Swept Away (32 page)

“That's really Selby's hand. Look.” She placed the note between one of Selby's actual letters and the false suicide note. “See the
y?
The capitals, the spacing? They're all like the old letters from Selby, but not like the forgeries.”

“So Selby actually did write to me, wanting me to come see him? Is that what you hoped to find?”

Julia nodded. “Selby told his valet that he didn't want to tell Phoebe, because he didn't want to get her hopes up. What could he have been talking about except the scandal? I think he must have had an idea, some clue that would prove he did not do it. Maybe he even thought he knew who did. I don't know what, but something set him off, and he decided to go to London—maybe to look for another clue. Perhaps he even came here to confront the real embezzler. After he did whatever he came here for, he wrote that note to you and took off for Buckinghamshire.”

“He was going to tell me his suspicions, convince me that I had gotten the wrong man,” Deverel said, following her reasoning.

“I think so.”

“But why did he decide to go that particular day? Something must have happened to make him suspect someone. What?”

“I don't know.” Julia looked at Deverel with barely repressed excitement. “If we can figure that out, maybe we'll have the answer.”

 

The next morning Julia and Deverel paid a call on Phoebe. They had spent the rest of the evening—except for the very pleasant hours Deverel took to demonstrate to Julia just how glad he was that she was alive—discussing what Selby could have learned that sent him hastening off to London. They could come up with no ideas, and they could think of nothing to do except query Phoebe about her husband's actions and conversation the day before he left.

The butler, Sidle, showed them into the drawing room, and a few minutes later Phoebe came in, smiling.

“How is Geoffrey?” Julia asked anxiously.

“Very well. He had a fever during the night, but it's gone down. He's asleep now.”

“Thank heavens.” Julia hugged her sister-in-law. “I knew this was the best place to take him.”

Phoebe demurred, but Julia could see from the heightened color in Phoebe's cheeks that she was pleased by the compliment. Julia hesitated. She hated to spoil Phoebe's happy mood by bringing up the subject of Selby's death. However, she could see no way around it.

“Phoebe…I need to talk to you about Selby.”

“All right, dear.” Phoebe looked at her inquiringly, and it occurred to Julia that for the first time she could remember, Phoebe's eyes did not darken with sadness at the mention of her dead husband.

“Do you remember Selby saying anything the day he left? Anything about the embezzlement or the trust?”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “My goodness, that was so long ago. I—I don't remember everything exactly. Why? What does it matter?”

“We think that maybe Selby discovered something about the embezzlement.” She explained what Osgood had told her the day before, and Phoebe's eyes grew bigger and bigger.

“Oh, my,” Phoebe said inadequately when Julia finished. “I—well, let me think. He came into the sitting room where I was that morning, and he told me that he was going to the hunting lodge. You know…” She paused thoughtfully. “I do remember that he seemed excited, but I didn't think anything about it. I thought he was just happy to be going to the hunting box. You know how he liked it there. But he didn't say anything special, just that he had decided to go hunting. He said, ‘Maybe I'll come back with a prize catch this time, Fee,' and his eyes twinkled—oh, my.” Realization hit her, and she turned pale. “Maybe he wasn't talking about hunting animals. Maybe he meant—”

“He was going to catch the embezzler,” Julia concluded with satisfaction.

“This makes me feel so odd.” Phoebe pressed her hand against her stomach. “To think that all this time we didn't know. We should have done something earlier, Julia!”

“If we had known what Selby was doing, we would have. Oh, why couldn't he have told someone what he was up to?”

“Lady Armiger.” Deverel leaned forward. “Do you remember Sir Selby's mood earlier that morning? When he got up, say?”

“He seemed as usual, I would say.”

“Not excited?”

“No. It was only later, when he came into the sitting room, that he was excited.”

“So whatever happened did so between breakfast and when he came into the sitting room.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But what could it have been? We didn't have any visitors. Julia, do you remember anything?”

“No.” Julia shook her head. “I was hoping that you would. I can't recall anything about that morning.”

“Perhaps Sidle can,” Phoebe suggested, brightening.

“Who?” Deverel asked.

