A Conspiracy of Ravens (33 page)

“I’m worried about Trevor. He’s very unhappy, and he may be suspected of the murder.”

“Why should he be?”

“Well, it’s obvious that Charles Crinshaw was not the intended victim. I don’t think anyone had a motive, but the drink was fixed for Lord Darby. I tested the wine, Dylan, and it’s deadly—laced with poison.”

“That’s a bad one, but why would the police suspect Trevor?”

“You’re not thinking, Dylan. He would be the new Lord Darby if Edward Hayden had been killed.”

“Of course. It’s hard to think like that. I’ll go, of course, but Trevor surely isn’t the killer. He’d know that he’d be the prime suspect.”

Serafina was quiet for a moment and then shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t, but the real killer probably thought of that. It has to be one of the family or one of the servants, but we need to stand by Trevor.”

“I’ll get ready. The poor young man doesn’t need this.”

Serafina studied him and then said, “Dylan, please don’t pay much attention to the things David said. He’s just a child. He misses his father, and he has wild thoughts sometimes.”

Dylan regarded Serafina, and she felt her cheeks growing warm as she thought of the things David had said to him. “Come along,” she said brusquely, “we must hurry.”

TWENTY

H
ave you seen the papers, Grant?” Superintendent Fenton had exclaimed that morning. He had been sitting behind his desk in his office, and Grant, who had been called for, stood before him waiting. Fenton’s face was crimson with anger, and his smallish eyes were glinting with what appeared to be unquenchable fury. “Look at these!” Fenton threw a newspaper down and waved his hand toward them. “They’re already saying that we’re incompetent! I won’t have it, Grant, I tell you! We have to get action quick on this one.”

Grant looked down at the paper, but he had already read the story. It had not disturbed him, for the newspapers often took Scotland Yard to task for anything less than immediate resolution. “Well, sir,” he said, “it’s a noble family, and the newspaper fellows have to have something to write.”

“Is that all you can say?” Fenton demanded. He clenched his fist and struck the paper a blow that turned over a vase, which seemed to anger him even more. His voice trembled with rage as he said, “I’m not satisfied with the way this case is being handled. I left you in charge, and I expected some sort of solution by this time. Now what have you done?”

Snow was falling outside, and the room was cold despite a fire which blazed in the fireplace to Grant’s left. He was accustomed to these fits of anger from Fenton and knew there was no way to avoid them. Grant also knew that Fenton resented and feared him. Fenton himself had been a policeman on a municipal force for five years. Before that he had been a lawyer. His had been a political appointment, and both men knew it. There was no way, Grant understood, that he would be able to satisfy Fenton, but he tried.

“I’ve interviewed every servant, and of course, I’ve spoken to each member of the family.”

“And you’ve come up with no conclusions, but I have.”

“You have, sir?”

“Yes. I think it’s fairly obvious who the guilty man is.”

“And who might that be, Superintendent?”

“Why, that fellow the Haydens dragged in off the streets and claimed for their son. ‘Trevor’ they call him now, but I’ve had a man do some checking, and he was a scurrilous rogue out on the street. Grew up in the middle of crime. Oh, the local policemen knew him quite well! He was always in trouble of some kind.”

“He never committed murder.”

The vein in Fenton’s temple seemed to throb with energy, and he snapped angrily, “You presume to tell me how to run this department?”

“No, sir, of course not. I’m only saying that—”

“I know what you’re saying. It’s obvious, man! The poison was obviously not meant for the butler. It was meant for Lord Darby.”

“I think we can agree on that, sir, but young Trevor—”

“If Lord Darby had died, Trevor Hayden would be heir to all of Darby’s estate and his title as well. I’m surprised you don’t see it, Grant. It’s plain as the nose on your face.”

“I don’t think the young man would be so stupid.”

“What do you mean stupid? He would have gotten the entire estate.”

“He’s also the logical suspect. He’s a bright young man, Superintendent. Nothing’s wrong with his mind. He’s had an unfortunate childhood and grew up in a terrible situation. True, he’s had bad companions, but that was no fault of his own.”

“He has no morality whatsoever. He couldn’t have after growing up in the Seven Dials district. Now, I want you to concentrate on that fellow. Does he have an alibi?”

Grant chewed his lip and hesitated to answer for a moment, then he shook his head. “No, sir, but many of the others don’t have alibis either. It was late at night. They had all gone to bed. As a matter of fact, none of the family has an alibi, nor the servants either, but it’s inconceivable that a servant would have done this thing.”

“All right. Trevor’s your man. Get out there and find some evidence. I want to close this case in a hurry and shut these stories down, and I want it quickly. You understand me, Inspector?”

“Yes, sir, I understand you very well,” Grant replied. His voice was level and even, for he had learnt that any resistance or disagreement with Fenton was useless. Turning, he left the office and headed for Silverthorn. As soon as the door had closed, Fenton leaned back with a look of satisfaction. He smiled slightly and said, “There, Mr. Inspector Grant, let’s see what you will do with this!”

Gervase had been practicing on the harpsichord, which was in the larger of the two parlours. The maids had come and gone, doing their cleaning work, but as always, as Gervase had practiced, she had put her whole heart and mind into it and had blotted out any outside influences. She was an excellent performer and took great pleasure in practice, which made her even more adept.

Finally she leaned back, flexed her fingers with satisfaction, got up, and walked over to the window. She loved the snow and watched it for a while as the flakes drifted by. Some of them seemed as big as shillings. The snow was tapering off though and was not deep on the ground. Most of it had melted off during a warm spell, but she was still hopeful that there would be a white Christmas.

