The Duke's Last Hunt (20 page)

“Henry!” he said, pumping the young man’s hand. “It has been too long. My curate tells me you were at services on Sunday, but I missed seeing you.”

“Yes, a pity,” said Henry, his voice catching in his throat as if he were still a young lad growing into a man. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“I’m so very sorry, my boy,” said Reverend Ansel, taking the chair opposite the desk. “So very sorry about your brother.”

“Thank you,” said Henry.

“Do they know what happened?”

“Walter Turold asserts that he fired accidentally, mistaking Rufus for a stag in the bushes.”

The Reverend pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Dear me.” He blew his nose loudly. “What will happen now?”

“There’s an investigation pending—a man up from London to help Cecil and the constable look into things. They need to evaluate if it was in fact an accident. If so, I expect things will go no further, and the matter will be laid to rest with Rufus.”

“And…Walter?”

“Will simply have to carry the burden of mistakenly ending my brother’s life.”

“Poor soul,” said Reverend Ansel, shaking his head. He blew his nose again. Henry noted that the clergyman seemed deeply distressed about the matter—that, or deeply distressed by his malady.

“The shooting took place quite near the church,” said Henry. He leaned forward on his elbows.

“Yes, that’s what I hear,” said the Reverend. “I went up the road to Dealsby Cross to perform a wedding there yesterday. I preach there once a month since the post is vacant. My curate is hopeful the living will fall to him, but we shall see….”

Henry’s curiosity finally got the better of his reticence. “I hope no one else in your household was too alarmed by the shot?”

“No, no, not at all,” said the Reverend. “We hear poachers shooting quite often in our part of the woods…although I probably ought not to be saying that to you, the new duke!”

“Never fear. I am not as jealous of my sport as my brother was. It is rather fitting, in a way, that he should leave this world while riding out to hunt.”

“May the Lord have mercy,” said the Reverend quietly. He rose from his chair. “I shall offer my condolences to your mother, if I may. And then…is it permitted that I visit Walter Turold? The man must be beside himself with grief.”

“He is keeping to his room, but he is not in confinement. His grief, if it exists, must be a stoic one, for he shed no tears yesterday following the event.”

“The absence of tears does not necessarily mean the absence of sorrow,” said the Reverend. “A heart can brim with remorse on the inside while the outside man remains silent.”

“Very true, Reverend,” said Henry, a catch in his throat. He stood up in respect as the Reverend quitted the study. Then, alone again in his sanctum, he sat back down in his chair and leaned back to stare at the ceiling, acutely aware that Reverend Ansel’s last statement could have been talking about him just as much as about Walter Turold.

20

A
s the maids entered to be interviewed one by one, the housekeeper stood by the threshold of the room to exhort each maid to mind her tongue and answer the gentlemen’s questions with no silliness.

“If you please, sir,” said the first maid, a pretty, young blonde, “Mrs. Forsythe asked me to give you these.” The girl handed over a wrinkled pile of clothes to Pevensey.

“Not been through the lye yet?” said Pevensey with excitement.

“No, sir, though I did put some lemon juice on the bloody patches.”

Pevensey gave the girl a rewarding smile and walked over to a small table to spread out the clothes. “Mr. Cecil, if you would be so good as to conduct the interview while I examine these.”

“Certainly,” said Cecil. Pevensey had been afraid that he would hem and haw over being thrust into the helm so soon, but the man was a quick study and confident in his own powers. “What is your name, miss?”

“Constance,” replied the maid.

Pevensey examined the dark spots on the clothing where the blood had seeped onto the shirt and the jacket. There were no powder burns on the jacket, indicating that the bullet had been fired from at least a few yards away. The majority of the blood was on the back of the clothing, but when Pevensey saw the front, he noted something curious.

“Did you notice anything unusual on the morning of the duke’s dea—”

“Cecil!” Pevensey interrupted. “Did you drag the body on the ground when you moved it to the carriage?”

“No,” said Cecil, his black eyebrows lifting in surprise. “There were plenty of men there by that time. They lifted him onto his horse and we led it to the road.”

“Hmm…very interesting,” said Pevensey. He pulled out his notebook and began a sketch. “Carry on, carry on,” he said to his assistant.

“Of course,” said Cecil, recovering his aplomb. “And now, Constance, was there any unpleasantness between the duke and…well, and anyone?”

The maid hesitated. “I don’t know as I could say, sir. But I’m sure if there was, it was entirely the duke’s fault.”

Pevensey’s ears perked up as Cecil continued the questioning. “It seems that you did not care for your master, Constance. Any particular reason why?”

There was a pause. “No, sir,” said the maid, her tone verging on sullenness.

“Very well then,” said Cecil. “Anything else from you, Mr. Pevensey?”

“No,” said Pevensey, “that will be all. Thank you, Constance.” He watched the maid bustle out of the room and drew a quick sketch of her profile. She was a pretty young woman—the kind that sometimes attracts too much attention from an employer. Pevensey drew a shadow lurking behind her.

