“He had to be doing something with them. What did you think? That he sat in his study making stacks and counting them?” Nicholas jerked his horse free of Chase’s hold. “I think that he never left his house without some of them in his purse or pocket. One here, ten there—one letter said he would show up at an orphanage at night and hand a little sack of them to the servant at the door. He never told them who he was, but they made it a point to find out. Now they are hoping the visits continue despite his death.”
“Have they?”
Nicholas rode on a ways before answering. “Once. I doubt I can continue. The pile in Whiteford House won’t last long. But better that orphanage get it than Walter, the greedy scoundrel.”
Which was exactly what Uncle Frederick had concluded, Chase thought.
* * *
Chase wrote out his case, the one he would make to Minerva. It was his best chance, he decided, to line up the reasons she might agree to his ideas about their future alliance.
He examined his final paper, the one without all the cross-outs and comments to himself about being an ass to include this or that. The list of benefits to her appeared sadly small. That his own list also appeared small hardly helped his mood.
He had never before seen in ink on paper how little a permanent alliance between a man and a woman had credence, once you removed practical things like financial support, heirs, and social demands. There was damned little left to encourage a woman like Minerva to give up one whit of independence and freedom.
Fortunately, he had no intentions of asking her to do that.
He checked his pocket watch, and realized he had to leave or he would arrive late to her house. His horse would already be waiting. He gathered his wits but left the lists.
As he crossed the apartment to his door, he saw Brigsby there, receiving a letter. Brigsby turned with the missive in his hand. He brought it over ceremoniously. “Hand-delivered. From the Home Office.”
Two thoughts rushed into Chase’s mind. The first was a curse that Peel had been so impatient. The second was a prayer that Kevin had heeded his advice and hopped a packet to France. He opened the letter. Peel required him to call this afternoon at two o’clock. Not a request this time.
“Brigsby, send word to Miss Hepplewhite that I will be delayed. Better yet, to be sure she receives the message immediately, carry it to her yourself.”
“May I ask, sir, if this has to do with one of your inquiries?”
“It does.”
“So you are not expecting me to be a messenger, which is not part of my responsibilities. You are instead asking me to serve as one of your—I believe they are called agents.” Brigsby considered that. “How novel. It might be interesting.”
“Call it what you want, just make sure she gets the message.”
At two o’clock, Chase tied his horse outside the building that housed the Home Office. Peel did not wait outside this time. The meeting would be more official than that.
Very official, it turned out. Peel waited in his office. Chase sat down and set a portfolio on the desk. “I have the preliminary report that you requested.”
“I requested it some time ago.”
“I had a few details that I needed to check for accuracy first.”
Peel set his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “How did he die? That is the detail that matters most.”
“He was killed.”
Peel sat back and closed his eyes. Chase imagined the man was picturing the problems and complications awaiting his office now.
“Who?” Peel asked after a deep sigh.
“I have not determined that yet. There are currently several possibilities.” He handed over his portfolio. “Each page is one of them, with the evidence for and against such a suspicion.”
Peel removed the sheets and began to look through them.
“You have not yet identified this woman who visited him that day?”
“No.”
“It could have been one of these two who have not yet been found.”
