The Duke's Last Hunt (19 page)

Pevensey felt a jump of excitement at this new piece of information. “Are Mr. Turold and Henry Rowland still close?”

“No,” Hayward put his hands behind his back. “They grew apart when Master Henry went to Eton. Mr. Turold is now closer…or should I say,
was
closer to Rufus Rowland. They shared certain proclivities….” And then, as if suddenly aware that he was sharing too much of the Rowland family business, the butler grew quiet and placed his hands behind his back.

Pevensey felt the trail had gone cold and did not press any further. A few moments later he saw a slim young man dismounting near the steps. “This must be Mr. Cecil.”

The man bounded rapidly up the stairs, rapped three times on the door, and was soon handing his beaver and gloves to Hayward.

“Jacob Pevensey at your service,” said Pevensey with a nod.

“Excellent!” said the man, his enthusiasm as springy as the black curls covering his head. “I must tell you, Mr. Pevensey, I am delighted to learn from your expertise in this matter. Where do we begin?”

“I thought we might begin by taking your statement,” said Pevensey, motioning towards the empty morning room. “You were there, were you not?”

“Indeed,” said Cecil. “I was on the scene almost directly.” He found a chair and, lifting up his coattails, sat down with alacrity.

“And dealt with the aftermath, I understand?” Pevensey took a seat opposite the young magistrate.

Cecil shrugged. “I was alarmed, as were the others. But someone had to manage the women…and deal with the body.”

“Could you start at the beginning of the day yesterday, when you arrived for the hunt?” Pevensey pulled out his notebook, and Cecil had hardly begun his tale before his profile materialized on the page.

“Rowland organized a hunt and invited the whole neighborhood. I suppose I should specify
which
Rowland—it was Rufus. He’s mad about hunting. Always has been. And when he sets up a shooting party, one goes, even when it’s not one’s favorite sport.”

“As in your case,” said Pevensey with a smile.

“Exactly. My sister Edwina was keener on it than I. She wanted to spend time with Lady Adele, I suppose, who’s been in town all season—”

“So there were women who rode out with the hunt?” interrupted Pevensey.

“Yes. You’ll want to know their names, to be sure.” Mr. Cecil began to count off on his fingers. “There was my sister, Edwina Cecil, and then Miss Bertram, a neighbor, and Lady Adele, and Miss Malcolm. The Duchess of Brockenhurst, I believe, was indisposed and did not ride out that day. The ladies climbed aboard their mounts in the stable yard, but when we rode out into the woods, they took a different route—along the road, I believe—since none of them were armed, and their sole purpose was to watch.”

“Which gentlemen attended the hunt?”

Mr. Cecil began to count on his fingers again. “There was myself, Rufus, Henry, Robert Curtis, Walter Turold, Sir Arthur Malcolm, Squire Ashbrook, his two sons, and….” He listed off three or four more gentlemen from the neighborhood. “We left the stable yard all in a pack with the hounds in front. There was a good deal of shouting and jesting about who would see the stag first.”

“And did you continue in a pack?”

“No, and that is the queer thing. Usually, Rufus is up there at the front, and nine times out of ten, the kill is his. But yesterday, I lost sight of Rufus almost immediately. The hounds picked up the scent and we were all caught up in the thrill of the chase. I sighted a goodly pair of antlers up ahead, but he must have doubled back at the stream, for the hounds lost his scent there, and that is when we all split up, Henry off one way, Walter Turold off another. Squire Ashbrook and a few others decided to follow the water with the dogs, and Sir Arthur and I struck north to the road where we met up with the ladies.”

“Go on,” said Pevensey. It was a curious story, this tale of the scattered hunters, for if all was as Cecil said, then there would be more than one man without a confirmation of his whereabouts.

“We met the ladies at the road, and that is when we heard the first shot.”

“There were more than one?”

“Yes, there were two.”

“How far apart?”

“Five minutes, I would hazard. At the time, we conjectured that someone had wounded the stag and then fired a second shot to finish him off.”

“And what do you conjecture now?”

Mr. Cecil sighed and rubbed the palms of his hands on his buckskins. “I’m not sure. Perhaps Rufus saw the stag, fired, and missed. And then Walter, thinking he saw the stag, fired and hit Rufus.”

“Hmmm….” said Pevensey. His pencil had completed the black, corkscrew curls, and the frank, open eyes. “What did you do after hearing the shots?”

“The ladies were eager to see the kill—the stag, you understand, not the duke—and we headed into the woods after the first one. The second one came from farther away, and I bade them wait while I found the others so I could show them the proper trail.”

“And when you came upon the scene?”

