Page 32 of Miss Morton and the Missing Heir (A Miss Morton Mystery #4)

“I wish we could speak to him,” Caroline said.

“He stood by while his brother murdered Mary. I hardly think he is worthy of our attention, Caroline.”

“I doubt he’d be willing to come within a mile of this house, ma’am. In fact, his appearance here might mean his bail would be revoked for violating the terms of the agreement.”

“Did Inspector Ross tell you that?” Mrs. Frogerton asked.

“He did mention such a scenario when I was concerned about Mr. Albert Brigham turning up here and threatening us again.”

“No news on Inspector Ross’s brother, I assume?”

“There was nothing in the newspapers this morning. I assume Richard is still living.”

The door opened, and Mrs. Scutton came back in, looking very pleased with herself.

“I’ve written to Coutts and sent the kitchen boy off with the letter. I told him to wait for a reply.”

It was on the tip of Caroline’s tongue to mention to Mrs. Scutton that it wasn’t her house and that she should have consulted with Mrs. Frogerton before she ordered her staff around.

In the interests of harmony and her desire to know whether Mr. Castle did have answers for them, she let the moment go.

“I wonder if Mr. Scutton has a list of all the items Coutts holds for the earldom?” Mrs. Frogerton asked. “It would be very useful.”

“I believe Mr. Potkins has that information on hand.” Mrs. Scutton paused. “I wonder if I should write to him as well?”

“Could you not just ask your son?” Mrs. Frogerton asked.

“I’d rather not worry him about such a small matter,” Mrs. Scutton said.

“Then would you care to use my desk to compose your letter, ma’am?” Mrs. Frogerton offered. “Or Caroline could go up to your room and bring down your writing desk?”

“I’d be happy to do that, Mrs. Scutton. You mustn’t endanger your health.” Caroline rose to her feet and was out of the door before Mrs. Scutton could object.

She picked up her skirts and ran up the two flights of stairs to Mrs. Scutton’s bedroom. The door was unlocked, and Caroline went in. Mrs. Scutton’s portable writing case stood open on the table, her pen and ink still uncapped, and a fresh sheet of paper secured into the frame.

Aware that she couldn’t take too long, Caroline did a quick search through the drawers for the letter from Mary that Jude had taken home with him.

There was no sign of it. Caroline was surprised by the volume of correspondence Mrs. Scutton had received about the state of the earldom and its finances from both Mr. Potkins and Coutts Bank.

For a woman who often claimed ignorance about the Morton estate, she was remarkably well informed.

Caroline set the inkpot back in its spot, corked the bottle, and set the pen on the blotting paper before closing the lid. A handwritten label on the inner side caught her attention. It read Henrietta Bryson, her box, Whitechapel, London .

Was Bryson Mrs. Scutton’s maiden name? Miss Smith had mentioned that her first name was Hetty, which seemed to fit. Caroline carefully closed the lid and brought the box down to the drawing room.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Scutton took the box and walked over to the window to get the best of the light. “It is always comfortable to have one’s own things to use.”

“It is a very useful writing case,” Caroline observed. “Have you owned it for a long time?”

“It was a birthday present.” Mrs. Scutton paused. “From a good friend of the family.”

“Your employer?” Mrs. Frogerton asked. “Miss Smith said that you were employed by an aristocratic family in London.”

“Miss Smith has no business gossiping about me and mine.” Mrs. Scutton sat down and opened the writing case. “And I shall tell her so next time we meet.”

“Is it not true?” Mrs. Frogerton persisted. “As you know, I come from humble origins myself, and I see nothing to be ashamed of in owning them.”

“I was in service. I met Mr. Scutton when the family moved to their country seat in the summer months.” Mrs. Scutton set out her inkpot and pen.

“And you married him before you had to go back to London?” Mrs. Frogerton nodded. “A wise decision.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Scutton bent her head to her writing.

“When we passed through Epping, I noticed a fine church at the end of the high street. Was that where you were married?”

“Yes, at St. John the Baptist. Mary was married there, too, God save her soul.” Mrs. Scutton wrote slowly and paused to read before scrawling her signature. “There, that’s done.”

“It is very good of you to go to so much trouble on my behalf, ma’am,” Caroline said.

Mrs. Scutton used her sand shaker over the surface of the letter to make sure the ink was dry before she folded it and wrote the address on the back.

“There is so little left of the Morton estate that every little piece might make a difference, Caroline. A whole earring set is worth more than an incomplete one.”