Leaving the parlour, she moved to the attic room that her father had converted to a studio of sorts. It had been a dark, gloomy place, but Arthur had had two large windows put in, and now the pale sunlight illuminated the canvas he was standing before.

“How’s the painting going, Papa?”

“Very well, I suppose.” Arthur turned and smiled at her. He looked tired, but then he always did. He had not been drinking, Gervase noted at once. She had become an expert in detecting her father’s condition. He was not a man who could handle alcohol well, but on this particular day his eyes were clear and his hands were steady. “What do you think of it?” he asked, gesturing with his brush toward the canvas.

Gervase moved closer to get a better view. It was a painting of a hunt with horses jumping over a fence, the hounds running full tilt through the woods. “I can almost hear the dogs barking.” She smiled. “And look. That fellow’s going to lose his seat if he’s not careful. It’s a beautiful painting. What are you going to do with it?”

“Put it with the rest, I suppose.”

“You really ought to have a show, Father.” Gervase came over and stood in front of him. She reached up and pushed a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead to one side and said, “One day you’ll have a show and be recognized.”

“I doubt that seriously.”

Gervase saw the troubled light in her father’s eyes. She was accustomed to this. He was basically a sad man. She knew he had been devastated by the loss of her mother, and she wondered that a man could have such a love that would last for so many years. Toward her he had been as kind and as thoughtful as he would have been if she were his blood daughter. The fact that she was no blood relation did not seem to matter to Arthur Hayden, and at that moment Gervase felt a sudden rush of affection for him.

“I know what. Let’s go down to the kitchen and see if we can get a preview of what the Christmas dinner will be like.”

Arthur held the brush in his hand and looked down at it for a long moment. Finally he lifted his eyes and shook his head. “I doubt if there’ll be much Christmas cheer in this house, not with murder hanging over it.”

“It’s a terrible thing.”

“Crinshaw wasn’t a man to open himself up much, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.” He passed his hand across his face as if to wash away a memory and said, “Has that policeman been talking to you?”

“Oh, yes, he’s been talking to everyone, I think. I believe he’s baffled.”

“I’m not surprised. I doubt if anyone will ever know who poisoned Crinshaw.”

“Well, the police are convinced that it was meant for Uncle Edward, which is the only thing that makes sense. Who would want to poison poor Charles Crinshaw?”

“Yes, it’s an inevitable conclusion.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I want to work a little bit more while I have the light. You go on down and bring me up some tea later.”

“Of course, Papa.” Gervase left, and as she descended from the attic to the second floor, she saw Trevor coming out of his room. “Hello, Trevor,” she said cheerfully.

“Hello.”

Gervase saw at once that there was gloom on Trevor’s face and said, “You’re coming with me.”

“Coming where?” Trevor asked. He was casually enough dressed, with a pair of navy blue trousers, a white shirt, and a woolen waistcoat. As Gervase noted this, she lifted her eyes to his face and once again was struck at his resemblance to Edward and to several other of the Hayden ancestors in the portrait gallery.
He
has to be a Hayden,
she thought, not for the first time.
No one could
deny the resemblance.

“Come on,” she said. “We’re going down to scrounge something from the kitchen. I’m sure Cook will feed us a little.”

“All right,” Trevor said, and the two went downstairs.

They found Annie busy preparing the evening meal, and when Gervase smiled and demanded something good, she said, “Well, I made some fairy cookies for Christmas. You can have some of those and some tea.”

“Is there any coffee?” Trevor asked.

“I’ll make you some, sir.”

Soon the two were sitting down munching on fairy cookies, Gervase drinking tea and Trevor coffee. The cook had gone outside, and although Gervase tried to pull him out of his gloom, he did not seem to respond. Finally she asked, “What’s wrong, Trevor? You seem so discouraged.”

“I don’t belong in this place,” Trevor said gloomily. He held one of the fairy cookies in his hand, studied it, then dipped it into the coffee and bit it off. “I wish I was back in my old life.”

“Well, that’s a terrible thing to wish.”

“It was bad enough, but sometimes I think this is worse. At least things were simple there.” He gave a sardonic smile and shook his head. “All I ’ad to do was stay out of the ’ands of the police.”

Impulsively Gervase reached over and covered his hand with her own. “Don’t say that. That’s not the way for you to live. You’re a Hayden, and there are great things that you can do. You’re going to learn and study, and you’re going to be a fine gentleman, Trevor. One day you’ll be Sir Trevor Hayden, Earl of Darby, and you’ll marry a beautiful woman and have beautiful children.”

Trevor suddenly laughed. He was very conscious of the warmth of her hand on his. “You do know ’ow to encourage a fellow. I think you’re the brightest spot in me life, but I’m not so sure all those things will ’appen.”

“It’s gloomy right now because of poor Crinshaw’s death, but time passes.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and ’as it occurred to you, Ger-vase, that I’m the prime suspect?”

“What are you talking about?”

“If my father ’ad died, who would get the greatest benefit?”

“Why, I hadn’t thought of it.”

“It would be me, of course.”

“Why, nobody would think that.”

“Grant thinks so, or ’e acts like it.”

“No, he couldn’t think that. It’s—it’s unthinkable.”

Suddenly Trevor reached out and put his hand over Gervase’s, imprisoning it. “You’re a good influence on me. Perhaps my good angel. I need one. You don’t know the terrible life I’ve led.”

Gervase in turn was acutely conscious of the warmth and strength of his hand. “I’m no angel,” she said, “but I know God’s going to look out for you.”

“You really believe that, that good always comes out on top?” Trevor demanded.

“Yes,” Gervase said simply. “I do believe that.”

Trevor held her hand for a moment then released it. Finally he said quietly, “I’m glad you believe that, Gervase, and I ’opes you always will.”