Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (20 page)

Thomas watched as Stokes nodded to Penelope and Adair, and with the ease of long familiarity, sat alongside Penelope on the sofa. Neither Adair nor Stokes had offered to shake Thomas’s hand, but that he’d expected.

“Before you continue your tale,” Adair said, “allow me to fill Stokes in on the details to this point.”

Thomas inclined his head and sat back, listening as, briefly and succinctly, Adair recounted all that Thomas had thus far revealed.

While he did so, Penelope Adair rose and crossed to the bellpull, and when the majordomo responded, she ordered tea to be brought in.

It had been a very long time since Thomas had last sipped tea in a ton drawing room; accepting a cup from Penelope, he found himself somewhat cynically amused, more with himself than anyone else. But this, indeed, was the way matters were dealt with within the milieu of those of the Adairs’ ilk—with all due civility.

At the end of his factual recitation, Adair cocked a brow at Thomas, clearly asking if he’d missed anything crucial. Thomas nodded. “Yes, that’s it.” He transferred his gaze to Stokes. “Having made up our minds to come to London and pursue Percival, Rose and I closed up the manor, took the children, and in the small hours of the following morning, we relocated to Falmouth, and from there, I arranged passage on a ship sailing for Southampton on the afternoon tide. We boarded and, after an uneventful voyage and subsequent carriage journey, reached town several days ago.”

“So Percival has no notion you, Rose, and the children are in town?” Stokes asked.

Thomas grimaced. “Of that, I can’t be certain, but from the moment we arrived in Falmouth, I took care to project an image entirely inconsistent with the group the inquiry agents are searching for.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “I’m tolerably good at concealing identities—I know what veils to employ.”

Stokes snorted. He held Thomas’s gaze and after a moment asked, “Why, exactly, did you come here?” He tipped his head. “To Adair.”

Thomas hesitated, unsure of the ice beneath his feet. But he’d already decided on complete honesty; oddly enough, these days, with most people that seemed to serve him best. “Because I’ve realized that, regardless of what I might uncover about Percival, about his motives, his past actions, and his intentions toward William, courtesy of my past, I will not be in a position to take that information further, to expose Percival and remove him as a threat to Rose and the children.” He kept his gaze steady on Stokes’s steely eyes. “That’s my aim—to ensure Rose and the children are safe. To achieve that . . . I’m willing to surrender myself, as the man I used to be, to you, to the courts.” He paused, then added, “The only thing I ask is that you defer arresting me until after Percival’s threat is negated and Rose and the children are safe.”

Stokes stared at a man he’d never thought to see. His mind was whirling, juggling, reviewing—very close, at least on one front, to boggling. He glanced sidelong at Adair and found his friend waiting to catch his eye. What a turn-up, indeed!

It had been Adair and Stokes who had searched for Malcolm Sinclair’s body, they who had found the letter he’d left at the house he’d been living in, they who had followed the trail he’d left to the murderer he had trussed and left waiting for them in the cellar, they who had subsequently followed his directions to the will he’d written and left with the local solicitor in Somerset . . . all those years ago.

Stokes and Adair knew the contents of that will. Adair had been instrumental in ensuring its provisions were fully enacted. To do so, he’d had to recruit several of his noble connections to the cause—and they, one and all, had helped. Because it had been the right thing to do.

And Stokes had done his part by assembling evidence to support his formal declaration that no man could have survived the death Sinclair had planned and executed for himself; Stokes’s statement to that effect—that the Honorable Malcolm Sinclair was unquestionably dead—had been crucial in enabling probate of his will to proceed.

Both Stokes and Adair—and Penelope had later learned the details, too—knew of the extent to which Malcolm Sinclair had gone to make full restitution and more for the sins he’d . . . somewhat unwittingly committed.

Looking back at the man, if not in perfect health, then hale enough and definitely breathing, sitting in the armchair opposite, Stokes resisted the urge to scrub his hands over his face. The very last thing he needed was to attempt to arrest an already dead man . . . but he saw no reason to explain that to Thomas Glendower just yet.

