Samantha waited until she and Adrian were alone before she told him, “Eleanor’s sister gave the impression that Eleanor would have married Mr. Lawrence for convenience only.”
“And?” He gave her a questioning look.
“As we’ve discussed before, this might have left her open to somebody else’s attentions – someone who might have insisted she end her engagement, an individual incensed by her choice to stand by a man she did not love. A cripple, no less. Of course, if she did love Mr. Lawrence, then that theory falls apart.” She dropped into the nearest chair and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you learned anything useful?”
He ran his tongue over his teeth and slowly nodded. “According to Oliver Wren, the hall boy, Rodney Jones – the footman who was murdered – was in this room the night Eleanor was killed. With Lady Orendel.”
“Oh…”
“Apparently they’ve been carrying on with each other for quite some time.” He jutted his chin toward the tall glass windows overlooking the side of the house. “He’d have had an excellent view from here as the murderer made his escape.”
“So would Lady Orendel.”
“I reckon she might have been facing away from the windows.” A pensive look entered Adrian’s eyes. “Her grief is too sincere for her not to name the man who killed her daughter and lover, even if it means risking her husband’s wrath.”
“And yet, Rodney Jones cared only for himself and the fortune he hoped to acquire through blackmail, or he would surely have told Lady Orendel who he saw.” Fresh anger bloomed in Samantha’s heart.
“If there’s one thing that tends to hold true,” Adrian muttered, “it’s that most people are selfish.”
Samantha allowed this thought to sink in before saying, “According to Eleanor’s sister, Violet, Eleanor was an exception.”
“And yet, her eyes were carved out. That doesn’t happen without a reason.”
He was right. It was the same conclusion she’d drawn. “How many interviews do you have left?”
“Just the children.” Holding her gaze, he added, “After that, I suggest we visit Mr. Benjamin Lawrence.”
Luncheon was a lively affair. The man who sat at the head of the table smiled in response to the lively chatter that filled the dining room. It was good to be surrounded by family. They helped him forget the anger still ripping its way through his chest.
It was hard to dismiss when he thought of Eleanor. Of what she had made him do. Not just to her, but to that idiot servant of hers as well. At least killing him had been quick and easy. One precise shot as he’d ridden past, just to be sure the fool wouldn’t reveal whom he’d seen leaving Orendel House.
A stroke of luck, actually, that the greedy idiot had decided to try and get rich instead of doing the honorable thing. Stupid, but certainly a decision that worked in his own favor.
He nodded in response to his sister’s comment,agreeing with her that the news of Mr. Croft getting involved in the investigation was welcome. Rumor did after all suggest it was he who’d seen to Clive Newton’s end a couple of months before.
But this didn’t worry him in the least. Unlike Newton, who’d clearly made mistakes, he had plotted and planned to be surehewould never get caught. No matter how hard Bow Street or Mr. Croft might try.
16
Bill Murdoch descended the steps leading down to The Bearded Vulture’s dimly lit cellar. He’d received the missive summoning him to this place upon his return from Croft House and had come as quickly as he could.
His shoes scraped the uneven stone, one hand pressing into the plastered wall for support. The temperature grew increasingly chill and a musty smell swept up to greet him. A steady dripping sound came from somewhere nearby.
He reached the end of the stairs and continued onward, past the guttering torches and toward a heavy oak door. His fingers curled around the iron handle and a solid push shoved it open, admitting him to the rickhouse where casks full of aging brandy lined every wall, top to bottom.
“You’re late,” Simmons informed him in a smoothvoice. Impeccably dressed and of slim build, the morgue employee looked more like a secretary than the sort of person Croft’s father had called on to clean up various messes.
“My apologies,” Bill said, directing the words not only at Simmons, but at the rest of the men he’d come to meet. There were eight in total besides himself, all tied to crime in some way or other and all supportive of the Crofts. “The hackney driver took a wrong turn.”
Fitzherbert gave a disgruntled snort, forcing a chill to the nape of Bill’s neck. He swallowed and did his best to hide the unease he experienced at becoming the focus of someone who specialized in torture.
A deep inhale helped steady his nerves. He took a step forward and approached the worm-eaten table around which those present were gathered, located the last remaining chair, and sat.
He met Aderlay’s gaze. The forger, whom Bill considered a longtime friend, dipped his head in greeting but refrained from adding a smile, his expression appropriately somber in light of the subject they would be discussing.
Bill considered the rest of the men: Chapman, with his passion for explosives; Burton, a thief who specialized in art and often collaborated with Aderlay; Ellis, a chameleon fluent in numerous languages; Lee, a charmer who ran a tavern beneath which counterfeit bank notes were printed; and Taylor, who sponsored most of the bawds in the City.
“As you’ve all been made aware,” Simmons said, “Wycliff is dead – shot at short range in his St. Giles home.”
