“Of course, of course, but so much time has been lost. Do you really believe you can find the murderer after so long? Three months, Edgerton! Three months since my poor brother-in-law was slaughtered in his bed, and do you have any more idea of the perpetrator’s identity now than you did when you arrived?”
That was not a question Michael wished to address, for the answer could not possibly reflect well on him. However, he gamely said, “I have a few matters on which to make further enquiries, my lord. The illegitimate son, for instance. I did not pursue that path after Shapman’s confession. Then there are Mr Nicholson’s Pickering businesses, and his house there — I should very much like to have a look round inside. I also hope to talk at greater length to Shapman, and to Miss Nicholson, for I feel certain they can shed more light on matters.”
“Talk to Shapman and my niece? Well, I cannot see why. Shapman had nothing to do with it, seemingly, and my niece is an innocent girl, not to be dragged into this affair.”
“I only wish to talk to her, my lord. It may be that she has some information about her father — quite unwittingly, of course, not realising it might be significant — that would help shed light on events.”
“You have already talked to her, I recall.”
“Indeed, but that was before I knew of her friendship with Tom Shapman and she has been away from home since then. His confession put her in a curious position, and it would relieve my mind to determine that she knows nothing about the murder, and is completely innocent of any involvement.”
This was the right note to strike, for the earl nodded sagely. “Ah yes, determine her complete innocence. That would be acceptable, but the house… I cannot see the need to enter the house. The respectable widow who lives there is entitled not to be importuned and Nicholson was never there, you know. Everything was done through the attorneys.”
Michael made no attempt to explain that the respectable widow ran a not at all respectable brothel, so instead he said, “It is a question of leaving no stone unturned, of settling once and for all that the house is not connected in any way with the murder. Then, you see, we may restrict our investigations to more promising lines of enquiry.”
“Yes, yes. Very well then, but you must ensure that the widow is not unduly inconvenienced by it all. The minimum of disruption, mark you, Edgerton, the very minimum. You have turned Corland upside down, and one understands that and makes allowances, but a respectable widow… one would not wish to unsettle the poor lady. Hmm, so I suppose we shall have all your associates here again, shall we? That Scotsman who flirted so outrageously with Olivia, for instance.”
“My wife is with me, my lord, and Mr Willerton-Forbes is still here, I believe, looking into some legal and financial affairs on your behalf. Mr Alexander has remained behind at Pickering to continue the search for Miss Peach.”
“Miss Peach?”
“My wife’s companion, my lord. An inoffensive lady of middle years. She vanished about four weeks ago.”
“Ah, I remember now. A quiet creature, as I recall. Well, I hope you find her soon, Edgerton. I shall see you at dinner, no doubt.”
Thus dismissed, Michael made his way upstairs to the old school room, where his friend was hard at work.
“Hail, Pettigrew, and well met!”
“Michael! Where have you been? Mrs Edgerton looked in an hour ago, at least.”
“I have been with the earl, who offered me not a drop to drink and made me stand for the entire time,” Michael said, pulling a wry face. “But he did not throw me out, and he has agreed to let us go into the Pickering house.”
“At last!” Pettigrew said, pouring glasses of Madeira for them both. “Although I am not sure what good it will do. Even if it is a bawdy-house, I cannot see how that might be connected to the murder.”
“Oh, it is definitely a bawdy-house, although with only four light-skirts it must be rather exclusive. One of them was collected in Mr Eustace Atherton’s carriage, replete with four horses, two coachmen and two footmen on the back.”
“No!” Pettigrew’s face lit up with amusement. “How diverting! But we know he is that way inclined, since he had a woman with him on the night of the murder. But is it certain?”
“Quite certain. I did not see it myself, but I have it on very good authority. Also, there is more money about the place thanthere used to be, so I suspect the charming Mr Nicholson was taking all the profits.”
“Oh, very likely,” Pettigrew said. “That would be the purpose of the chandlery and the ironmongery Nicholson owned, to take in the immoral earnings and turn them respectable.”
“Of course. How ingenious. But what of your own investigations?” Michael said. “Are the earl’s affairs coming into sharper focus?”
Pettigrew sighed. “Yes and no. Yes, in that I now have a much clearer idea of how deep Mr Nicholson dipped into the late earl’s pockets, thanks to Lord Farramont. He suggested that the tenant farmers would know to the penny how much rent they paid, and he was quite correct in his advice. Nicholson recorded lower amounts and pocketed the difference. But no, in that it is such a large amount of money that it should have turned up by now.”
“How much?”
“Altogether? Taking into account his spurious charitable activities, and his wife’s jewellery, replaced with paste and the gems sold, it would be above forty thousand pounds, and perhaps as much as fifty. Yet his bank account held only ten thousand with another thousand in the safe here. That leaves perhaps forty thousand pounds unaccounted for, and where can such a sum be hidden?”
Michael laughed and said smugly, “I might have an idea about that.”
By the time he had told Pettigrew the whole story of the safe with the gold bars, and how Tess Nicholson had masqueraded as a housemaid to discover them, the Madeira decanter was seriously depleted.
“What on earth am I to do about these gold bars, my friend?” Michael said. “Hand them over to Miss Nicholson and pretend I never saw them? Give them to Lord Tarvin to deal with? Or tell the earl about them, whereupon they are whisked intoNicholson’s estate, giving the trustees full control over them, and Miss Nicholson must marry to have any access to her own money?”
“It is worse than that, Michael,” Pettigrew said sadly. “The sainted chaplain stole that money systematically over many years. By rights, it belongs to those from whom it was stolen — the earl, principally, Lady Alice, for the jewels, and the generous benefactors to Nicholson’s non-existent charities. If that were to be done, then there might very well be nothing left for Miss Nicholson at all.”
