Andrew finished chewing before answering his sister. “Because women ask questions, chucklehead. It’s most annoying. Greybourne is unaccustomed to being questioned by anyone, least of all by a female. He’s smarter than anyone he knows. One assumes he is told that frequently.”
“That, too,” Grey grumbled. “Besides, I don’t want you to have an excuse to flee in terror.”
Eleanor chuckled. “Your comfort is the more likely reason. I’ve asked questions before and you haven’t complained. This one is uncomfortable.” She narrowed those oblong eyes again. “Or was I permitted to ask before because I was dressed as a gentleman?”
“Excellent question.” Grey thought about it. “No, I’m pretty sure I objected to this particular question about killers and their money because I don’t wish to contemplate us being murdered in our beds for a bank payment.”
“The only one of today’s company who appears capable of murder is the Australian. Even little Silas scared off Mr. Percival,” she reminded him.
Grey frowned. “Percy is not physically imposing, but he is clever. That he did not disclose any connection to Bradford House until his aunt revealed him is suspicious. But how would he know of the missing money?”
His astute assistant gazed at him in incredulity. “Is that not obvious? You say his mother married into gentry within a year of her eldest brother’s transportation? Surely you must have some notion as to how difficult it is to move in that society without proper introductions and a dowry?”
Grey squirmed his broad shoulders in discomfort. “None at all. I don’t move in society. I only visit London for the art and history. You are saying. . .”
“You heard Mrs. Comfrey call the place cursed. She does not like this house any better than her brother. Isn’t it likely that the sisters, or at least one of them, knew how to find the money or any stolen goods? And the sisters were like their murdered brother and had no desire to waste funds on a house of horror in a dying village they never wished to see again? One assumes they found the money and used it as dowries. It is hard to say how much of their mothers’ tales Percy and Comfrey knew, but they may have heard enough to believe they might find more of their family’s hidden assets.” Eleanor set down her silverware. “Shall I return to work now?”
“No, devil take it! Next time we have guests, pretend you’re wearing trousers and ask questions!” Grey threw down his serviette.
Andrew stood to assist his sister in rising. “Well, at least we needn’t worry about anyone else digging for treasure if they have already ransacked the place and now know it’s gone.”
Gloomily, Grey poured another glass of wine. “You want to convince Blackbeard Bradford of that?”
Twenty-nine
Rafe
“So, I can either arrest young Percival for accidently killing his cousin Comfrey in an argument over silver stolen decades ago. . . Or arrest Dickie for attempting to get back what he considers rightfully his?” The early morning breakfast rush over, Rafe set a mug of coffee in front of the morose professor.
“Transport the entire family is my preference. Killing their own brother, stealing the family funds. . . Where did they find that animal trap? Who knew about the stolen goods in the cellar? And who stole them in the first place?” Grey sipped his coffee without making his usual grimace.
Rafe gave it more thought. “Are we to assume, then, that whoever rummaged through your room here and fiddled with your carriage wheel was after something entirely different than a nearly half-century-old nest egg?”
“I’d place my wager for that on Percy. He’s a sneaksby, tried to slip upstairs right in my own house! He knows I’m aware of his disgrace in the art world.”
Rafe nodded his agreement. “As much as I’d like to offer justice to a grieving wife and mother, I cannot arrest Percival because he’s a bounder. And if there is any chance that we might find evidence against him for murder, I don’t want to chase him out of town.”
“If I catch him where he shouldn’t be, I’ll run him through myself.” Greybourne stood and laid his coin upon the table.
While the baron was more sturdily built than a scholar should be, the pen really wasn’t mightier than a sword. Rafe wasn’t too worried about the threat.
“If I didn’t need her fine hand, I should set my assistant among the pigeons. She would ferret out the culprit with her infernal questions.” Grey strode out, not expecting agreement.
But Rafe had a strong respect for what the ladies could do once they put their minds to it. Perhaps he should consult his wife.
Finding their wards in the kitchen, happily eating biscuits, he continued on to Verity’s bookkeeping office. For a change, she was smiling over their ledgers. At his entrance, she offered an even wider smile. “Perhaps murder is good for our coffers. We are not in the black yet, but there is considerably less red since Professor Greybourne arrived.” She turned her head up for a kiss, which Rafe happily provided.
“He’ll be here until winter. Shall we ask him to arrange more murders? I think he might gladly remove Percival’s head.” Rafe propped his hip on the edge of the desk but didn’t bother studying the numbers she showed him.
“Not without cause, one assumes. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit if you are not interested in ledgers?”
“I need evidence and don’t know how to collect it. As we have already learned, pinning anyone down to time and whereabouts is useless when half the village doesn’t even own a timepiece. Or look at it if they have one.”
“Because they’re usually broken,” she said in amusement. “And everyone has fists, so there is seldom a weapon.”
“Which means I must rely on gossip or confessions or at the very least, a good motive.” Disgruntled, Rafe glared at the shelves of books his wife had accumulated. She loved books and had inherited many of these.
“You need a spider on the art gallery’s wall, where all your suspects come and go,” she suggested.