“Quite,” Mrs. Frogerton agreed. “Did the Scutton family inherit anything directly from their Morton connections? I understand that in aristocratic families, items that are not entailed can be diverted to other members of the family.”

“That’s correct, ma’am,” Caroline said. “My mother’s jewelry was supposed to come directly down the female line. Unfortunately, my father ignored that rule and got rid of it anyway.”

Mrs. Scutton looked up. “Perhaps your mother was willing to do anything for her husband, including giving him her jewelry.”

“When they were first married, I believe she would’ve done, but years of watching him gamble, drink, and whore his way through his fortune and hers stretched her tolerance beyond bearing.”

Mrs. Scutton sniffed. “I would’ve done anything for Mr. Scutton.” She stood up, the letter in her hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make sure this gets delivered to Mr. Potkins today.”

When the door closed behind her, Mrs. Frogerton said to Caroline, “You notice she didn’t answer my question about the inherited jewelry.”

“She always picks and chooses which questions to answer, ma’am. I didn’t appreciate her attempt to make my mother seem weaker than her. Mrs. Scutton has no idea how difficult my mother’s life became because of my father.”

“She isn’t the kind of woman who can put herself in someone else’s shoes. Her views are very settled, and she delights in finding the negative in everything,” Mrs. Frogerton agreed. “Which aristocratic families have summer estates around Epping, lass?”

Caroline considered the question. “There used to be a very large estate in Wanstead owned by the Tylney-Long family.”

“I read about that.” Mrs. Frogerton leaned forward. “The whole place was sold off to pay her awful husband’s debts. Who else had a home there?”

“The Marlborough family. The Earl of Essex, obviously. The Duke of Westminster. The DuBois family …” Caroline paused to think.

“The Mortons owned several farms in the area, but from what Mr. Potkins told me, they were overseen by the land steward who lived in the Scuttons’ house. They had no formal residence nearby.”

“I wonder whether Mrs. Scutton worked for one of those families?” Mrs. Scutton asked. “I don’t suppose there is a way to find out if she did.”

“I assume the houses would keep records of their staff, but we don’t have access to such things, or the authority to gain access.” Caroline frowned.

“Inspector Ross might be able to do so,” Mrs. Frogerton said. “And simply sending letters addressed to the housekeepers of those estates might provide some answers, if I suggest I am writing on behalf of a solicitor looking to share good news of a bequest.”

“Why do you think it matters where Mrs. Scutton was employed?” Caroline asked.

“Because there is a mystery there, and Mrs. Scutton’s avoidance in answering questions makes me wonder what she is trying to conceal.”

Caroline nodded, her thoughts far away. “That label.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“The one attached to the earring back. The ‘M’ might have been my father’s signature.”

“I suspect you might be right.” Mrs. Frogerton paused. “Does that upset you, lass?”

“Yes,” Caroline said. “For my mother and all her shattered dreams. She gave up in the end, ma’am, and allowed herself to die rather than fight her illness and deal with my father any longer.”

“I’m sure she didn’t want to leave you and Susan, Caroline.”

“Her last words to me were, ‘Thank God you’re old enough to take care of your sister.’” Caroline drew in a difficult breath. “She placed all the burden of responsibility on a fourteen-year-old.”

“That must have been very difficult to deal with, lass,” Mrs. Frogerton said softly. “People always say that the good Lord never gives us more than we can bear, but I don’t tend to agree with that.”

“Neither do I.” Caroline summoned a smile. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I believe in a higher power because good rarely seems to win against evil.”

She waited for Mrs. Frogerton, who read her bible every day, to condemn her scandalous comment and was surprised when she simply nodded. “Shall we go down and see what Cook’s prepared for lunch? I don’t know about you, but I’m rather peckish.”

They had barely settled in their seats when Mrs. Scutton came into the dining room carrying a letter. “I’ve received a reply from Mr. Castle at Coutts.”

“And what does Mr. Castle have to say for himself?” Mrs. Frogerton inquired as Mrs. Scutton sat down at the table.

“That the bank does hold some of the Morton jewelry.” She looked rather pleased with herself. “And that if we care to call this afternoon, he will ensure that the items are taken from the vault and displayed for our attention.”

“That is good news,” Mrs. Frogerton said. “At what time would you like me to order the carriage?”

“For three o’clock?” Mrs. Scutton asked. “That should give them time to retrieve the items we wish to see. In truth, I am quite excited to see what the bank has held on to. I remember reading that the Morton jewels were once considered exceptional.”