Drawing in a deep breath, Stokes nodded to Glendower. “Very well. Let’s leave the question of arresting you for later, and focus on Richard Percival and his doings. The first thing I will need is to interview this Rose—Miss Heffernan. So where have you got her and the children hidden?”

Thomas didn’t hesitate. “The Pevensey Hotel. We’re in suite number five.”

Stokes’s brows rose.

Adair nodded. “Good choice.” When Stokes glanced at him, he added, “They’ll be as safe as they could be there. In this case, discretion equates to protection.”

“Ah.” With a nod of understanding, Stokes refocused on Thomas. “Once I have Miss Heffernan’s statement confirming the details you’ve related, that will give me a sound basis for an investigation.” Stokes paused, then asked, “I take it you’ve thus far learned nothing that would give us any clue as to why Percival needs to inherit?”

Thomas shook his head. “That’s at the top of my list to pursue.”

“We may be able to throw more resources behind that.” Adair exchanged a look with Penelope, then said, “Montague, of Montague and Sons, occasionally works with us on cases that can benefit from his expertise.”

Thomas arched his brows. “Montague—the Cynsters’ man-of-business?”

Adair nodded. “The same. He has an interest in investigations, too.”

“Along with his wife, Violet.” When, faintly surprised, Thomas looked at her, Penelope grinned—another of her steely, iron-willed grins. “We—myself, Stokes’s wife, Griselda, and Violet—all . . .” She waved airily. “Involve ourselves in the investigations as needed. For instance, I’ll call on your Rose and the children this afternoon to let her know she can call on me, or either of the others, for any assistance of a more domestic nature that she might require.”

Thomas thought that surprising information through, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

That earned him an openly delighted smile.

Shifting his gaze to Adair, Thomas continued, “I’ve already put my agent, Drayton, onto investigating Percival’s finances. As yet, he’s been unable to get far, but I’m sure Montague’s reach will be more . . . extensive. I’ll instruct Drayton to liaise with Montague’s office.” He paused, then added, “Drayton’s areas of expertise are unlikely to be entirely overlapped by Montague’s—with them working together, we should have a better chance of uncovering whatever clues lie in Percival’s finances.”

Adair nodded. He glanced at Stokes. “In a case like this, it’s almost certain that the motive will lie there. The principal benefit Percival will get from the inheritance is access to money, both directly and via credit against the estate.”

“The only other benefit he might derive is from the title itself.” Penelope frowned. “And the only reason that might matter is if he’s looking to marry, but I’ve seen and heard nothing of that.” She looked at Stokes, then at Thomas. “But I will ask of those who would definitely know.”

Stokes nodded. “Do—best to eliminate that as a motive if we can. Meanwhile . . . I believe I can spare a few constables and a sergeant to set up a watch on Mr. Richard Percival.” He cocked a brow at Thomas. “Any idea where he lives?”

Thomas shook his head.

Stokes shrugged. “No matter. That can be the sergeant’s first task—finding out.”

Adair was nodding. “As it appears that William is standing in the way of Richard Percival’s demonstrably very real push to inherit, and William is now in town, keeping a close eye on Percival might pay dividends on several counts.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “We might learn which inquiry office he’s using, which will at least give us more witnesses as to his actions against Rose and William.”

“Indeed. Witnesses to his active intent might very well be crucial.” Stokes frowned, then said, “The only other immediate action I can think of is to see if we can interview the estate’s solicitor.” Stokes arched a brow at Thomas.

“Foley,” he supplied. “Of Gray’s Inn. Rose doesn’t trust him, but she doesn’t really know him. My own solicitor assures me Foley is sound, if somewhat rigidly conservative, which might explain Rose’s reading of him.”

Stokes nodded. “I’ll have to request a magistrate’s order to induce Foley to discuss his client’s business, but once I’ve interviewed Rose, I should have enough to do so.”

“I’ll go with you when you visit Foley,” Adair put in. “Quite aside from putting any questions, my presence alone might help.”

Stokes humphed in agreement.