“Walter Turold was in a clearing, seated upon his horse looking down at the duke’s body. The duke’s horse was standing nearby. Turold’s pistol was in his hand, and he looked over at me with a stare of absolute wretchedness on his face. ‘I’ve shot him, Cecil,’ he said. ‘I thought he was the stag.’”

“And those were his exact words?”

“As far as I can recollect.”

“Was the duke lying on his back or his front?”

“His back. His eyes were all glassy…I was certain with one look at him that he was dead.”

“Did you get down from your horse and check?”

“Certainly, that was my first instinct. He had no pulse.”

“Did Turold dismount as well?”

“No, Turold remained on his horse. He seemed to be in shock. I told him to give me his weapon, and he handed it over without a word. Curtis rode up then, and Ashbrook with his sons. And Henry came after a minute. I left the body with them and went back to warn the women away. Sir Arthur accompanied them to the house. I went back to the clearing. Henry had already sent Ashbrook to ride for the village to find the doctor and the constable. The church was nearby and I checked there and at the parsonage, but neither Ansel nor his curate were there.”

“Did anyone answer?”

“No, nobody. Their housekeeper must have had the day off. I returned to the clearing then and Henry said that we must bring Rufus’ body back to the house.”

“Before the doctor or constable had seen it?”

“Yes. Was that wrong of us? I hope we did nothing improper. We laid the duke over the back of his horse and led the beast out to the road. And there was the carriage from Harrowhaven. Sir Arthur must have sent it when he returned to the house with the ladies. The groom helped us put the duke inside, and Henry drove the carriage.”

“I see,” said Pevensey. He wondered how many clues had been lost by this hasty shuttling of the body to another location. This Mr. Cecil certainly had zeal, but it was without adequate knowledge. “Where did the bullet hit the duke?”

“The back. The body is still here, I believe. It was in this very room yesterday, but no doubt they moved it somewhere more convenient. Would you like to see it?”

19

T
he servants, under Mrs. Forsythe’s directions, had placed the corpse in the cellar—a rather macabre addition to the pickles and preserves but necessary given the summer’s heat. The plan, Mrs. Forsythe told Pevensey, was to have it removed tomorrow for burial, but for now, it was under lock and key down below the house—the housekeeper being the one to hold the keys lest giddy housemaids become too curious.

Mrs. Forsythe stood solemnly at the door while Pevensey and Cecil examined the corpse. He was naked, except for a white sheet that had been thrown over him. The dead duke’s skin was just as white as the sheet, a ghastly, uncanny whiteness that contrasted blindingly with his red hair. Pevensey motioned for Cecil to roll the body forward a little so he could see the wound.

The bullet had entered jaggedly beside the shoulder blade, at an angle it seemed, for after piercing the heart, it had come out through the side of the duke’s pectoral muscle. “A well-positioned hit,” said Cecil with a whistle.

Someone had taken the trouble to clean up the blood and dirt from the body. “Mrs. Forsythe,” said Pevensey, “do you have the clothes that the duke was wearing?”

“I’ve sent them down to be laundered and mended,” said the housekeeper, “and if his valet doesn’t want them, they’ll go to one of the footmen.”

Pevensey’s lips compressed into a thin line. Any clues the clothes could provide had probably been irrevocably destroyed. Nevertheless, he did not forget the wonders a polite smile could produce, and his face soon radiated friendliness once again. “Mrs. Forsythe, your industry is remarkable. I wonder, though, if perhaps you could send to the laundry and discover whether they have been thrown in the lye yet. I would love to see the stains if I might.”

“Of course, Mr. Pevensey,” said Mrs. Forsythe, surprised. She stepped outside the cellar to say a word to one of the staff.

“First rule of investigations,” said Pevensey, giving a wink to Cecil. “Always get the housekeeper on your side.”

“And second rule—never let the domestics tamper with the evidence,” said Cecil. “My apologies.”

“You’re a fast learner, Cecil.” Pevensey eyed the young man thoughtfully. In his experience, most gentry folk had as much common sense as a popinjay, but this fellow seemed determined to listen and learn.

“Is the shot consistent with Turold’s story?” asked Cecil.

“Possibly.” Pevensey eyed the exit wound one more time. “Although it has the appearance of something fired at closer range and not at a distance through a stand of brush and trees.”

“The constable took a statement from Turold. He should be here shortly, and I’ve instructed him to bring both the statement and Turold’s pistol.”

Pevensey smiled. “I never use another investigator’s notes. I’ll need to take the statement again.”

“Do you think his line of questioning will have been inadequate then?”

“Maybe. The important thing is to
see
the one you’re questioning. It’s not so much the things he says as the way he says them.”

“Ah,” said Cecil. “Well, I’ve cleared my schedule for the day—postponed meetings with tenants and tea with the Bertrams—so if it is all the same to you, I would like to sit in on the statements.”

