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Chapter

Twenty-Five

A MATTER OF LEDGERS AND TEA LEAVES

A fter luncheon, Steele and I withdrew to the morning room to discuss our latest findings. I gestured for him to sit on the settee opposite mine. He declined, choosing instead to hover near the hearth—an embodiment of barely contained restlessness and unspoken thoughts. By now, I’d learned to let him pace. He would settle once his mind had burned off enough energy.

“Lady Farnsworth’s tea was a success?” he asked finally.

“I’d classify it as such,” I said, smoothing my skirts. “Though some of the truths were swaddled in silk and sugar.”

He raised a brow, silent but listening.

I explained how Claire had skillfully guided the conversation toward investments. “Lady Danforth spoke rather freely—after the second round of Darjeeling. She warned her in no uncertain terms to avoid silver mines. Her husband invested thousands and received nothing but regret in return.”

Steele frowned. “That tracks with what I learned at White’s. Danforth, and Finch as well, revealed that much.”

“Do you think Walsh spearheaded the entire scheme?”

“Card cheating, he could manage by himself. But this silver mine scheme was a more complicated affair. A plan had to be devised—where the mine was located, how much money would need to be invested, and arrange for an office to collect correspondence and receive visitors. Walsh did not strike me as a man who could manage something of that magnitude.”

“Perhaps he was just the front man,” I suggested. “Someone else may have been pulling the strings. One name was mentioned at the tea—an American widow. Mrs. Greystone. She was seen leaving Walsh House at a very late hour. Have you heard of her?”

He nodded slowly. “Quite wealthy. Though the origins of that wealth are entirely speculative. No one seems to know who Mr. Greystone was.”

“And yet she maintains an extravagant lifestyle and lives in an opulent Mayfair townhouse.”

His expression didn’t shift so much as tighten, like a violin string drawn taut.

“I’ve just finished combing through Walsh’s ledgers,” he said. “The ones you had delivered to me.”

“And?” I prompted.

“There are regular payments from several men. Some greater than others—Danforth, Finch, and Elston among them.” He ticked them off on long fingers. “Substantial sums. Repeated over several months. If anyone had reason to silence Walsh, it’s those three.”

“So they invested in a silver mine that doesn’t exist?”

“It appears so.”

“But why such large sums?”

“Greed. I suspect Walsh promised an absurd return. All fabrication.”

“And the money?”

“Drafts were made out to the Trust. Walsh deposited them into a bank account under the trust’s name.”

“The one I discovered?”

“No. Another one. It appears legitimate.”

“Is that reflected in the ledgers?”

He nodded. “To the tune of over fifty thousand pounds.”

“Good heavens.”

“Indeed.”

“But there’s another bank account somewhere that matches the note I found?” I asked.

“It appears so.”

“Which bank? And what was its purpose?”

“I have my business manager working on it. Should find out soon. One thing of note, however. Mrs. Greystone’s name is notably absent from the accounting books. Not a single mention. No payments. No receipts. Not even a hint.”

I frowned. “And yet her name came up at the afternoon tea. Is she involved?”

“Maybe she was too clever to leave a trace. Which leads me to wonder?—”

I picked it up. “Could she be the mastermind?”

He nodded once. “A well-connected widow with charm, influence, and discretion? Who would suspect her of double-dealing?”

“But why would Walsh go along with it?”

“Money. His estate was a leaking ship. He needed funds—desperately.”

“Charles inherited the leaking ship.” A chill crept up my spine. “I wonder if Walsh funneled his ill-gotten gains into an account his son could quietly inherit.”

“Perhaps. But Charles inherited a sizable fortune from his mother, so he wouldn’t be desperate for money. If managed wisely, he could live comfortably without a penny from his father—though I’m sure he wouldn’t have turned it down.” He shrugged. “In any case, we’ll have to find out.”

“And Bellamy?” I asked. “Any chance he had the means? He certainly had a motive.”

“Bellamy’s a dead end,” Steele said. “He’s penniless. No way to pay a killer. And he seems genuinely devoted to his mother. The last thing he’d do is risk prison and leave her destitute.”

“He must have expenses, though. How does he plan to pay for them?”

“I spoke to his uncle, Osborne. He’s taking the boy in hand—hopes to redeem the family name. There’s also talk of an understanding with a young lady of means. Substantial dowry.”

“So he can squander that as well?”

“I believe he’s learned his lesson.”

“One can only hope.” Although I doubted it.

The mantel clock ticked. Once. Twice. He glanced at his pocket watch. Did it keep better time than our timepiece?

“I must go,” he said. “A meeting of the Legislation Committee.”

“How’s our petition faring?”

“The vote is today,” he replied, tucking the watch away. “Don’t get your hopes up, Lady Rosalynd. I doubt it will make it out of committee.”

“Thank you for supporting it.”

“You can try again next year.”

“We will. If it fails.”

He offered a sympathetic smile but offered no further words.

“Regarding the investigation,” I said, “we need more than suspicion. We need motive. Proof. And a way to draw Mrs. Greystone out.”

He met my eyes—dark, knowing. “Then you’d best invite her to tea.”