Page 23

CHAPTER 22

U pon arriving at the train station in Brighton, Hadrian hired a hack to convey them to Erasmus Blount’s house near Queen’s Park. He escorted Miss Wren to the door.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered as they stood at the top of the steps. “What if Blount isn’t even home?”

“He will be.” He had to be, Hadrian thought.

He knocked, and a stout housekeeper answered the door. Handing her his card, Hadrian smiled. “Good afternoon, we’ve come from London to see Mr. Blount.” He hoped mentioning how far they’d traveled would help their cause.

The housekeeper eyed them skeptically. “I see. Are you acquainted with Mr. Blount? Do you know he is infirm?”

“We are not acquainted,” Miss Wren replied gently. “Forgive our intrusion, but Mr. Blount was a friend of my cousin’s. He died recently, and I’m hoping Mr. Blount can provide some information that would comfort our family during this time.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the housekeeper said as she opened the door wider. “Please come in, and I’ll inform Mr. Blount you’re here. I’m sure he’ll want to provide solace, if he can. I’ll be back directly.”

The housekeeper left the small entrance hall for the staircase hall. They waited anxiously for her return a few minutes later, at which time she led them up to the small drawing room overlooking the street below.

Mr. Blount, presumably, sat in a chair near the hearth, his feet propped on a footstool. Beside him stood a table piled with books and newspapers. He was fully dressed, but his clothing was a bit rumpled, as if he’d been sitting in the chair all morning. Glasses perched on his nose as he fixed his gaze upon Hadrian and Miss Wren.

“Lord Ravenhurst?” Blount asked in a graveled tone.

Hadrian inclined his head. “Yes, and this is my private investigator, Miss Wren.”

Blount’s eyes focused on her. “My housekeeper says your cousin died recently and that I can provide you with some information. Who was your cousin?”

Hadrian noticed he did not invite them to sit. However, he moved closer to the man’s chair, and Miss Wren accompanied him.

“Sir Henry Meacham,” Miss Wren replied.

Blount began to cough. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth as his face reddened with his exertion. When he’d recovered, he reached for a glass of water on the table beside his chair and took a sip.

“We are terribly sorry to disturb you,” Miss Wren said. “We would not have done so if it was not of critical importance.”

“I was aware Sir Henry died,” Blount said with another light cough.

“Yes, his daughter told me you’d sent a condolence card. Thank you.”

“I don’t think I can help you at all.” Blount did not meet their gazes. Instead, he looked into the fire. “I haven’t seen Sir Henry in a great many years. And we did not correspond.”

“We don’t wish to take up too much of your time, Mr. Blount,” Miss Wren said. “I’ll get straight to the reason we came. I have a photograph that belonged to Sir Henry, and we are unable to identify the fourth person in it. Since you are in the photograph, we hoped you could tell us who he is.” She removed the photograph from her reticule and showed it to Blount.

The man began to cough again and had to gasp for breath when he finished. “I can’t help you.”

Hadrian could see the man was struggling, but they were desperate for his help. “Mr. Blount, please. This is you with Sir Henry and Martin Crawford. Please, will you tell us the identity of the fourth man?”

Blount coughed once then took another drink of water. He reached for the photograph and brought it in front of his face. “He’s blurry.”

“So are you,” Hadrian said. “But Mrs. Patrick Crawford recalled that you are the second man from the left. Is that not you?” For a brief moment, Hadrian feared Mrs. Crawford had been mistaken.

“It is me.” Blount sounded defeated. He muttered something that sounded like, “Lord, forgive me,” then exhaled. He pointed to the man on the right. “That’s Henry and that’s Crawford.” His finger moved to the man next to Sir Henry. “This is me.” He pointed to the second man from the left. His hand shook as his finger gravitated to the left, to the blurriest of the figures. “And this is Ardleigh.”

“The Viscount Ardleigh?” Hadrian said in surprise.

Blount nodded then thrust the photograph back at Miss Wren. “I loathe that photograph.”

“It isn’t very good, is it?” Miss Wren said with a trace of levity. “Did you not have your own? This belonged to Sir Henry, and Mrs. Crawford has the one that belonged to her father-in-law.”