“Commendable of you,” said Pevensey with a twinkle in his eye, “for in the end, it’s
you
that will have to recommend at the inquest whether there’s enough evidence to send it up to the county assizes.”

“Indeed,” said Cecil gravely. “Where do we begin?”

“Servants first,” said Pevensey. “They see and know far more than your class gives them credit for.”

“
My
class.” Cecil smiled. “And what class do
you
consider yourself, Mr. Pevensey?”

“Me? I am part of no class. I am invisible—only here when you do not want me and likely to be forgotten again as soon as I leave.”

“I doubt that very much, Mr. Pevensey.” Cecil adjusted the sheet over the corpse as they prepared to leave the cellar. “And after the servants?”

“The least likely suspects to the most likely.”

“Why that order?”

Pevensey shut the cellar door behind them as they waited for Mrs. Forsythe to return with her keys. “Because by the time you get to the end, you’ll know which questions are the ones you ought to be asking.”

* * *

“I thought I made myself
clear,” said Lady Malcolm stiffly. Eliza had been herded into her mother’s sitting room and made to sit.

“Yes, Mama, you did.”

“Apparently not clear enough.”

“I was not intending to encourage him,” said Eliza miserably.

“Not
intending
? Did he force you to take his hand?” Lady Malcolm’s voice was cynical. “No, I thought not. A lady can always find a way to refuse unwanted attention. You did not. So clearly, the attention is not unwanted.”

“Mama, that is unfair—”

“What has come over you? In London, you were as shy as a primrose. And now? You make eyes at men over your fiancé’s dead body.”

Eliza turned white with anger. “How dare you!” She jumped up from her seat. “I never wanted to marry Rufus Rowland. It was all Papa. And you! You said it would be for the best, and I went along with it, despite my heart.”

“And where is your heart?”

“With Henry Rowland. Oh, Mama! If only you could come to know him. He is kind. He is gentle. He understands me as no one ever has.”

Lady Malcolm’s face was as taut as the strings of a violin. “Child,” she said, “sit down and listen to me. When I was your age, I thought the same. I met a man who was warm, and tender, and more wonderful than any I had ever known. I had no mother’s counsel to guide me, and what do you think I did? I married him.”

Eliza fell back against the cushions of the chair and stared. Was this her father that her mother was speaking of?

“I married him in haste, and repented—yes, repented—it at leisure. Your father is faithful to me now, and we rub along together after a fashion, but our early years…oh, our early years were difficult. There were many dark nights of the soul where I did not care whether I lived or died. I would not wish that on you, child, and so I counsel you with all my soul against this Henry Rowland.”

Eliza clutched one of the cushions convulsively. The revelation of her father’s infidelities was astonishing to her, but so was the comparison that her mother was trying to draw. “How do you know that Henry is like Papa? He is not! He is nothing like him.”

Lady Malcolm gnawed her lower lip. “Ollerton has made some inquiries among the staff about him. Something you said spurred her on to do so. It seems that the housekeeper has forbidden the maids to speak to him. They did not say why, but they mentioned a girl named Jenny with whom he was friendly on his last visit. After he left, she disappeared suddenly and took a coach for London. She has not returned.”

Eliza’s breath came more quickly. “A coincidence!”

“Is it?” said Lady Malcolm. She gave a sniff. “I can think of only one explanation for such an occurrence, but perhaps you are too innocent to understand. Now is not the time for innocence but for shrewdness. Think back to all you have observed of him—is there nothing that gives you pause?”

It was Eliza’s turn to gnaw on her lower lip. It was almost as if her mother knew—knew about that nagging doubt in the back of her mind, that sordid memory of Henry Rowland stroking the blond maid’s arm and giving her his handkerchief. It was a memory she had dismissed—a memory too inconvenient and inconsistent with her own desires to be true. But now, with this further news from Ollerton, her suspicions seemed to be instantly and irrevocably confirmed.

“Oh, Mama!” she moaned and, without offering an explanation, burst suddenly into tears. It was a complete and utter surrender.

“There, there, my child,” said Lady Malcolm, coming near and putting her arms around Eliza. She lifted Eliza’s chin and brought her eyes on a level with her daughter’s. “Then we are agreed, yes? You will stay clear of Henry Rowland until we can remove ourselves from this house?”

“Yes,” said Eliza dully. “I will do as you say, Mama.”

“See that you do this time,” said Lady Malcolm, and letting go of her daughter’s chin, she leaned over to the table and found a book of sermons for them to read aloud.

* * *

Pevensey arranged three chairs around
a table in the morning room while Cecil secured some ink to take notes in a little book on the process about to unfold.

The servants came in by turn, with either feigned trepidation or obvious curiosity. “Where were you yesterday morning?” was the first question Pevensey asked each of them. “And who can corroborate your story?”

