Page 50 of Corpse in the Canal

“It’s possible. I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. But I don’t think she believes it. She thinks West loves her, despite his hitting her, as she appears to love him, despite her adultery—which apparently was born of nostalgia. Percy was her first lover. But she harbors few illusions about either of them.”

“I see.”

“Relationships are…odd.” Not least her own with Solomon, as Daphne West had perceived.

Chapter Eleven

Sir Felix Everett scowled down at the ledgers in front of him. The canal company was just about breaking even—again—but it was hardly building the fortune his grandfather and father had hoped. And now, inevitably, would come the competition of the railways—which, so far, Everett had managed to stave off. But there was no disguising the fact that the Everett-Channing loop off the Grand Union Canal was not well used. It was becoming a curiosity, a relic of an earlier era.

Like me.

He threw himself backward in his chair, hard enough to produce an audible creak. He rose, unable to contain the restlessness that had plagued him for months now. He had been a widower for fifteen years. Which was ample time to get used to the idea, to get over his sorrow and his regrets as to his childless state. He had even reached a sort of staid contentment in his routines and relationships with his neighbors and friends. He tended his estate, maintained his canal, was kind to his tenants and laborers, gave to the poor, and went to church on Sundays.

And then she had come. And he had begun to notice the imperfections of his neighbors. Especially Percy Harvey. Even dead, the little jackanapes wouldn’t lie down. Causing trouble for—

The front doorbell sounded loud and clear through the closed door of his study.

Grey.

Felix’s hackles rose with sheer distaste—not so much for the man, who seemed perfectly pleasant and well mannered—but for his trade. What the devil was an investigator except one who pried and spied and expected to be paid for it? Felix was not altogether in favor of the new police forces that had sprung into being all over the country, certainly not where gentlemen and other decent people were concerned, but at least policemen knew their place in the world, like Constable Wills. This Grey was no doubt charging poor Harvey a fortune while living in his house and poking into young Percy’s less-than-admirable life.

While Percy was alive, Felix would have been more than happy to knock him down, physically and metaphorically. Now that he was dead, it was incumbent upon Felix and the Harveys’ other friends to keep the truth to themselves.

Manson, his ancient butler, pushed open the door and tottered a couple of steps inside. “Mr. and Mrs. Grey, sir.”

Dear God, the wretched fellow had brought his wife! Not that the lady was not perfectly charming—and extremely pleasant to look at, too—but how was he supposed to explain about everything while she listened in? How could be as blunt and firm with the fellow as he needed to be in front of his wife? Drat the pair of them.

They were an astonishingly elegant couple, which he had not really taken in previously. For some reason, this made Felix feel at a further disadvantage, like some bluff, unsophisticated old duffer of a previous generation.

Flustered, he crossed the room to shake hands and offer refreshment, which they both declined. Felix dismissed Manson and invited his guests to sit on the sofa by the fire, while he sat on the armchair opposite.

While Felix struggled for a way to begin, Grey spoke. “I wonder if we might ask you first about a particular situation. In the Duke’s Arms last Saturday, the day before Percy left for London, I believe you played cards with him and George West.”

“What of it?” Felix asked, thrown all over again.

“You won some money from Percy?”

“We were playing for halfpennies,” Felix said wryly. “I won about a shilling from the pair of them. Again, what of it?”

“Did Percy pay up?”

“Not at the time,” Felix said uncomfortably. “He was…distracted.”

“By accusing you of cheating?”

So Grey had found out about that too. He had very dark-brown eyes, of the kind that should be velvet soft and melting. Yet there was nothing yielding about that hard, steady gaze, which seemed suddenly like twin spears into Felix’s brain and heart. There was no point in trying to hide his anger with Percy that night, or even his sudden shame at obfuscating. It was foolish and pointless.

Felix scowled, which somehow made it easier to withstand that all-seeing, unblinking gaze. “Percy was drunk. No one took him seriously.”

“And yet,” Mrs. Grey said unexpectedly, “gentlemen do not call each other cheats. Not so long ago, you would have called him out and fought a duel over it unless he apologized. Did he?”

Suddenly, Felix saw the real danger here. Not that poor Harvey would discover the kind of unpleasant wastrel his son had been, but that this beautiful couple suspected him of fighting a duel with Percy.

With blinding clarity he saw again his own memories and understood their thought processes. Felix was an old-fashioned gentleman, insulted by an unruly puppy who needed schooling. A challenge, an appointment that had brought Percy back to Channing to face him, a duel by the canal near Larchford itself, a shot that propelled Percy straight into the water. Duels were no longer overlooked by the law. Murder was murder.

Felix could almost see the same scenario unfolding in Grey’s fathomless eyes. In panic, he could no longer recall which story was truth.

Fortunately, the long line of his ancestors seemed to arrive in support, reminding him of his dignity.