“The butler,” Julia explained. “Of course. That's a good idea. He was at Greenwood then. He would have noticed anything unusual.”

However, the butler, when they called him in, looked blank. “The day he left, ma'am?” Sidle turned his face up toward the ceiling, as if he might find an answer there. “I don't recall anything happening.”

“Did anyone come to call?”

“No. It was an ordinary morning. We got the mail, and I took it into Sir Selby's study. Then, as I recall, there was some sort of contretemps in the kitchen, which I went to resolve. The next time I saw the master was when he came out of his study, calling for a footman to take a message down to the stables. He wanted his curricle brought round.”

Deverel came to his feet. “The mail. That's it. He got a letter!”

“Of course!” Julia breathed, her eyes shining. “Sidle, who were the letters from?”

The usually imperturbable butler appeared daunted by this request. “Oh, miss—I mean, my lady—I don't recall. I don't know that I even looked at them. I just took the mail in to Sir Selby.”

Deverel sighed and dismissed the butler. He turned to Julia. She felt ready to cry with frustration.

“How can we have come so close and still not know?” she wailed.

“I know what he got,” Phoebe said quietly.

It took a moment for her words to sink in. Julia whirled to stare at her. “What did you say?”

“I said, I know what was in Selby's mail.” Her face was soft and sad with remembered sorrow. “After…after his death, I went into his study. I sat behind his desk, and I cried for a while. I looked at everything on it, thinking that maybe somehow I would find a clue to why he'd done it. But there was nothing there. Only a letter, open, as if he had read it and left it there. I read it over and over—you know how it is sometimes. Your mind won't stop. It was stupid. The letter had nothing to do with his death, but I kept reading it. I practically memorized it.”

“What was it?”

“I don't think it's much help. It was merely a letter from the man who runs the mine in Cornwall that Selby's father bought. You remember. His name is Jordan. It was a very ordinary letter. I remember thinking that the last thing Selby received should have been more special, but it was about a problem there and whether they should get new equipment. Mr. Jordan said he was going to send a letter to a Mr. Underhill—I don't know who that was—and that he would take the liberty of putting Selby's signature on the letter, as he had done before. Then he said he hoped that all—”

“Good Lord!” Deverel exclaimed, looking thunderstruck. “Why didn't I think of it before?”

“What?” Julia turned to him, her heart beginning to race with hope. “What is it?”

“A person who sounds and looks like a gentleman, as the landlady said, who's very familiar with the trust, who knows Selby's handwriting—the trust's agent!”

T
here was a moment of stunned silence. Finally Julia repeated, “The agent? For Thomas's trust?”

“Yes. Mr. Carter. I don't know why we never considered it before. He would know the trust as well as anyone. Think of the examples of Selby's handwriting he had the opportunity to look at—and copy.”

“But what about Jack Fletcher? How would he have known about the name?”

“I daresay Selby might have mentioned it to him sometime—or Walter. Carter was Walter's agent for years before he died. Why, any of us might have said something in his hearing, I suppose. He had samples of all our handwriting. He could have copied Fitz's and Varian's signatures, too.”

“But—couldn't he have taken the money, anyway?” Phoebe asked.

“That's true,” Julia agreed. “He was handling the funds. Why go to all that trouble?”

“Ah, but then it would have been obvious that he had taken it. Using the letters, there was always the hope that the trustees would not even question it. If we did, the letters ensured that he had a handy scapegoat.”

“What an evil man!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Why did he blame it on Selby? Why did he hate him so?”

“He probably didn't,” Julia reasoned. “It was probably just circumstances. It was Selby who made most of the requests, so his letters would seem the least suspicious.”

“
If
it was Carter,” Deverel cautioned. “This is merely speculation, after all.”

“True. But I think that this must have been what occurred to Selby. When he read that letter—a trusted manager who could imitate his signature—his mind must have leaped to Carter, and that is why he went off to London.”

“The thing to do, then, is to question Carter. I would be very interested in finding out whether Selby came in to see him right before his death.”

“I would, too,” Julia agreed decisively, rising to her feet. “Let's go.”

