Rules of Murder (24 page)

S
everal constables from the chief inspector’s office in Winchester were already at Farthering Place by the time Drew and Madeline arrived. Dennison hurried down the front steps as soon as Birdsong’s car slowed to a stop.

“It’s Mr. Parker, sir.”

Drew felt the pain in the very center of his heart grow even sharper. “Yes, I know.”

“Where is he?” Madeline sped up the steps before anyone could stop her. “Where is he?”

“Madeline, darling . . .” Drew sprinted after her. “Wait!”

They rushed through the entryway, past the open door of the parlor, where Rushford was slumped in an overstuffed chair, being attended to by Min, past the maids and footmen clustered, frightened, in the hallway that led to Mason’s study.

He was still sitting at his desk, still upright, with his arms hanging limp beside him. His head lolled to one side, but his eyes were open, startled, and his throat was a well of blood. The ivory-handled letter opener was still protruding from his
neck. And scattered all around him were papers from the office: notes and formulas and columns of figures.

“Don’t—” The words half strangling him, Drew held Madeline closer, pressing her face to his shoulder so she wouldn’t keep looking at the horrible scene before them.

“Don’t anyone touch anything,” Birdsong ordered as he came in behind them. “And clear those people out of the hallway.”

“When we heard the row,” Dennison said once he had dismissed the staff, “we came in and found him just that way, Chief Inspector. No one’s been allowed to tamper with anything, except we did put Mr. Rushford in the parlor and send for Dr. Wallace to see to him. As you might imagine, he was most distressed.” He turned to Drew and Madeline. “I’m very sorry, sir. Miss.”

“Shhh,” Drew soothed, stroking Madeline’s hair, but she was sobbing and trying to struggle away from him.

“Uncle Mason . . .”

“You can’t go over there, darling,” he murmured. “We mustn’t touch anything.”

“We have to help him.”

Her eyes were wide and desperate, and he tightened his hold on her. “It’s too late.”

“No, he’s—”

“He’s gone, Madeline.” He cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. “He’s gone.”

At first she merely stood there, her grip on his wrists tightening in painful increments, and then her expression wilted and she huddled against him, sobbing once more. He pressed his cheek against her hair, wishing, wishing for the blessed relief of tears.

“You’d better take the young lady away, sir,” Birdsong advised. “Perhaps she ought to go up and lie down.”

“I want to know what happened,” Madeline insisted, pushing herself out of Drew’s arms.

“You’re very upset, miss—”

“Yes, Inspector, I am.” Madeline blotted her face with her fingertips. “I’m extremely upset, and I want to know what happened.”

Drew glanced again at the body in the chair. “Good heavens, can’t we discuss this in another room?”

Once he had locked the room and pocketed the key, the chief inspector left a constable on duty at the study door and went with Drew and Madeline and Dennison into the sunny morning room across the hall.

Birdsong took out his notebook. “Now, Mr. Dennison, I’d like to know what’s happened here.”

“The study door was shut, sir, so no one saw anything. But we could hear some of it quite clearly, even as far away as the library.”

“Some of it?”

“Yes, sir. Most of it wasn’t intelligible at all, as though they were both talking at once.”

“Tell me, as nearly as possible, their exact words. The part you could understand.”

“Mr. Parker said ‘No. I can’t let you,’ and Mr. Rushford cried out something along the lines of ‘You’re mad. Let me out of here. Someone, help.’ There was a loud struggle, and I came to see what was happening, but the door was locked. By the time I had opened it, Mr. Parker was . . .” Dennison glanced at Madeline. “Well, just as you saw him there.”

“If the door was locked, how did you get in?” Birdsong asked.

“I have keys to all the locks at Farthering Place, Inspector.”

“I see. And what did Mr. Rushford say when you came in?”

“He was so terrified, he could hardly speak at all. We gave him some brandy and called his man down to look after him. After a while he was able to tell us what happened. He said he’d found something.”

The chief inspector scowled. “Found something?”

“Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, Mr. Drew, Miss Parker, but he said he’d found evidence that showed Mr. Parker was behind all the goings-on at Farlinford and here at the house.”

Madeline shook her head but said nothing.

“Did he say what it was?” Birdsong asked.

“No, sir. He said only that he wanted to confront Mr. Parker with it in the hope that he would make a clean breast of it to the police and give himself up. He said that, instead, Mr. Parker tried to kill him.”

“Was that how it sounded to you, Denny?” Drew asked.

“I fear it was, sir. I can hardly believe it of Mr. Parker. If you’ll pardon me, sir, I wouldn’t believe it of him if I hadn’t heard it myself.”

That was that, then. Drew shut his eyes. “I wouldn’t believe it either if you hadn’t been the one to tell me.”

Still Madeline said nothing.

“Is there anything else we should know about the incident?” Birdsong asked Dennison.

“I regret I cannot be of more assistance, Chief Inspector.”

“That’ll be all. I suppose I’d best go speak to Mr. Rushford now.”

Rushford brought the teacup to his mouth, trying to sip from it and eventually sloshing tea down his white shirtfront before Min took the cup from him.

“Just try to relax, sir,” Birdsong told him. “I know this hasn’t been pleasant for you, but we have to clear some things up and then we’ll let you go up for a rest. I understand the doctor’s been here already.”

“Doctor?” Rushford muttered, staring at the faces surrounding him.

“A Dr. Wallace, I believe, sir,” Min said as he tried to blot his master’s shirtfront. “He left to get something from car.”

Drew pulled up a chair next to Rushford’s. “Do you feel up to talking a bit?”

Rushford’s rheumy eyes filled with tears, and he clutched Drew’s arm. “It was terrible. Too, too terrible.”

“Yes, it’s awful. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I found some evidence, some things in the files at the office. More assets sold, more mortgages taken out, things that couldn’t be done by someone who wasn’t a director of the company. It had to be him or me, and I knew it wasn’t me. I just wanted to talk to him. Just talk. I wanted him to do the right thing and go to the police with what he’d done. I didn’t want there to be more scandal than need be. I didn’t like to do it. I was afraid that if I confronted him, he would . . .” Rushford glanced at Madeline, sitting ashen-faced on the sofa across from him. “I was afraid he would make away with himself.” “But you did confront him?”

“Yes. I told him I must have a word with him in private, and he locked the study door. So we wouldn’t be disturbed, he said, but I think he must have already known I had found him out. I told him what I had seen and that he would have to go to the police, or I would do so. He said he wasn’t going to let me do that, and he grabbed that letter opener. He . . . he . . .” Rushford tried again to drink his tea, and this time he managed to get a little of it down. He wiped his mouth. “We struggled and fought, and then somehow I overpowered him and got hold of it, the letter opener, and stabbed him with it. I’ll never know how.”

The chief inspector made a note in his book. “What happened next, sir?”

“I must have fainted. I really can’t say. Next thing I knew, I
was in here and the doctor and Min were standing over me. I can hardly believe it even happened. Oh, Parker. Parker . . .”

Madeline was weeping now, and Drew went to sit next to her. “Hold on to me,” he whispered, kissing her temple, and she did.

“Anything else you ought to tell us, sir?” Birdsong asked.

“I don’t know,” Rushford moaned. “Don’t ask me anything more. I can’t tell you anything.”

Drew looked at Birdsong, who gave him a reluctant nod.

“Go ahead and help him up to his room, Min,” Drew said. “Did the doctor give him anything to help him sleep?”

“He want to give him something, sir, but Mr. Rushford not want to take it.”

“Why not, sir?” Drew asked, and a look of terror came into the old man’s eyes.

“I don’t need anything, just another drink. Something stronger than tea, eh?” He laughed, a weak, mirthless laugh that ended in another sob.

“It’s all right, sir,” Drew soothed. “You go on and lie down. We’ll see to everything now.”

Min helped Rushford to his feet, and leaning on his servant’s arm, the old man tottered out of the room.