Three of the footmen had been engaged in laying out the luncheon tablecloths and centerpieces under the temporarily erected pavilion near the rose garden. The butler Hayward vouched for their presence since he had been directing them.

“Did you know of any unpleasantness between the duke and Mr. Turold?”

None of the three had seen or heard anything of the kind. Pevensey expected that when it came time for the housemaids, they would prove more imaginative.

A fourth footman, the loquacious Frederick, informed Pevensey that he had been absent the day of the hunt. He had gone a half a day’s walk north of the village to his mother’s house to celebrate his sister’s wedding. She had married the baker from the village, and Frederick was looking forward to free buns from his new brother-in-law.

“And was this your usual day off?” Pevensey asked.

“No, sir,” said Frederick. “I had special permission from the duke to be gone on Wednesday. I heard the sad news on the road late last night while I was on my way back to Harrowhaven.”

“Prior to this, had you heard of any unpleasantness between the duke and Mr. Turold?”

“With Mr. Turold? No.”

Pevensey caught Cecil’s eye. Here was something to be explored.

“Perhaps some unpleasantness between the duke and someone else?”

Frederick shuffled his feet. “I might have been listening when I oughtn’t, but when I walked past the study on Tuesday night, I heard voices arguing.”

“Whose voices?” asked Cecil, leaning forward with interest.

“The duke, for one.”

“And the other?” said Pevensey.

“I wouldn’t stake my mother’s life on it, but I think ’twas Mr. Curtis.”

“And what did you overhear?”

“The man who sounded like Mr. Curtis was saying, ‘By God, you have to give me more time. This is unfair!’ And the duke said something like, ‘You’ve had time enough. I intend to take possession of the place tomorrow.’”

“And did Mr. Curtis say anything else?”

“I couldn’t quite hear it all, but I thought he said something about how even a Jew would be kinder.”

“And then?”

“And then I heard Mr. Hayward coming and took to my heels so he wouldn’t see me neglecting my duties and eavesdropping on my betters.”

Cecil was scribbling notes furiously while Pevensey, notebook close to his chest, sketched a cheerful profile of the footman with his ear against a door. After discerning that Frederick had no more information, they dismissed him and bade the butler in the hallway wait a moment before sending in the next servant.

“What do you make of that?” asked Cecil. His black eyes were alive with interest.

“Robert Curtis is the half-brother, you said?”

“Yes, the Duchess of Brockenhurst’s son by a previous marriage. He’s not at all like the other brothers—a preening peacock if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Was the duchess’ first husband untitled?”

“Yes, untitled, but he left Robert a pretty estate in Kent, a few hours’ ride from here.”

“Was Mr. Curtis indebted to his brother Rufus?”

“
That
is the question, isn’t it?” Cecil rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It looks like we are beginning to see
which
questions we ought to ask.”

Pevensey beamed. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet, Cecil.” He was still irritated with Sir Richard for forcing him to ride out to Sussex in the August heat, but he must admit that this case was proving more interesting than he had expected, and he had never realized before what a pleasure it would be to disciple such an apt pupil in his unusual trade.

* * *

Henry retreated to the study
to take his mind off the events of the past hour. Not only had Lady Malcolm forbidden him to go near her daughter, but the investigator also suspected him of involvement in Rufus’ death! Growling under his breath, he began to tidy up the papers on the desk. This was his room once again, and here at least he could have things the way he wanted them. He squared up the inkwell and a neatly trimmed pen on the right corner of the desk. Next, he found the seal with which he had stamped the letters only yesterday and placed it on the middle finger of his left hand.

“Your grace,” said Hayward with a gentle knock on the open door. “Reverend Ansel is here to see you.”

The soft syllables of the Reverend’s name came as a sharp surprise. Henry started visibly before recovering control of his countenance. “I’m not at home, Hayward.”

“Yes, your grace,” said the butler. It could have been Henry’s imagination, but he thought he glimpsed a fleeting glance of disappointment on the old retainer’s lined face.

Henry swallowed. Not at home? It was the excuse Rufus would have used to avoid being harangued by the minister about his responsibilities to the parish. Henry had made enough of his own excuses while he was steward at Harrowhaven to avoid encountering Reverend Ansel. It was time to be done with such folly. He was the duke of Brockenhurst now. He must take his fears and look them in the face.

“Hayward!”

The retreating butler turned around. “Yes, your grace?”

“I was mistaken. You may show him in.”

Hayward bowed his head perfunctorily, but Henry could see that he was pleased.

Within seconds, Reverend Ansel came barreling through the study door, the energy in his red face permeating the room like the heat from a fire. He sneezed a few times into his sleeve, great, herculean sneezes that shook his large frame, and blinked back the tears forming in his eyes, the product of a summer’s cold.