“That is my suspicion.”
“Have you any theories as to why he may have killed Mrs. Cooper?”
“No, but the fact that he used an assumed name leads me to suppose he had an ulterior motive from the beginning. By all accounts, Mrs. Cooper thought well of Mr. King. If they had a disagreement that final night, the servants, most of whom had retired below stairs, did not hear them.”
“Will you go to Salisbury and attempt to find your suspect?”
“No, our office has taken this investigation as far as is practical. Mrs. Cooper was not an especially well-liked person, and her heirs are not inclined to provide the funds for our further investigation of the crime. Unless someone comes forward with new information, we shall direct our energies elsewhere.”
“That seems a bit harsh. Popular or not, she is dead, and a killer is walking around free.”
“Yes, but our time must be devoted to more pressing crimes. For instance, yesterday, a sixteen-year-old shop girl was bludgeoned and killed in the course of a robbery. My focus now is upon findingthatperpetrator.”
“I understand, but whoever killed Mrs. Cooper may pose a threat to others.”
“Yes, that is true.” He leaned closer, giving me a wry smile. “And it is understandable that you may take a particular interest in finding this murderer, since the crime occurred so near to your home. Therefore, in the interest of furthering justice, I suggest that while you are in Wiltshire, you attempt to find the man who presented himself as Mr. King. Any assistance on your part would be most welcome.”
So, he had come to solicit my help. “What would you have me do?”
Mr. Notley took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to me. “I took the liberty of jotting down the relevant facts in the case for you.”
I glanced at the writing, which included descriptions of ‘Mr. King’ as well as the missing vase and necklace.
“All I ask is that you pay close attention to the local denizens, in particular members of the gentry, and make a few discreet inquiries. If you happen upon any men between the ages of forty and sixty with cleft chins who fit the description of the suspect and spent most of August in town, send me their names.”
“Am I to seek a man who wears a white wig?”
“Not necessarily. The suspect may have worn the peruke to disguise his usual appearance.”
“Very well, if I encounter any men who meet that profile, I shall inform you.”
“Thank you, I appreciate any information you may provide.” With a final quaff of the brandy, he stood and took his leave.
I stared at the notes Mr. Notley had provided, my chest muscles cramping.Blast it, I had agreed to spy on Hayward’s friends and neighbours. No doubt I should be wasting my time; I had scant probability of identifying Mrs. Cooper’s murderer.
Chapter 3: A Sojourn at Springvale Estate
Thursday, 12 September
Springvale, Wiltshire
Darcy
Ihad chosen to ride my stallion, Regal, ahead of the coach carrying my valet, Winston, and my luggage. We cantered past fields of wheat and several outbuildings before reaching the avenue. My friend’s stone and stucco residence sat nestled between a forest of elms and a meadow tinted with ragwort and mallow flowers. I dismounted and handed the groom my reins.
When I entered the vestibule, Patrick Hayward rushed towards me from the hall.
“Darcy, it is good to see you!” He shook my hand and clasped my shoulder.
“Thank you, Hayward. I am glad to be here.” Married life appeared to agree with my friend; he looked hale and happy. Hayward wore his dark-brown hair longer and carried a few more pounds on his lean frame than before. The angular contours of his countenance, though, had not altered. I glanced at the interior structure and elegant furnishings around us. “You have a fine home.”
“Thank you, it is not as grand as Pemberley, but it is ideal for us.”
We moved deeper into the house, and Mrs. Hayward, a pretty, plump lady with an aquiline nose, came towards us and gave me a warm welcome. She directed a maid to take me to my chamber. An hour later, refreshed and changed, I joined my hosts for tea in the drawing-room.
My friend described his latest shooting venture with a neighbour, Mr. Walter Rowe. Hayward’s eyes gleamed as he recounted having brought home seven brace of partridges, thanks in part to the superior performance of his new fowling piece, purchased last spring from Manton’s gun shop in London.
He paused to sip his tea. “Mr. Noah Barton of Knight’s Manor, the estate bordering mine to the east, has invited me to shoot with him and his father this Saturday. When I mentioned your expected arrival, he included you in the invitation. Shall I tell him that we accept?”