“
I
will go,” Deverel countered. “You are not confronting a possible killer. Especially not after what happened yesterday.”

“Perhaps he's right, Julia,” Phoebe agreed. “You could have been killed.”

Julia made a face. “I wasn't, though.”

“No, but Geoffrey was shot trying to protect you,” Deverel stated bluntly.

Guilt pierced Julia. “I know, and I am very sorry. I should not have embroiled Cousin Geoffrey in it. But the fact that there is danger makes it all the more imperative that neither one of us should go there alone. Do you think that I want
you
facing a killer alone?”

“I am prepared for him,” Deverel said grimly. “I will be able to handle him.”

“You won't be any less able to handle him because I am there. If anything, I can help you.”

“Julia…I explained to you yesterday that I can't be distracted by worrying over what's going to happen to you.”

“There's no need for you to be. Besides, there is very little likelihood of anything happening to either one of us. Yesterday he came after me. He was prepared. But today we will be mounting a surprise attack on him. He won't be expecting it. I doubt he brings his pistol to the office, don't you agree?”

“I have no idea. I would not have taken him for the type of man who would do any of this. He always seemed very mild-mannered, obsequious, even.” He paused, then went on, “Can I not persuade you to stay here?”

“No.” Julia shook her head. “I can't force you to take me with you, but I shall go in a separate carriage if you refuse.”

Deverel sighed. “I am sure you will. I must have been mad to agree to marry you. I can see now that you will never give me a day's peace.”

“Agree to marry me!” Julia exclaimed indignantly. “Why, you did everything but
force
me to marry you! But you are right. I probably shan't give you any peace.” She grinned. “However, marriage with me won't be dull.”

“I'm certain of that. All right. Let us go.”

They took their leave of an anxious Phoebe and went to the agent's office in a hackney. They walked up the stairs and into the outer office. Mr. Teasely, who had helped them a few days ago, and the other clerk looked up, surprise touching their faces when they saw who it was.

“Lord Stonehaven?” Teasely asked, rising. “I shall tell Mr. Carter you're here.”

But that was unnecessary. The agent was already bustling out of his office, saying unctuously, “Lord Stonehaven! What an unexpected pleasure—twice in one week! To what do we owe this honor?”

“I recalled that I had forgotten to ask you something when we were here the other day.”

“Of course. Ask away. I shall be happy to help if I can.”

“I am sure you remember the tragic death of Lady Stonehaven's brother, Sir Selby Armiger, a few years ago.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, indeed.” Carter glanced nervously toward Julia.

“It was in March, I believe, a little more than three years ago.” The other man nodded. “I was wondering why he visited you shortly before he, er, passed away.”

Mr. Carter looked at him blankly. “But Sir Selby did not visit us three years ago. Not around the time of his death. A few months before that, when, uh, the, um, irregularities first came to light, he did come here, but not after that.”

“Are you sure?” Stonehaven asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

The agent looked uncomfortable and cast his eyes toward his employees. “He was not here, was he?”

“I don't recall it, sir, no,” Teasely said politely.

The second clerk spoke up, “I remember it. He was here.”

Everyone's gaze turned toward him. He was a short fellow, with thinning hair and a mousy face, and he gazed at them solemnly from behind thick glasses. “You weren't here, Mr. Carter. That was the time when you had that terrible fever and missed almost two weeks.”

Carter's face cleared. “Ah, yes, that
was
three years ago, wasn't it? My, how time flies.”

“You did not speak to him?” Deverel's gaze never wavered from the agent's face.

“Why, no, not if he came during that time. I could barely speak to anyone. Worst fever I ever had.”

Deverel turned to Teasely. “You don't remember him being here at that time?”

“I'm not sure of the dates. I, uh, he did come here once or twice, but I don't remember the exact times.”

“Oh, you must remember, Teasely,” the other clerk declared. “He came in, and we said Mr. Carter wasn't in, and he said that he hadn't come to see Mr. Carter. Then you and he went into Mr. Carter's office and closed the door. There was a terrible shouting match, and Sir Selby left in a huff. Don't you remember?”