“I had one once, but I burned it. Ardleigh had one too. No one is blurry in his. He kept the best one because he paid for them to be taken.”

“That was in 1839,” Hadrian noted. “Where were you?”

“At Ardleigh’s estate in Essex. Ardleigh hosted hunting parties every fall. That was the last one we attended.” Blount coughed again then frowned. “You must leave.”

“We will in a moment, I promise,” Miss Wren said softly. “This is so very important, and I deeply appreciate your help.” She looked over at Hadrian, and he knew this was the only chance he’d get to ask what they most needed to know after learning Ardleigh’s identity.

Though Hadrian knew that Ardleigh had likely killed the woman he saw in his visions, he purposely posed a vague question. “Mr. Blount, what does a dead young woman have to do with this photograph?”

The older man’s coughing resumed, much worse than before. He turned scarlet and struggled to breathe. A middle-aged woman rushed into the room and frowned at them. She wore a starched white apron and a cap. Hadrian presumed she was a nurse.

She waved an herbed sachet before Blount. “There now. Easy. Try to breathe.”

Blount struggled but eventually caught his breath, and the coughing subsided. The nurse turned her head toward Hadrian and Miss Wren. “You need to leave Mr. Blount alone now.”

Shaking his head, Blount took the glass of water that the nurse offered him. He took a drink then gasped a long breath. “Leave us, Nurse. They will depart shortly.”

The nurse did not look pleased, but she bustled from the room.

Fixing Hadrian with a dark stare, Blount asked, “How do you know about the woman?” His gaze moved to Miss Wren. “Did Henry tell you before he died?” His tone held an accusatory note.

Miss Wren shot a surprised look at Hadrian. “He did not. I can’t tell you how we know, but we do.”

Blount sniffed then looked down for a moment. “I suppose it is well past time the truth is told. Why don’t you sit?” He waved at the settee nearby.

Hadrian and Miss Wren sat down together and exchanged anxious looks.

Removing his glasses, Blount set them atop one of the books on the table beside his chair. He massaged the bridge of his nose. At last, he said, “Ardleigh has always had an eye for young women. In our youth, he was, I suppose, very attractive, and the fairer sex typically sought his attention. Mostly, he would flirt, but later we learned that he took things much farther, most often with those in his employ.” Blount met Hadrian’s gaze, his features tired. “He gets rough with them sometimes. That’s what he told us when we stumbled upon him standing over the woman at the hunting party. She was not in his employ but the daughter of a neighbor. They’d met for a tryst near where her father’s property met Ardleigh’s. That happened the day before the photograph was taken.”

“He killed the young woman?” Hadrian already knew the answer of course.

“He said it was an accident, that she was enjoying his attentions. Ardleigh had his hands around her neck while they were—” Blount sent a sharp look toward Miss Wren. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be hearing this.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Blount,” she said. “My father was a sergeant for the Metropolitan Police, and I am a private investigator.”

“Do go on, Mr. Blount,” Hadrian said.

Blount sipped his water before continuing. “Ardleigh found pleasure in causing distress to his bed partners. In this instance, he went too far. He said he accidentally killed her.”

Miss Wren’s face lost a bit of color, but she said nothing. Hadrian felt an urge to reach over and take her hand. He did not. Later, he would provide comfort—if she wanted it.

“Ardleigh was most distraught. He was sobbing. We all believed him. Well, all of us but perhaps Sir Henry. Turns out Ardleigh had done this before. Four years earlier, he’d had another ‘accident’ with a maid at his house in London. Sir Henry had helped him clean that up too.”

“Is that what you all did with this young woman he killed at the hunting party?” Hadrian asked. “You ‘cleaned it up’?”

Blount’s chin quivered, and his hands were shaking again. “We helped him bury her. Her family was devastated that she’d disappeared. I hate that those poor people have no idea what happened to her.” Another coughing fit claimed him. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Hadrian couldn’t know if they were from coughing or deep regret.

When Blount was recovered, Miss Wren held up the photograph. “You all posed for this the next day as if nothing happened?”