As soon as he was gone, Drew turned to Madeline. “I’d like you to go as well, darling.”

“But—”

“No, really, you must now.” Drew stood, bringing her with him. “You’ve heard what happened. The rest is just routine investigation and writing the report for the police.”

“But—”

“He’s right, miss,” Birdsong said.

“Please, darling.” Drew kissed her temple once more. “I promise I’ll come tell you if there’s anything else to know. Either way, I promise I’ll come up for a bit after the police have done. Shall
I have Mrs. Devon come to look after you? Would you rather have Dr. Wallace?”

Madeline shook her head. “I’m all right.”

“Promise me you’ll go up?” Drew said, wishing more than anything he could stay here, holding her in his arms until this first shock had worn off somewhat. “Promise?”

Madeline sighed. “I promise.”

He escorted her past the locked door of the study and to the foot of the stairs. “I’ll be up to see you soon.”

She merely nodded and went slowly up the stairs without a glance back.

Chief Inspector Birdsong and Dr. Wallace were already in the study when Drew got there. Both of them were staring at the body in the chair.

“No question about the cause of death, I suppose,” Birdsong said.

“No.” The doctor adjusted his spectacles and leaned forward to get a closer look at the gash in Mason’s throat. “Not in the least.”

Drew steeled himself and came closer, too. Now was not the time for personal feelings. Nor for grief. Nor for rage against a liar and a hypocrite. Mason was dead, and this whole ordeal was nearly at an end.

He drew a hard breath and forced himself to look at the wound and at the letter opener that made it—that sharp, wicked little blade that he himself had brought back from Italy as a gift for his stepfather. He looked up from the wound and into Mason’s face. His eyes were open, and in the corner of one of them . . . Drew bit his lip and turned his back on the grisly scene.

“Are you all right, sir?” Birdsong asked.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.”

Once more Drew steeled himself, and then he turned again to face the chair. There was no mistaking it, the single tear that glistened in Mason’s sightless eye.

Liar. Thief. Murderer.

Drew’s heart rebelled at the thought, but his mind could find no way around it. There was work yet to be done here. It would be a simple exercise in logic now, nothing more, and that mostly solved at this point. Lincoln would have to be accounted for, but he’d be run to ground in time.

“What have you heard about the incident so far, Doctor?” Birdsong asked.

“Only that the old gentleman and Mr. Parker quarreled over their business and, well, this was the result. Tragic.”

“Mr. Rushford didn’t tell you what happened?” Drew asked.

“No, poor man. He was almost hysterical when I arrived and could hardly speak.”

“Then what would you say, judging from the physical evidence, happened here?”

“Judging from the way things are scattered about, and the bruises on Mr. Rushford’s arms, I’d say the two of them struggled, one or the other of them picked up the letter opener, and of course it was Parker here who got the worst of it. Little wonder Rushford was so shaken up.”

“Yes,” Drew said. “He could hardly hold his teacup when he was telling us about it. He managed to spill tea all down the front of his . . .” Drew knit his brow and looked once again at the wound in Mason’s throat.

Birdsong did the same. “What is it?”

“If they were struggling here at the side of the desk where all the papers are knocked about, so he could have fallen back into the chair like that, wouldn’t the blood have spattered outward?” Drew asked.

“It would,” the doctor said. “As you can see by these papers and such, it did.”

“But not on the man with the weapon?”

“Of course on the man with the weapon. Him more than anything else. He could hardly—”

“But there was no blood on Rushford,” the chief inspector said. “Not on his hands. Not on his shirtfront.”

“Exactly.” Drew pointed to the letter opener. “I was wondering why this struck me as odd, and now I think I know. Suppose Rushford and Mason were standing here arguing, and then Mason picks up the letter opener and the two of them grapple for it. Now suppose Rushford gets the upper hand and stabs Mason. He is a good six inches shorter than my stepfather. I would think any wound to a taller man’s throat would come from below, but look at this.”