Julia felt Deverel tense beside her. She knew what he was thinking, for she was thinking the same thing: all the explanations for the agent being the embezzler would apply to the agent's clerk, as well. She turned to look at Teasely, as did everyone else.

Teasely forced a chuckle. Julia thought she could see a touch of panic in his eyes. “Oh, yes, I do remember that conversation. I didn't recall what particular day it took place. You are probably right, Foster. It must have indeed been when Mr. Carter was ill, or he would have talked to Mr. Carter.”

“What did you discuss?” Deverel asked, his voice flinty.

“Well,” Teasely began, shifting nervously, “we talked about the, uh, letters Sir Selby wrote to the trust, you know, requesting that the money be sent to Jack Fletcher. He wanted to see them, but I did not think that I should allow him to, since he was no longer a trustee. Since Mr. Carter was not here, I couldn't refer the matter to him. So I, uh, stood firm on it. I told Sir Selby that he would have to wait until Mr. Carter returned, that I did not have the authority to allow him to see the letters. It made him quite angry. He shouted a good deal. Then he stormed out of the office.”

“I see.” Deverel paused. “Odd that you wouldn't remember something like that immediately.”

“Well, of course I remembered it.” Again Teasely let out a false-sounding laugh. “I just didn't remember that it occurred at the time you were talking about.”

“Even though you had to deal with Selby because Mr. Carter was out sick?” Deverel queried. “I would have thought the date would have been quite memorable.”

“I knew it was when Mr. Carter was ill, my lord,” Teasely explained, his fingers moving nervously over his watch chain. “I, uh, simply did not recall the dates.”

The man was growing more and more uneasy under Deverel's basilisk gaze. Deverel stared at him without speaking for a moment, and Teasely shifted his feet and cleared his throat.

“I don't think you discussed whether or not Selby could look at the letters,” Deverel told him, iron in his voice. “I think he came here to confront you. He figured out that it was you who had forged his handwriting, and he accused you of it. Isn't that what you were arguing about?”

The other clerk's mouth dropped open. Mr. Clark looked bewildered. Only Teasely did not seem surprised.

“No. No,” he protested agitatedly. “That wasn't it at all.”

“No?” Deverel raised his eyebrows, a sardonic smile touching his mouth. “I think you are going to have to be more truthful than that. You see,” he bluffed calmly, “we found the notes Sir Selby wrote concerning his suspicions of you.”

Teasely glanced around wildly. “J-just because he saw me signing those letters for Mr. Carter a couple of years ago and I—I showed off a little about my—my skill, it doesn't mean that I forged his hand! I did not take that money!”

“I think you did,” Deverel said coldly. “And when Selby figured out that you had done it, he went to Buckinghamshire to tell me his suspicions. So you followed him to his house, didn't you? You killed him so that he couldn't reveal the truth!”

“No!” Teasely cried. “I didn't! You can't prove
anything!
”

“I will get the proof,” Deverel growled, and started toward him.

“I didn't kill him!” Teasely shouted hysterically.

Reaching behind him, he grabbed a ledger book from his desk and flung it at Deverel. Then he turned and vaulted over the railing separating the clerks' area from the rest of the office and ran out the door. The book hit Deverel on the shoulder and bounced off, but it slowed him down for a precious moment. He took off after the tall clerk, jumping the railing as Teasely had done. Julia and the others followed at a slower pace, taking the more usual way around the railing.

They raced down the stairs and burst out the front door. Julia stopped, looking around the busy street, to see where they had gone. Carter and the other clerk skidded to a halt beside her. From the vantage point of the top of the steps, Julia soon spotted Deverel's familiar figure. He was halfway down the block, running out into the street. Teasely was a few yards ahead of him, dodging around a carriage. He cast a panicked look behind him as he ran.

Julia gasped, seeing the heavy wagon rumbling down the street toward Teasely, only a few feet away. Deverel shouted a warning, pointing, but Teasely, panicked, ran on, not looking up until it was too late. He darted directly into the path of the huge draft horses. The left front horse crashed into him, knocking him down, and he disappeared under the animals' feet.