“We didn’t want to. Crawford wanted to leave first thing, but Ardleigh had already arranged and paid for the photograph. He insisted we all stay, that we’d been friends too long.” Blount coughed a bit and drank more water. “The four of us were never together again after that. Crawford kept his distance from all of us. I think Sir Henry and Ardleigh remained friendly. I left London a few years later. I hated running into Ardleigh and the memories it stirred.” Blount wiped his hand over his nose as he looked down at his lap. “I hate myself still.”

Hadrian and Miss Wren exchanged a sorrowful look. What could they say to Blount that would ease his heartache? Was it even their place to do so?

“It’s good that you’re telling the story now,” Miss Wren said with a small, heartening smile. “We will do everything we can to bring Ardleigh to justice.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it has been for you to hold these secrets and to share them now,” Hadrian said. “I hope it will be easier to repeat what you’ve told us to an inspector from Scotland Yard.”

Blount shook his head. “I can’t possibly travel to London.”

“Of course not, nor will anyone expect you to,” Miss Wren assured him. “The inspector can come here and take your statement.”

“Will it even matter?” Blount asked, sounding defeated. “The crime happened so long ago, and it didn’t even take place in London.”

“While that is true, it seems that crime is connected to the deaths of Patrick Crawford and Sir Henry. A man was paid to kill them. He wore a gold ring with the letter M engraved on it that was given to him as payment.”

“That ring belonged to Ardleigh.” Blount coughed. “The M is for his surname, Mattingly. Before he became the viscount, everyone called him Matty. Though, I’m surprised he would give that ring away. His father gave it to him.”

“Perhaps he was willing to trade anything to keep his secrets buried,” Hadrian said.

“That I believe with every fiber of my being. Whenever I saw him before I left London, he would ask if I’d kept ‘our’ secret.” Blount sneered. “Ardleigh made a point of ensuring we all had a stake in what happened and in keeping it quiet. If he paid someone to kill Sir Henry, he must have thought Sir Henry had exposed him or was going to.”

Miss Wren let out an audible breath. Hadrian looked over at her to see she’d closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, he saw a bright vigor. She angled herself toward him on the settee. “Whitley said that Sir Henry believed he was going to come into a sum of money. What if he blackmailed Ardleigh? Hardacre said he’d considered blackmail before.”

“You are brilliant,” Hadrian said with a quick smile. “But why was Crawford killed?”

Blount spoke. “I can’t say why Martin’s son was killed, but of the three of us who were with Ardleigh that day, Martin would have been the one to reveal what happened. He was so horrified and even tried to walk away whilst we were digging the poor girl’s grave.”

“Why didn’t he?” Miss Wren asked.

“Ardleigh convinced him not to, said he was already part of what happened.” Blount frowned, deep creases forming around his mouth. “Martin wasn’t entirely persuaded at first, and that was when Ardleigh became frightening. He didn’t threaten violence specifically, but there was a cold malice in his behavior that left me with no doubt that, accident or not, Ardleigh would not balk at taking a life.”

“How awful,” Miss Wren murmured. “Is there any chance Ardleigh may have thought Martin Crawford shared the secret with his son? Perhaps Ardleigh was afraid Patrick Crawford would expose him.”

“It’s baffling. I suppose I should be glad he didn’t kill me too.” Blount succumbed to another coughing fit, and Hadrian decided they ought to go.

Hadrian nudged Miss Wren. She looked at him and nodded. They stood.

When Blount had regained himself, Hadrian said, “We can’t thank you enough for speaking with us.”

“Yes,” Miss Wren agreed. “We are sorry we had to trouble you, but I’m sure you understand how important this is.”

Blount looked up at them, his eyes watery. “I should tell you one more thing. The young lady wore a brooch on her gown, a cameo carved from coral. It fell to the ground when Ardleigh and Crawford carried her to where we dug the hole for her body. Henry picked it up and pocketed it. Ardleigh and Crawford didn’t notice, but I saw. I don’t think Henry knew that I did. I have never said a word about it—until now.”

Miss Wren stared at Blount, aghast. “Sir Henry had a piece of evidence?”

