further.
“Where on earth have you been!” she demanded. “Honestly, Charlotte, you show up on our doorstep, tell Rosalind your father’s been kidnapped and that you need her help, then you vanish entirely! Do you have any idea what you’ve put her through?”
Charlotte drew herself up in an attitude of lofty indignation Alice remembered from when they were girls. “If you’re done scolding?”
“No,” replied Alice bluntly. “In fact, I’ve just gotten started.”
“Well, perhaps you can take a moment to remember that I was in Bath.”
Alice shut her jaw closed so abruptly her teeth clicked. “You were not,” she said, but this was from sheer surprise and she regretted the words as soon as they were out.
“What do you mean?” shot back Charlotte. “I went back to interview the servants again and make arrangements about the house. I made the decision after I saw you, and I wrote to Rosalind about it.”
Alice’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. She closed it and tried again. “Rosalind never got any such letter.”
“She must have,” said Charlotte, but her expression shifted, becoming uneasy. “Perhaps she forgot to tell you.”
“No, she did not get the letter.”
“Then it must have gone astray.” Charlotte pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Oh! Poor Rosalind. I’m so sorry, Alice. I’ll write a note at once for you to take back to her.” She whisked around and hurried to her cherrywood writing desk.
Are you telling the truth? Alice watched Charlotte closely as she pulled out paper and a silver pen. It was true that letters did go astray, sometimes. Even important ones. But it was also true that sometimes they were never written in the first place.
Admittedly, Alice had never really gotten on with Rosalind’s sister, even before she ran off with Sir Reginald. Charlotte had always seemed too clever by half, and too ready to run down anyone of their social circle who did not quite make it up to standard. Alice now understood this snobbery came from a combination of fear and her father’s influence. As the oldest daughter, Charlotte had a kind of pressure on her that Rosalind escaped, at least while the household was still intact. And Alice certainly wasn’t one to find fault with a woman for doing what necessity dictated.
And yet . . .
“When did you get back?” Alice asked.
“Just today,” Charlotte answered smoothly as she unstoppered her inkwell and peered inside to see it had been filled.
“And you haven’t seen the papers?”
Charlotte put the ink down and turned to face Alice. “I had other things to do than sit and read The Times. Alice, stop this. What’s happened?”
Alice sighed sharply. She prided herself on her ability to read people of all sorts, but Charlotte was beyond her. “And you promise me you were really in Bath?”
“Alice . . .” Charlotte began in a warning tone.
“Your father is dead.”
Charlotte gazed at her blankly for a moment. Then, slowly, her lovely face screwed itself up tight.
“D-dead?” she stammered.
Alice nodded. “He was murdered in Russell Fullerton’s house. Three nights ago now.”
Charlotte clasped her hands and looked away. “Oh, good Lord,” she breathed. “Oh no. No.”
“Rosalind has been trying to find you ever since.”
“Of course she has,” breathed Charlotte. She pressed her hand against her mouth and her eyes. Alice, on reflex, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Charlotte.
Charlotte accepted without demur and dabbed at her eyes.
“Rosalind must be frantic.” She paused. “Is anyone else looking for me?”
“Not yet,” replied Alice flatly. “Should they be?”
Charlotte’s head snapped around. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with my father’s death?”
“I don’t know,” replied Alice calmly. “Did you?”
Charlotte’s face went deathly pale and her fist knotted around the handkerchief. Alice expected her to begin shouting. But her voice stayed low and even.