“Was there something important about the clothing?” asked Cecil, breaking in on Pevensey’s thoughts. He was fingering the jacket and had stuck his finger through the bullet hole in the back of it.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Pevensey, his eyes looking back over the dead man’s garments. While the back of the coat was covered with only a soft spray of dust, the front of the coat was caked with a thick layer of red dirt.

* * *

Dismissed from her mother’s room
at last, Eliza returned to her own room. She sat down hard on the sofa and felt a book beneath her. From underneath her skirt, she pulled out
Pamela
and threw it against the wall. It fell open on the ground, its pages fluttering in the air like a wounded butterfly. Eliza turned her face away. She would not indulge in self-pity. She must control herself.

From the door came a timid knock. “Eliza? Are you there?”

Eliza choked back the tears that were starting to form and, instead of weeping, opened the door. Adele was standing in the hallway, her own face streaked with tears. “Oh, dear! Come in,” said Eliza, putting her arm around the girl. Apparently the shock of losing Rufus had not worn off yet.

Eliza led Adele over to the sofa where they sat down together. “I am so sorry, Adele. It must be horrible to lose a brother….”

“Oh, yes….” Adele sniffed back some of her tears. She looked away from Eliza.

Eliza swallowed. Perhaps this intrusion was the grace she needed to distract her from her own misery. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Well, I don’t know…the thing is….”

Eliza waited.

“It’s just that Rufus dying is so horribly inconvenient!”

Eliza blanched. “Inconvenient?”

“Yes! I shall be in blacks for six months or more—no parties or balls once the season starts up. And if Stephen
did
propose, we should have to postpone the wedding till we were out of mourning. And even more horrible—perhaps I won’t be allowed to marry him now? Rufus never cared what I did, but Henry will be much stricter. I don’t think he approves of me and Stephen.”

“I thought you weren’t sure yourself about Mr. Blount?”

“Of course I’m sure about him. But it wouldn’t be ladylike to say such a thing until he actually offers for me, would it? Anyhow, Mother told me it’s horrid to be thinking about such things right now, but I can’t help it.” Adele blew her nose on her handkerchief. “I’m sorry to turn into such a watering pot. I suppose Rufus dying is inconvenient for you as well.”

“I had not exactly thought of it in that way.” Eliza reflected that it had actually been the other way around. Rufus’ death had seemed entirely fortuitous since it left her free to look elsewhere—and she had, until her mother had made her examine Henry’s character more deeply.

“Oh, you know,” said Adele, “the chance to get new dresses and get away from your fusty parents.”

Eliza flinched.

“But, dear me! I am a rattle-trap. Did you love Rufus?”

Eliza saw no harm in telling the truth. Indeed, nothing she said could be as indiscreet as Adele’s emotions. “No, I didn’t love him.”

“I didn’t think so. You seemed so…scared around Rufus. I could hardly imagine you eating breakfast across from him every day. Or having children with him!”

“Adele, please!” Eliza stood up from the couch and walked over to the window, her face as red as the late August roses in the garden below.

“Oh, Eliza, I’m sorry!” Adele jumped up and hurried to her side. “I did not mean to vex you.” Her pleading brown eyes could almost make Eliza forget her outrageous comments. “Was there someone else?”

Eliza hesitated. Someone else? Only the phantom of someone that had never truly existed except in her own mind. “No, no one else.”

“Are you certain?” Adele took Eliza’s hand and pressed it. “Because I thought perhaps, maybe, you might have had a
tendre
for Henry before Rufus came along. There seemed to be something between you, the same something that there is between me and Stephen, a
je-ne-sais-quoi
that was not there between you and Rufus.”

“Or perhaps, your brother Henry is simply a prodigious flirt.” Eliza felt warm all over. She seized a fan off of the end table and waved it briskly in front of her face. She did not want to hear about him anymore.

Adele threw her head back and laughed. “Henry? ’Pon rep! I should think not. Did you see him give Miss Ashbrook a set-down the other night when she would not leave him alone?”

“Yes, well, even so...perhaps he is different when he is in town.”

“Unlikely,” said Adele. “He attended my coming-out ball at our house in Grosvenor Square, even though Rufus refused to allow me to send him an invitation, and I can tell you he was in no way popular with the ladies. I think he spent more time talking to Mother’s friends than he did mine!”

“Why were matters so strained between your brothers?”

“I don’t know exactly. I was still in the schoolroom when the big quarrel happened. I believe it had something to do with the Dower House though. And whatever it was, I know that Mother took Henry’s part.”

“So it was nothing untoward on Henry’s part?”

“Goodness, no. The servants were very upset at his banishment. Hayward and Mrs. Forsythe went about all tight-lipped for nearly a month, and the whole house felt shrouded in gloom.”

Eliza’s brow creased. Here was a very different picture of Henry’s relationship to the servants than what Ollerton’s inquiries had painted.

“Eliza! Look!” Adele pressed her face against the glass.

Eliza’s room was on the side of the house facing the garden, but from the window, they could see part of the circular drive and the stable yard. A coach had just pulled up to the stables tethered to a fancy pair of perfectly matched blacks.

“Who is that?” asked Eliza, unsure as to the significance of the apparition.