“He did then. Perhaps he used it to blackmail Ardleigh.” Blount took a sip of water. “I hope you can stop him. It’s time. I don’t want to think about how many other women he’s hurt—or worse.”

Hadrian didn’t want to think of that either. He’d been eager to solve this case as quickly as possible for John Prince’s sake. However, now a speedy resolution was vital. They needed to stop Ardleigh before more people were hurt or killed. “With your help, we are several steps closer to putting an end to Ardleigh’s reign of terror.”

“I hope so.” Blount leaned his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” Another tear slipped down his cheek, and this time there could be no question that it came from sadness and regret.

T ilda was brimming with thoughts and reactions to their meeting with Blount, but she and Ravenhurst had agreed to wait until they were situated in their compartment on the train. They’d had a quick repast of tea and cakes at the station but had kept their conversation to a minimum. Now that they were alone in the carriage, Tilda spoke.

“I think it’s clear Sir Henry was blackmailing Ardleigh. Hardacre said he’d considered it in the past. Whitley said he was anticipating a sum of money. And Blount said he had evidence with which to execute the blackmail.”

Ravenhurst listened intently, nodding at each thing she said. “I saw that brooch in my vision.”

Tilda blinked at him. “You did?”

“Yes. I just didn’t identify it as an object of importance.”

“It’s crucial. And I believe I know where it is.” Tilda recalled the pretty coral cameo she’d found in Sir Henry’s study last week. “It’s in Millicent’s possession.”

“You’re going to need to ask her for it,” Ravenhurst said.

“I know. Yet again, I have to deliver upsetting news. She found that brooch whilst cleaning out her father’s house and thought it was a nice reward for all the hard work she was doing after her father’s death. I hate to take it from her.”

“I understand.” Ravenhurst looked out the window as the train pulled away from the station. “Just think what that poor young woman’s family will do when they see it after thirty years. At last, they’ll know what happened to their daughter.”

Tilda put her hand to her mouth as a wave of sorrow swept over her. She hadn’t allowed herself to think too deeply about the murdered young woman. Now that she knew the truth about who she was and what had happened to her, it was impossible not to imagine what she’d suffered and what her family had endured. “Ardleigh is a monster.” A new wave of emotion surged within her—fury. She met Ravenhurst’s gaze with determination. “We have to make sure he pays for his crimes.”

“We will,” he vowed, his expression hard.

Sir Henry was also to blame. He could have saved that family decades of heartache instead of keeping Ardleigh’s secret. Tilda could scarcely believe the jovial man who’d been so well liked could be capable of such cold-heartedness.

After several moments of silence, Ravenhurst asked, “Do we have the evidence we need to ensure Ardleigh is found guilty?”

“Of which crime?” Tilda asked. “We can tie him to Fitch—who you can identify stabbed you—with Gregson’s testimony about Ardleigh’s ring being given to Fitch for payment. And Gregson’s testimony will put Fitch at Farringer’s the night of Sir Henry’s death.”

“Selwin’s testimony will prove Sir Henry was stabbed and that was his cause of death,” Ravenhurst said.

“We need both of them to speak with Scotland Yard as soon as possible.”

Ravenhurst nodded. “I’ll make sure Gregson does that later this afternoon. Hopefully, Selwin will have returned—if not today then tomorrow. I will call at his residence and office.”

“ We will call,” she corrected with a smile.

“Of course,” Ravenhurst said with a nod. “Mrs. Forsythe can testify that she found the young woman’s brooch at her father’s house, and Blount will provide testimony that the brooch belonged to the dead woman, which her family will confirm.”

“There is quite a bit of work to do to gather everything together. It’s a pity your visions cannot be used as evidence. They have been incredibly helpful.” Tilda gave the earl a wry smile.

Ravenhurst shuddered. “Can you imagine what that would mean for me? I’d be committed to an asylum, never to see the light of day again.”

“I won’t ever let that happen to you,” she said quietly. “You are not mad. No one will ever hear of your curse from me.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, and the shared secret bonded them. Though, Tilda already felt a special connection to him after all they’d experienced together. A strange heat bloomed inside her.

She looked away from him and sought to break the somewhat awkward tension. “How I envy the inspectors who will be assigned these investigative tasks.”

