Page 87 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Russell shook his head forcefully, his eyes darting from Sloane to Annabeth and back. When neither of them said a word, denial receded from Feringham’s eyes and reality set in. Russell twisted to the side, his hands coming up to cover his face. It took Sloane a minute to realize that Russell wasn’t just shaking from the shock of their accusations. Noiseless sobs racked his body, as if they were torn from deep within his very soul.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Somebody killed him.” His voice was halting and clogged with tears.

Sloane glanced over at Annabeth, who looked as surprised and bewildered as he felt. This was the master spy? The heartless criminal who had murdered his best friend and shot at his goddaughter? Sloane had a sinking feeling that they might have found the man who had been involved in the accident, but he was not the man they sought.

Russell pulled out his handkerchief, wiping the tears from his face. “I beg your pardon.” He pulled together the shattered remnants of his cultured manner, as if it provided him strength. “So sorry to, um.” He waved his hand vaguely, as if encompassing his bout of grief. “It was a—a shock, you see.”

“Uncle Russell...” Annabeth leaned over and put a comforting hand on his.

Russell clutched her hand tightly, saying, “I would never have harmed Hunter in any way. He was...such a bright and wonderful man. I—it was a dreadful secret that we shared, and I shall always, always, regret what happened. But I could not have hurt him.”

“You said he told you he intended to confess,” Sloane prompted.

Russell nodded. “One evening, not long before he died, when we’d been drinking, Hunter told me that he was so weighed down by his guilt that he felt he must confess. He assured me that he would not mention my name. I believed him, of course, and yet... I could not quite feel easy. And when he fell...no matter how much I grieved for him, I could not squash a sense of relief as well. I hated myself for even thinking about the weight it lifted from my shoulders, knowing that I no longer had to worry that he might reveal my wrongdoing. I shall never, ever forgive myself for feeling anything but sorrow at his passing. I should have been thinking of you and your mother, of all you had lost. I promised myself I would do my best to look after you as Hunter would have wanted. I could never make up for what I felt at those lowest moments, but I hoped I could give you back a little bit of the father you deserved.” He tightened his grip on Annabeth’s hand, saying earnestly, “Please, my dearest girl, don’t hate me.”

Annabeth squeezed his hand. “I don’t hate you any more than I could hate Papa, despite what happened. And I am so, so happy to hear that you knew nothing about his murder.”

“No, of course not.” Russell released her hand and sat back, turning his gaze away from them, as if seeing something in the past. “I’ve missed him so these past few years. So often, I’ve thought, ‘Oh, I must tell Hunter this,’ but of course I could not. If I’d only known how short a time I had, I would have visited him more often, talked to him instead of wasting my time on inconsequential nonsense. Regret is a terrible thing. You can never get back the things you didn’t do.” He sighed, and after a long moment, he turned back to Sloane. “I don’t understand. How could it have been murder? Surely Hunter just fell down those steps.”

“The railing had been purposely weakened, sawn nearly all the way through,” Sloane answered. “It was clearly done so that when he leaned against it, he would fall to the floor below.”

“But who—why would anyone want to kill Hunter?”

“We thought it had something to do with that confession, but now we’re not so sure.” Sloane tried to keep his answer as vague as possible. The less information other people had about what other heinous acts Hunter had done, the better.

“It seems unlikely that he would have even told anyone else about that letter.” Russell frowned. “The only person that comes to mind is Martha, but I suspect he didn’t even tell her. He so hated to disappoint her, and she would’ve been so upset. However, I can’t imagine what other reason anyone would have for wanting to hurt him,” Russell said in a bewildered tone. “Everyone liked—” Suddenly his eyes flashed, and he jumped up. “It was him! Edgerton. He was the only person who hated Hunter. He couldn’t stand it that Martha preferred Hunter to him.”

Sloane looked at Annabeth out of the corner of his eye. Had she been right about her stepfather all along? Perhaps he had subconsciously dismissed the idea because he thought it was only her dislike coloring her thoughts. Certainly there was nothing Sloane would be more likely to kill for than his love of Annabeth. When he’d thought Parker had kidnapped her, he’d nearly murdered the man right then and there.

“Edgerton must have thought that if he got rid of Hunter, Martha would marry him. And he was right. He got what he wanted.” Russell whirled to face Sloane. “You must get him. Put him in jail.”

Annabeth stood and went to Russell, saying soothingly, “I have wondered the same thing. But we have no proof, only conjecture. They would never arrest him without evidence.”

“You’ll find it.” Russell jabbed his forefinger at Sloane. “I know you can. Hunter said you were a clever bastard.”

“He did?”

“Yes. Said you could dig out anything and had no scruples about how you did it.”

“Uncle Russell, that’s not true,” Annabeth protested.

“No. He was right,” Sloane said, rising. “I won’t stop digging until I find who’s doing this to Annabeth. And I can assure you that they will pay. But there are other factors involved here besides jealousy. Did Mr. Winfield ever mention anything else he was involved in?”

“Involved in?” Russell looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean. A business venture? He didn’t mention anything to me.”

“You said Hunter was weighed down by guilt those last few weeks. Was there anything else bothering him? Was he anxious? Frightened? Did he mention anyone’s name?”

“Well, of course he was afraid of the scandal his confession would cause. But I don’t remember him saying anything about anyone else. I mean, beyond some idle gossip about people we knew. That sort of thing.”

“Did he express any resentment or anger about any of those people?”

“Um, well, he didn’t like you very much, I’m afraid,” Russell said with some embarrassment.

Sloane let out a little huff of a laugh. “No, I don’t imagine he did.” He paused. “Do you remember if Mr. Winfield had any visitors those last few weeks?”

Russell frowned. “I don’t remember seeing anyone there. But that was a long time ago. I could have forgotten. And it’s not as though I was with Hunter all the time. I don’t recall him saying anything about anyone visiting.” He looked over at Annabeth. “What is this all about? Who do you suspect besides Edgerton?”

“That’s the problem,” Sloane said grimly. “We’re chasing phantoms.”