“And Mary seeing her is not proof?”
He shook his head. “Unless Mary saw her coming out of room three with weapon in hand, no, it is not sufficient proof.”
“I saw the figure fleeing down the corridor that very morning!”
“But you did not see her face or a weapon?”
“No.” Again, Rebecca lowered her head, feeling defeated.
He cupped her chin and gently lifted her face to his. “Do not despair. We are not beaten yet.”
His dark brown eyes held hers. She wanted to sink into their depths and stay there forever.
Then Frederick leaned close, bringing his cheek near hers. His breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Don’t lose heart, brave Miss Rebecca.”
Too late, she thought. She had already lost her heart to him all over again.
21
Later that afternoon, the Wickworth steward came to the abbey with a letter delivered by special messenger. Frederick read the contents with grim interest. The report was relevant but inconclusive, sending questions and theories volleying through his mind. How to best marshal his thoughts?
Frederick summoned two people to join him in the library and writing room. While he waited for them, he sat, knee bouncing, considering how to proceed. He found himself staring at the chess pieces on the game table before him. An idea formed.
When his guests arrived, Frederick rose and gestured to chairs on either side of his. “Please, be seated.”
Miss Lane sat first, and his brother took the other chair.
Thomas regarded the chessmen, then looked awkwardly from Rebecca to Frederick. “This is a two-person game, Freddy. I feel like a fifth wheel, or is it a third? I don’t enjoy being gooseberry.”
“I have not asked you here to play chess,” Frederick said. “The game has already been played. We are here to determine the role of each player.” He gave them a sheepish glance. “Please humor me. I think better aloud.”
Thomas winked at Rebecca. “And with an audience, apparently.”
Frederick remained serious. “You two are here because I trust you and value your insight.”
“You must be joking.” Thomas sat up straighter. “I had better pay attention, then.”
Frederick gestured to the pieces carved of light and dark wood. “Don’t read too much into the colors. I am aware that no one is perfectly pure nor completely evil. Most of us are somewhere in between. However, for illustration purposes...” Frederick picked up the darker of the two kings. “Ambrose Oliver. A man whom many despised for different reasons and is now dead.” He laid the piece flat on its back.
“Let us consider those reasons.” He picked up the pair of dark rooks resembling castles. “The publishing house of the two Edgecombe brothers. William Edgecombe was driven to near bankruptcy, not to mention ill health due to the strain of working with Ambrose Oliver: his endless requests for advances, his empty promises of a forthcoming manuscript, and publishing another man’s work as his own. That cost Edgecombe more money in legal fees and to pay off the young writer in question.”
“Abominable!” Thomas interjected. “How did you learn that?”
“I’ll explain in a moment.” Frederick continued, “William Edgecombe died, leaving his brother, Thaddeus, holding the bag, with debts and a justifiable hatred of Ambrose Oliver.”
He lifted a rook high. “He was the one man Mr. George would allow into Ambrose Oliver’s room, no questions asked. Thaddeus Edgecombe had the opportunity and the hatred. However, even though he detested Oliver, he needed him too. He was the firm’s best chance of recovering financially. Because of that, I don’t believe he did it. Either of you have reason to think he did?”
“I have no idea.” Thomas raised his palms. “I never even met the man.”
Miss Lane said, “I briefly met both brothers, and while not well acquainted, I believe them reputable and respectable. I don’t think Mr. Edgecombe would stoop to murder.”
With a solemn nod, Frederick removed the dark rooks from the chess board.
Then he lifted one of the dark knights. “I briefly considered the moneylender, Isaac King. Yes, Mr. Oliver owed him money. Yes, he came to the abbey to warn him that debt had not been forgotten. Yet, like Mr. Edgecombe, I believed him when he said he wanted Oliver alive for financial reasons. Moreover, it struck me as too easy that he should be guilty—like the emblematic villain in a melodrama. An obvious, hackneyed solution.”
Frederick set the knight aside.
“I asked Mr. King how he knew Ambrose Oliver would be staying here. He said he received a letter notifying him of that fact, as though someone wanted him here to take the blame. I wonder who it was.”