“It’s a shame you can’t be an inspector,” Ravenhurst said. “Scotland Yard would be lucky to have you. You’d run circles around most of them holding that position.”

Tilda laughed. “It’s too bad you don’t decide such things.” Again, she felt the peculiar warmth that had come from their shared moment earlier. His flattery was affecting her too much, she reasoned.

Another moment passed before Ravenhurst asked, “What about Dunwell? It seems he could identify Ardleigh as the man pulling the strings.”

“That assumes the viscount coordinated directly with him,” Tilda reasoned. “Now that we know Ardleigh’s identity, we should ask Gregson if he was ever at Farringer’s.”

“Excellent idea. We’ll ask him as soon as we return to London.”

“Good.” She smiled as she smoothed her hands over her skirts and settled in for the long train ride. “Perhaps we should stop at Scotland Yard first and fetch Teague. That may feel safer to Gregson, and he is a key witness in this investigation.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Ravenhurst replied. “After, we can take Teague to call on Dunwell at Farringer’s. I’d like to think the manager will be more inclined to talk to a police inspector.”

“There’s also Selwin, and I need to obtain the brooch from Millicent.” She blinked a few times. “We’ve quite a busy afternoon and evening ahead of us.”

“Teague can take care of Selwin since he needs to record his testimony,” Ravenhurst said. “You and I can call on Mrs. Forsythe.”

Except all their plans were completely upended as soon as they arrived at Scotland Yard and sought Inspector Teague. He met them in his office, and immediately Tilda realized something was wrong.

“We’ve news to share,” Tilda began. “However, you look as though you have something of import to say as well.”

Teague frowned at them. “Farringer’s caught fire over night. Three people are dead, including the manager.”

“Dunwell?” Ravenhurst asked, his eyes wide with shock.

Teague nodded. “The other two have not yet been identified. Dunwell escaped the building but died a short while after. He was able to inform the constable that he’d been hit on the head and lost consciousness.”

“The fire was not an accident then,” Tilda said, not that she’d thought anything different.

“It does not appear that way. Thankfully, it was contained before it spread, but the loss of life is unfortunate. F Division is investigating.”

Ravenhurst gave the inspector a grim stare. “We can surmise who was responsible.”

Teague’s brows rose in surprise. “Who?”

“The man who would gain from Dunwell’s death.”

“What would he gain?” Teague asked.

“Peace of mind,” Tilda replied. “Dunwell knew too much. As did Fitch.” She looked over at Ravenhurst. “We really need to make sure Gregson is safe.”

“We do.” Ravenhurst stood, and Tilda joined him. “Teague, come to my house with us. I’ve a witness there—he was a doorman at Farringer’s until yesterday. He will tell you a great deal about the night Sir Henry Meacham was killed. We’re going to have his body exhumed and examined with a full autopsy so there can be no doubt as to the true cause of his death.”

Teague shook his head as if he too had sustained a blow. He rose from his chair and grabbed his hat. “You still haven’t told me who gains from Dunwell’s death.”

Tilda and Ravenhurst had started toward the door, but they both looked back at the inspector over their shoulders. “The Viscount Ardleigh,” Ravenhurst said. “We’ll provide you with the details in the coach on the way to my house.”

“Bloody hell.” Teague followed them from the office.

Ravenhurst paused before they left the building. “I still haven’t received the confidential reports that Superintendent Newsome said he would deliver personally.”

Teague pressed his lips into a thin line. “Newsome told me this morning that they’ve gone missing. He’s furious.”

“I hope he’s directed his anger at Padgett,” Ravenhurst said wryly.

Tilda stifled a smile. She sobered quickly as she thought of the fire and three people dying. There would be no interrogating Dunwell now.

They settled into Ravenhurst’s coach, and for the first time Tilda shared a seat with the earl. They sat side by side facing forward whilst Teague was facing backward. It was no different than the times they had sat together on a settee, but the space in the coach was close, and for some reason Tilda was keenly aware of the earl’s heat and…masculinity. Her reaction to the earl today was most perplexing. She attributed it to the excitement of all they’d learned.

