“When we get to Dublin,I’ll hire a carriage. We can travel to Cathleen’s home in themorning.”
“Allow me to arrange it. Iremember my father and I put up at the Gresham Hotel in SackvilleStreet. We’ll stay there tonight.”
Erina’s empty stomach rumbled. She’dnot been able to think of food, or drink anything except watersince breakfast. “You are very good, Harry.” She’d begun to rely onhim more and more. She should mind, but she didn’t. Anyway, itwould seem ungrateful. But as they grew closer to theirdestination, her concern for what they might find increased.Cathleen had not answered her last letter. But with the mails soslow surely that wasn’t surprising.
Chapter Twelve
The next afternoon, Bascombe receivedJack in his warm, smoky library where a coal fire crackled andglowed orange in the hearth. No longer young, the gray-hairedcolonel still looked solid and strong, as if doubt had nevertouched his heart. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon afteryour father’s funeral.” He sat back with a cheroot dangling fromlong fingers. “Didn’t expect you to be in London. The dukeconsidered it likely you’d take off somewhere or rejoin the armyafter he was gone.”
“Father knew me well.” Jackgave a half smile. “I did intend to head off on a ramble, butsomething occurred to tie me to London.” He explained about LordButterstone while the colonel listened in silence, drawing on hischeroot. “So, it appears that Bonaparte is not done with us. Thereare some raising merry hell over his death.” Jack waited for thecolonel, a shrewd man of great experience, to digest theinformation.
“I’m aware of the rumorthat Bonaparte was poisoned,” Bascombe said. “It was inevitablethere’d be talk after the general said as much on his death bed. Acommonplace death would not have appealed to him. Would have likedto carve his own epitaph if it were possible.” He drew on hischeroot. “The finger has been pointed at his jailor, Sir HudsonLowe who perhaps didn’t handle the general’s incarceration well,but that doesn’t necessarily make him a ruthlessmurderer.
“Bonaparte was known forhis exceedingly careful habits. He drank and ate sparingly. Andhe’d gathered a loyal staff around him at Longwood House.” Hetapped his cheroot gently against the dish. “Those years of housearrest on St. Helena could have affected his health. The island wasa barren windy place, and he suffered a paucity of luxury. But hisfather died of a stomach tumor and although he might not haveadmitted it, I suspect Bonaparte came to believe he suffered fromthe same malady. He just couldn’t resist a final jab at hisenemies.” He grunted. “That’s not to say that he wasn’t helpedalong by arsenic.”
“What I want to know is whyButterstone was killed,” Jack mused. “He admitted to his wifebefore he died that he’d made a foolish mistake. And why was hisbrother-in-law, Lord Caindale—if he is to be believed, kidnappedand questioned at length concerning what he learned fromButterstone while he was in Paris?”
Bascombe blew a trail of aromaticsmoke at the ceiling. “My estimation of Caindale is that he’s a manwho tends to take the comfortable path in life. I can’t see himinvolving himself willingly in this. He’s not been given toheroics, so we must ask ourselves why he would chooseto.”
Jack nodded. He’d formed the sameopinion of Caindale. “A weak man, but is he a dishonest one? Weakmen can be manipulated just like those with more ambitiousaims.”
Bascombe’s eyes gleamed. “Quiteso.”
“Butterstone’s valet claimshis master’s luggage was searched before it leftLondon.”
“He is certain?”
“Apparently, there wasconsiderable disorder caused by a hasty search.”
“Worth lookinginto.”
“There’s something notright at Butterstone’s London mansion.” He told Bascombe about themaid’s death.
“Nasty business by thesound of it. Be careful how you go, Jack. I’ll read the autopsyreport and ask my colleagues at Whitehall a few pertinentquestions. If there’s any truth about an English involvement, I’llferret it out.” He stubbed out his cheroot. “You could leave it allwith me and take off on your travels if you wish. Your fatherwouldn’t thank me for encouraging you to become involved insomething like this. It’s not like fighting a war, Jack. This sortof business isn’t clear cut. You don’t know who your enemy is orwhen they will strike. Like dancing with shadows. And to what end?You can’t bring Butterstone back to life.”
Jack had no intention of dropping thematter but saw no reason to tell Bascombe. “I’m perfectly awarethat we are dealing with a cold-blooded killer.” He grinned. “Youshould watch your back too, colonel.”
Bascombe chuckled. “I believe I cantake care of myself.”
Jack stepped out from the warmth ofBascombe’s house, into the brisk fresh spring day and headed backto his rooms. He was so deep in thought, he didn’t notice thecarriage until it was alongside him.
The carriage door swungopen.
~~~
A hired carriage took Harry and Erinafrom the port. They crossed a bridge over the River Liffey. Dublinwas a charming town with green parks and streets of eleganttownhouses. In different circumstances she would love to explorefurther, but her thoughts remained on what awaited them tomorrow.In Sackville Street, they alighted outside Dublin’s Gresham Hotel,a large four-story stone building.
Harry explained to the hotel staff howhe and his cousin were on their way to visit family. Her ladyship’smaid had been suddenly called home, a death in the family. Hearranged two rooms for them, hired a carriage for the morning andordered their dinner in the dining room. Erina was exhausted, andhungry. They enjoyed a tasty meal of Irish stew sopped up with sodabread, then she ate a delicious Irish apple cake with custardsauce, while Harry drank a glass of claret. Afterward, they retiredto their respective rooms.
Erina bathed, changed into hernightgown, brushed her hair, and snuggled down gratefully in thecomfortable bed to consider what tomorrow would bring. She did notconsider it for long, falling asleep almost immediately after herhead hit the pillow.
After a breakfast of oatmeal andcream, a boiled egg, toast, and a good strong cup of Irish tea, sheand Harry set out in their hired hackney. The rain drummed down,the streets awash as they left Dublin and traveled west. Harry hadinquired at the hotel concerning the distance to Naas, CountyKildare. He was informed it could be easily reached within a matterof hours. “But that depends on the weather,” the hotel clerk hadsaid. “You might well become bogged down on the muddy roads andtake a day. And that’s supposing someone comes and digs youout.”
Harry chuckled. “That’s the Irish foryou,” he said to Erina. “You seldom get the answer you mightexpect.”
So far, although the ridewas bumpy, they rattled along at a good pace. Erin ran the tasselon her parasol through her fingers. “In one of her letters,Cathleen wrote that Naas was once calledNás na Ríogh. It meansMeeting Place of the Kings.”
“Must read up on itsometime.” Harry reached across and stilled her busy fingers, hissquare hand in the French kid glove resting for a minute over hers.In his dark wool greatcoat and Hessian boots, he looked quiteimposing. Even his cravat was perfection. How did he manage to beso well turned out without a valet? Slightly crumpled, she lookedless than her best in the muslin dress she had to struggle to getinto, and her pelisse now had a small stain on the front. Not tomention her thick red hair which was quite a challenge at the bestof times.