“I don’t know,” said Adele, “but we must find out!”

Following in Adele’s footsteps, Eliza walked, rather more quickly than was elegant, down the corridor and the staircase. As they entered the saloon, they could hear Hayward in the entry way speaking in stern tones.

“I am sorry, madam, but you are not welcome here.”

“Oh, Hayward, don’t be ridiculous,” said a woman’s voice, both sultry and snide at the same time.

Adele and Eliza halted and exchanged glances.

“Run along and tell your new master that I am here.”

“I regret that the duke is not at home.”

“The duke!” The mysterious visitor burst into a peal of laughter. “I suppose he
has
moved up in the world.”

Adele started edging closer, eager to get a glance at this uncouth intruder. Eliza saw someone entering the saloon from the opposite door, however, and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder to stay her progress.

Henry walked past the two girls without acknowledging their presence. “Hayward,” he said. “It is all right. I will receive Mrs. Flambard in the study.”

“You heard the man,” said Mrs. Flambard, laughing again, and in a few seconds she was traipsing through the saloon in Henry’s wake. Eliza had expected an imposing woman but was surprised to see that Mrs. Flambard was a girlish blonde with large blue eyes and an innocent, heart-shaped face. She was dressed in a very low-cut blue muslin, with a small hat mounted atop her blond curls. She looked over at Eliza and Adele, where they stood frozen against the wall of the saloon, and dropped them a wink. Then, without a word, she disappeared down the hallway, following Henry.

“Come in, Mrs. Flambard,” they heard Henry say.

It was followed by a trilling laugh. “Oh, please, Henry! We know each other far too well for such formalities. Do you remember these pearls? You paid the bill for them….” The study door shut on the voices, and the two girls looked at each, wide-eyed.

Eliza exhaled, finally remembering to breathe. “Who
is
that?”

“I have no idea,” said Adele, “but I’m dying to find out.”

Eliza’s own curiosity could not outweigh the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. A mysterious woman with pearls from the new duke? Here was yet another proof that Henry Rowland’s character was far more enigmatic than upright.

* * *

The other housemaids had provided
little more information about the events of yesterday; however, they did provide some curious insights into household affairs at Harrowhaven. “His grace used to disrespect Mrs. Forsythe all the way to Brighton and back,” said one bright-eyed brunette, “when she came to him with the menu or a change in staffing.”

“Was not the Duchess of Brockenhurst in charge of such things?” asked Pevensey.

“Well, she were…but, I don’t know exactly when it happened, but then she weren’t anymore.”

“I see,” said Pevensey, although the picture was still not entirely clear. There must have been a falling out between mother and son. He had already established a falling out between Rufus and his elder half-brother and a quarrel between Rufus and his younger brother. The whole family was seemingly at loggerheads.

After the brown-haired maid left, Pevensey queried Cecil. “Did you know anything of this, a rift between the duke and his mother?”

“No, not at all,” said Cecil. “But then the duchess is hardly one to air such things in public. A true lady if I’ve ever seen one.”

They sat down to partake of a luncheon and fortify their spirits for the next round of questioning. It was at this point that the constable, for whom they had been waiting all morning, finally arrived, a gray-haired man in a gray suit, carrying a satchel.

“This is Constable Cooper,” said Cecil, motioning to a nearby chair. “He took Turold’s statement and his weapon yesterday.”

“Goodness, yes,” said the constable. “Would you like to see it?” He dug into his pocket and brought out his notebook.

“The weapon, yes,” said Pevensey. “I can guess what lies in the statement well enough.”

“Oh, well, in that case…,” said Constable Cooper, crestfallen. He opened the satchel and took out a pistol. It was made of walnut with a single chamber, silver fittings, and the engraved initials “R.R.”

Pevensey picked it up and examined it. “It’s clean.”

“Of course!” said the constable. “My old father brought me up to take care of my firearms.”

“Yes,” said Pevensey, trying to stem the flood of growing irritation welling up in his breast, “but the point is that this is not
your
firearm. It is evidence. Had this pistol been discharged when you received it?”

“It certainly had been.” He proffered the notebook again. “You can see in Mr. Turold’s statement that he says—”

“Quite.” Pevensey handed the weapon to Cecil. The black-haired gentleman offered him an apologetic smile. Pevensey suspected that the young magistrate might be learning to curb Constable Cooper’s enthusiasm in future cases.

“What does the engraving mean on this weapon?”

Cecil ran a finger over the initials. “I suppose the ‘R.R.’ must stand for ‘Rufus Rowland.’ Perhaps Turold borrowed one of Rufus’ pistols for the hunt.”

Pevensey pulled out his own notebook and made a quick sketch of the weapon.

“If this weapon was taken from Mr. Turold, where is the duke’s pistol?”

Cecil and the constable looked at each other. The constable scratched his head. “I couldn’t rightly say, Mr. Pevensey.”

“It was not on the body?”

“No,” said Cecil, thoughtfully. “It was not. I did not think to look around for it at the time.”

An interesting possibility began to form in Pevensey’s mind. “And you are certain there were two shots?”