“That’s right,” Nate said.
“Astonishing! Just like Jacob worked for Laban in the Bible. Only he worked for seven years, not three.”
“Collins might have labored for longer except that Lockwood died unexpectedly after three years, and he was able to reconnect with Mrs. Groby. So, I suppose he got what he wanted in the end—until George Otis took it all away from him—at least that’s my hypothesis. We still have no proof that it happened. But now that you’ve told me George went to school in Harrogate—assuming that’s correct and the school he attended was St. Joseph’s—I have to wonder why Collins didn’t tell me that he knew George.”
“I agree. If George was one of Collins’s pupils at St. Joseph’s, he would have known about the scandal,” Bridget said, putting it all together in her mind. She paused. “Do you suppose he was the one who reported Collins to the headmaster?”
“The vicar said the boy’s name was Phillips. I think it’s more likely he came to some arrangement with Collins—possibly for money—where he agreed to help facilitate meetings between Collins and Mrs. Groby under the guise of giving her reading lessons. But then the unthinkable happened. Otis and Alice Groby fell in love, and she lost interest in Collins.”
“It’s a strong motive for murder,” Bridget said.
“Exactly my thinking,” Nate agreed. “Collins slaved for three years for Alice’s father in the hope of winning her hand, not knowing she was already married. But since that was a forced marriage, and they shared a child, he still had hope. They resumed their relationship. And then George stole Alice from under him. That would be intolerable to bear.”
“Yes, it fits perfectly. George took Alice’s heart away from Collins, so Collins, quite literally, took George’s heart,” Bridget said. “Unfortunately, it is all based on a lot of guesswork. We have no proof that any of this is true.”
“Not yet,” Nate said. “But I have a feeling we are on the right path. All we need to do is a little more digging.”
Chapter Fourteen
The next morningat breakfast, Nate became increasingly irritated by Helen and Rupert. Unable to consume his attention, she’d taken her “act” with Rupert a step further, and it was becoming embarrassing. The two of them shared glaringly obvious smiles and flirtatious glances. It did not bode well for a countess to behave in such a manner, especially when the countess was the mother of his son. Henry would one day replace his father as the Earl of Luxton, and his mother was doing all she could to tarnish that title.
Just when he thought he could take no more, Angert, who’d been glaring at everyone seated around him, suddenly slammed the butt of his knife into the table, rattling the dishes, cups, and utensils.
“My word!” Lady Armstrong said, as her tea sloshed down the sides of its cup. “What are you about?”
“I demand to know which one of you butchered my paintings. Was it you?” He suddenly turned to Rupert, swinging his butter knife in the poet’s direction.
Both Rupert and Helen burst out laughing.
“You find it funny to destroy my work? You demon!”
“Mr. Angert”—Nate squared his shoulders—“put that knife down at once.”
But Angert sprang from his seat and swung the knife in Charlie’s direction. “Youdid it, you worthless little—”
In a flash, Colonel Kendall shot out of his seat, grabbed Angert’s wrist and, with a sharp twist, forced the butter knife from his hand.Angert squealed as the knife fell onto the floor.
Nate felt his mouth physically drop open. The retired colonel took on a new level of admiration in his eyes.
“You barbarian!” Angert cried. “You’ve broken my wrist.” The artist held up his limp wrist.
“Don’t be absurd,” Colonel Kendall said. “It’s merely bruised. Good heavens, man, straighten up and stop whimpering like a little boy.”
Angert took a few steps backward and scanned the room. “You will not get away with this,” he shouted. “Mark my words, all of you! The culprit will pay.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Lady Matheson said. “You nasty little man!”
Everyone fell silent. Lady Matheson’s mood had darkened considerably since Otis’s murder.
“You!” Angert pointed a finger at Lady Matheson. “How dare you? I demand that you return my portrait.”
“Portrait? What portrait are you talking about?” Lady Matheson said.
“You know which one. The one you begged me to paint of the dead poet.”
“I know of no portrait. You’re deranged!”
Suddenly, a strange sound emanated from Miss Jennings, who’d been quietly observing the madness. Nate wasn’t sure if it was laughter or tears. She covered her mouth, and her body trembled.