Thomas set down his cup and saucer on the small table beside his chair. “One thing—I know it’s early days as yet, but, even if we do show that Richard Percival has been pursuing William, that, due to some financial constraint, he has reason to want William dead so that he can inherit, and we have Rose’s testimony as to what she heard him say four years ago regarding him arranging for his brother and his brother’s wife to be murdered . . .” Thomas met Adair’s, then Penelope’s, then Stokes’s eyes. “Is that going to be enough?”

When no one immediately volunteered an answer, Thomas went on, “We might be able to show motive, but other than Rose’s testimony, as far as I can see we have nothing that definitively proves Richard Percival is guilty of anything criminal. And Rose’s testimony will be easy to discount—a twenty-four-year-old young lady, hysterical with grief, thinks she hears . . . something Percival will insist she didn’t. What judge or court would convict on that?”

Stokes grimaced. “We’ll have to search in Lincolnshire for any witnesses that can link him to the murders on the yacht.”

“If there were any such witnesses,” Thomas quietly said.

Adair exhaled. “Sadly, you’re right. Four years after the event . . . that’s a very cold trail.”

“But,” Penelope said, “if we set the earlier murder to one side, then the critical point we have to deal with now is that William still stands between Richard Percival and what he wants.” She met Thomas’s eyes. “William is Richard’s current target—which means that, if it comes to it, we could use William to bait a trap for Richard.” She widened her eyes. “Indeed, that might be the fastest way to assemble conclusive proof against Richard Percival.”

“No.” His expression resolute, Thomas flatly said, “I could never allow William to be used as bait. He’s intelligent and capable, but he’s only nine years old.”

To his surprise, Penelope smiled at him in rather fond condescension. “Of course not—we wouldn’t really have William there. We would just make it appear that he, Percival’s target, was there for the seizing.” She looked at Stokes. “That, I suspect, would be all it would take.”

Stokes grunted. “It won’t be quite that easy, but . . .” He inclined his head. “I have to agree that once we’ve gathered all the information we can, it might come to that.” He glanced at Thomas. “If Percival’s searching as hard as he apparently is, then word that William has been sighted at a particular place will certainly bring him running.”

Adair grimaced. “It’s entrapment of a sort—never the best way forward—but I agree. It might come to that. We shouldn’t turn our backs on the possibility.” He looked at Thomas. “If we stage it correctly, we can make Percival’s intent sufficiently clear, to the point that, along with all the rest, no judge will overlook it.”

Thomas allowed his antipathy to the idea to color his features, but, reluctantly, he nodded. “Very well. We’ll proceed as you’ve outlined, and, first of all, assemble all the information on Percival and his circumstances that we can.”

Grasping his cane, he rose. The others all came to their feet. Thomas met their gazes, then inclined his head. “Thank you.”

The three nodded back, and, joining Thomas, they strolled as a group into the hall.

After confirming the time for them to call at the hotel to meet Rose and the children, Thomas was about to turn away when—to his intense surprise—Stokes held out his hand.

“Until later,” Stokes said.

Hiding his surprise, Thomas gripped the man’s hand. “Indeed.”

As Thomas released Stokes, Adair, too, offered his hand. “As well as Stokes, there’ll be me, Penelope, and Montague if he can manage it—you might want to warn Miss Heffernan and assure her we won’t bite.”

“Naturally not.” Penelope frowned Adair down, then turned to beam at Thomas and bestow her hand on him.

As Glendower very properly gripped her fingers, Penelope noticed Stokes collecting his hat from Mostyn. “Stokes—if you have a moment, I have something for you to take to Griselda.”

Stokes nodded and remained.

Retrieving her hand, Penelope smiled with real delight at Thomas Glendower. “Good day, Mr. Glendower—we’ll see you this afternoon.”

With a last, graceful inclination of his head, Glendower turned to the door and, with a polite nod to Mostyn, who swung the door wide, limped off down the steps.

Her smile undimmed and undimming, Penelope watched Glendower depart, then she signaled to Mostyn to shut the door.