In the coach, they told the inspector about their meeting with Erasmus Blount. Teague listened, sometimes slack-jawed, to every detail then sat mute for several moments.

Finally, he looked to Ravenhurst. “You have this ring with the M that belonged to Ardleigh?”

Ravenhurst withdrew it from his pocket. “I do.”

Teague frowned. “You should have given that to Padgett when he interviewed you following your attack. He may not have closed the case so quickly.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Ravenhurst said with a sardonic edge. “However, I would have if I’d known I had it. My valet found it in my pocket and set it aside. By the time I realized it was in my possession, the case had already been closed.”

Of course, Ravenhurst could not reveal the truth of why he’d kept it. She also wondered if it pained him to relinquish it, this object that had first transmitted the curse he’d gained.

Taking the ring, Teague looked at it closely before tucking it into his own pocket. “Perhaps I’ll be able to persuade Superintendent Newsome to allow me to reopen your case.”

“And that of Sir Henry and Patrick Crawford,” Tilda said firmly. “Fitch may have been the attacker and the murderer, but he was not the man who is ultimately responsible. His widow and their young children deserve justice for what happened to her husband.”

“I will do my best to ensure she receives it,” Teague vowed. “I would like to accompany you to Sir Henry’s daughter’s house to retrieve the brooch that belonged to that young woman who lived next to Ardleigh’s estate.”

“All right,” Tilda said. “Though, you must let me talk to Millicent. She is fond of that brooch, and she’s had a great deal of disappointing news of late.”

“Of course,” Teague replied. His brow creased and his mouth drew into a frown. “With Dunwell dead and this doorman unable to directly identify Ardleigh as the man who hired Fitch—though the ring will help prove he was—it would be ideal if we could lure Ardleigh into a confession.”

“About which crime?” Ravenhurst asked, echoing what Tilda had asked him earlier.

“All of them, preferably,” Teague said with a humorless chuckle.

Tilda’s mind worked out a plan. She doubted either of the gentlemen in the coach would care for it, but she believed it was their best chance—and it would work.

“Since Ardleigh has a penchant for disposing of people who know too much about his crimes, why not draw him out with a person who knows his crimes?” she asked.

Ravenhurst nodded slowly then his lips spread into a slow, rather wonderful smile. “Brilliant. Ardleigh will surely want to kill Gregson.”

“I actually thought I would do it,” Tilda said. “I could wear the brooch, as that would likely provoke him into doing something foolish. We lay a trap, he comes after me, and we snare him.”

“Absolutely not,” Teague said, shaking his head. “You can’t endanger yourself in that way.”

“I won’t be in any danger,” Tilda argued. “You will both be there—hiding—and I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“I might actually be persuaded to endorse this plan,” Ravenhurst said cautiously. “However, I would much prefer to use Gregson as the bait. All we need do is send him home to his lodgings. If Ardleigh wants to eliminate him, he’ll try, and we’ll be waiting.”

Tilda folded her arms over her middle. “That is too vague. We’re just going to hide for who knows how long? I was thinking I would encounter Ardleigh,” she looked at Ravenhurst. “You could arrange for that to happen. I would be wearing the brooch, and we’d discuss meeting at Sir Henry’s funeral. I’d then mention that I will be at his house the next morning working on emptying it out. Ardleigh will be unable to resist the temptation of me being alone.”

“That could work,” Teague said, his eyes narrowed slightly. “But we really ought to use Gregson. I can station constables out of uniform about his lodgings. We’d catch Ardleigh without putting you in any danger.”

“Except, how will you obtain his confession?” Tilda asked. When no one answered her question, she pushed for her victory. “That is what we need, and I will procure it. Furthermore, you will both be there to hear the viscount incriminate himself. You’ll be hiding in or under furniture. And you can have constables out of uniform lurking out of sight outside the house.”

“She makes a good argument,” Ravenhurst said, sounding resigned. “I think we must adopt her plan.”

“I fear you are right.” Teague sent Tilda a shrewd look. “Has anyone ever told you that you should be an inspector?”

Tilda couldn’t suppress her smug smile. “Very recently in fact.”