‘You mean why it was done?’
Jacob nodded. The details of how it happened would be available in the account of the inquest and Dora was following that up. He wanted to know what people were saying was the motive, because it was this aspect that worried Henry Austen. If Knighton, a man with his ear to the ground, was linking the banker to the crime then it might be too late to keep their name out of it.
‘On the surface of it, it looks like a disgruntled man who quarrelled with his employer,’ said Knighton. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’ He glanced at Jacob for confirmation.
‘On the surface, yes.’
‘But to kill two people– the wife as well, a lady with whom the manservant had far fewer dealings– that is strange.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Was it a fit of madness? I believe the coroner concluded something to that effect.’
‘That is what he ruled.’
‘Then why not go after the onlookers– there were several, according to the newspapers, other members of the household. And the son survives.’
‘True.’
‘Instead, your red-handed murderer quietly goes upstairs and shoots himself. Peculiar.’
‘I agree. It was a showy murder. Why not take yourself out in front of the aghast audience?’
Knighton pointed his triangle of toast at Jacob in agreement. ‘Yes! I’ve heard people wondering if it was a crime of passion– he loved thecomtessebut knew his affection was hopeless. Killed the man who had her, killed her so no one else would enjoy her charms, then killed himself when all hope was over.’
That was exactly what Henry was hoping people would believe. ‘That is a possibility.’
Knighton snorted. ‘Hardly! Thecomtessewas old– fifty-five at least! She was a charmer in her youth. Word is that she was thecomte’s mistress before being his wife and neither was very loyal to each other in the bedroom. But fifty-five! I think she was well past her season of inspiring such jealousy. No, I don’t believe that for one second.’
Henry Austen’s hopes of deterring society’s interest from his bank’s involvement vanished like a popped soap bubble.
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Jacob.
A knowing glint entered Knighton’s eyes. ‘If you are asking, then there is more to it than madness.’
Dammit. Henry Austen was reigniting a fire that had begun to go out. By asking these questions– and how could he do his job without raising the subject?– Jacob could not help but spark interest in the minds of men like Knighton– well-connected, gossiping gentlemen. He’d gone too far to back away now.
‘I honestly don’t know. I’ve been asked to find out what happened and that’s what I’m doing.’
‘What do you think you know?’ asked Knighton astutely.
Jacob shook his head and laughed softly. ‘I thought I was the one asking the questions. I don’t know much about him, otherthan what is generally known, that he was an émigré and his wife a former opera star.’
Knighton looked grave. ‘That was the flash and glitter that was meant to distract the eye. Did you know that they had two houses? Two! One in town and another at Barnes. You don’t get to have two houses without money coming from somewhere.’
‘And you know where the money came from?’
Knighton nodded, leaning closer. ‘I have a friend in the Foreign Office. For all his aristocratic airs and graces, D’Antraigues only survived with a roof over his head because he had a generous government pension. We Brits were keeping him in luxury. Can’t say I’m in favour of that kind of thing, giving money to a Froggy foreigner.’
‘And what did he do to earn that favour?’
‘What indeed?’ He sat back. ‘I’ll leave you to work that one out.’
Jacob had been entertaining the theory that thecomtemight have been feeding information to the French, acting out that he disliked Napoleon to disguise the fact that he was spying for the old country. He and Dora had met a Frenchman like that very recently in the Elgin investigation, and Monsieur Percy would not be the only one in the émigré community. Yet if the money was coming from British government coffers, it suggested thecomtehad been trusted by the administration or provided a service they thought valuable.
‘Do you know how much he was worth to them?’
Knighton smiled, delighted to be asked. ‘One thousand a year. My friend in the FO was outraged when he compared it to his salary.’
