Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (24 page)

BOOK: Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair)
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“Indeed.” Thomas exchanged a knowing look with Drayton. “While we’ve never dabbled in such arenas ourselves, we’ve often had a need to learn whether others we’ve considered allying ourselves with have associations in such spheres. In investigating Percival, what I would like you to do is make inquiries in the . . . shall we say more shady side of business? See if you can find any whisper of his name in relation to any less-than-straightforward venture, any questionable investment, any high-risk game. There must be some revealing association somewhere, but it might well date back four, or even more, years. Alternatively, this may be an ongoing, constantly changing, and escalating situation, with him rolling investment debts from one vehicle to another, increasingly desperately, so cast your net wide, and don’t discount any connection you might find.”

Eyes narrowed in thought, Drayton was nodding. Refocusing on Thomas, he asked, “Do you want me to start now, or wait until you see what Montague turns up?”

“No. Start now. Normally, yes, we would investigate sequentially, moving from the aboveboard to the less-regulated spheres, but, in this case, we don’t know how much time we have. If Percival was desperate enough to commit murder four years ago, and has pursued his nephew doggedly ever since, then we can’t afford to dally over exposing him—every day he remains free, the boy remains at risk.” Gripping his cane, Thomas rose. “I’ll inform Montague of the tack we’re taking.”

Drayton came to his feet. “Yes, of course. We’ll get onto the matter right away.”

Rounding the desk, Drayton shook Thomas’s hand, then opened the door and escorted him through the outer office. Pausing before the outer door, Drayton asked, “Where should I send my reports?”

Thomas met his gaze. “Send them direct to Montague. It’ll be best if he coordinates our efforts. I believe his offices are off Chapel Court.”

Drayton nodded. “Yes. They are. Well”—he grinned a touch sheepishly—“in the realm of finance, Montague is nearly as revered as you are.”

Thomas laughed. “I hadn’t thought . . . but I suppose that’s true.” Drayton opened the door. Thomas stepped out, pausing to add, “I’ll tell Montague you’ve been conscripted to the cause so he’ll know to expect to hear from you.”

With an exchange of courtesies—a bow on Drayton’s part, a nod on Thomas’s—they parted.

Thomas made his way slowly back down the stairs. Reaching the pavement outside, he stepped to the curb, hailed a hackney, gave the jarvey the direction, and climbed inside.

Settling on the seat, he used the moments as the conveyance rattled toward Lincoln’s Inn to reflect on the sharpening of his senses, an increased engagement with everything about him; it had been a long time since he’d felt that—the drive that came from having a real purpose.

Of being committed to seeing something done and acting to make it so.

He dwelled on the change for several minutes, then turned his mind to his destination.

Like Drayton, Marwell, his solicitor, would be pleased to see him, and would be happy to undertake whatever tasks he required. With Marwell, there were several issues Thomas wanted addressed, and not all concerned Richard Percival. But aside from those other matters—all straightforward enough—he wanted to hear Marwell’s assessment of Foley firsthand, after which he intended to explain the situation with Richard Percival as they understood it, much as he had with Drayton, and then invite Marwell to speculate on any legal twists or turns Percival might think to use, either as hurdles in their path or routes to victory.

It would be just as well to have some inkling of any other fronts that might open up in their battle to contain, and then expose, Percival, and reinstate William to his birthright.

I
t was just short of midday when Barnaby and Stokes arrived at Mr. Foley’s offices in Gray’s Inn. The morning had gone in convincing a magistrate to grant them an order sufficient to compel Foley to reveal the details about the Percival estate that they needed to confirm; from everything they’d learned of him, there would have been no point calling on Foley without that order in hand.

Foley’s chambers occupied a prime position at one corner of one of the inn’s buildings. A sober clerk who bore all the hallmarks of being wedded to the neat and precise consented to allow them to enter. Asking them to wait in the foyer just inside the outer door, the clerk retreated with both Stokes’s and Adair’s cards in hand to inform his master of their wish to consult him.

The clerk tapped on a door leading off a short corridor at the rear of the reception area, then entered. He did not immediately return.

Arching his brows, Barnaby looked around. “He’ll be trying to imagine what we’re here about.”

Stokes snorted. “By all accounts, he’s not the sort to entertain the police on a regular basis—you’d think he’d be curious.”

Barnaby chuckled. “I think it’s more likely he’ll view us as a damned nuisance.”

The door opened and the clerk reappeared. Frowning down at the cards he still held, he approached, then, looking up, handed both cards back. “Mr. Foley says he can spare you a few minutes. But only a few minutes.”

Tucking his card back in his pocket, Stokes smiled one of his more cutting smiles. “We’ll see about that.”

The clerk threw him an uncertain look but opened the gate in the low wooden railing and waved them through. He then hurried to take his place ahead of them, leading them to his master’s presence. Opening Foley’s door wide, the clerk stepped inside; standing with his back to the panels, he announced, “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, and Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, sir.”

Stokes threw the clerk a resigned look as he passed. Following Stokes, Barnaby offered the clerk a grin and forbore from commenting that his performance would have done Barnaby’s mother’s butler proud.

It was, after all, Foley they had come to tease.

Dressed in severe black, Foley rose from his chair behind a large, black-stained desk. The bow window behind him was diamond-paned and fractured the sunlight pouring in from the court beyond. The walls of the room were covered in bookshelves hosting countless legal tomes, but it was the desk, and the man behind it, that dominated the quietly comfortable room.

Despite the glare behind him, Foley’s desk was sufficiently far into the room for his features to be readily discerned. From beneath thick, but slightly straggly, white brows, dark eyes regarded them with no hint of welcome. Foley’s cheeks were sunken, his lips thin. After considering them for a silent second, he waved to two chairs angled before the massive desk. “Gentlemen, please be seated.”

Foley didn’t offer to shake anyone’s hand, but he nodded to each of them, a reserved and carefully polite inclination of the head for Barnaby, and a somewhat brisker nod to Stokes.

They sat, and Foley settled once more in his chair. Leaning his forearms on the desk, he clasped his hands and looked first at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “I understand you wish to speak with me, gentlemen—might I inquire about what?”

Foley’s tone was distant, not arrogantly so, but in keeping with his image of rigid correctness.

Unperturbed, Stokes replied, “We’re here to ask for information on the Percival estate.” When Foley opened his mouth, Stokes held up a hand, staying the obvious protest. Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, Stokes continued, “Understanding, as we do, the constraints of client privilege, we have obtained a magistrate’s order covering the issues about which we need to interview you.” Drawing out the order, Stokes unfolded the sheet, glanced at it, then handed it across the desk.

The first sign of a frown tangling his white brows, Foley accepted the document. Groping for, then raising, a pair of pince-nez, he perched them on the tip of his patrician nose and focused on the formal order.

Foley read the order line by line. By the time he reached the end, his features had set in a patently disapproving cast. Setting the order down, he studied it for several seconds, then raised his gaze to Stokes. “Very well, Inspector. You may ask your questions.” Foley lifted his head a fraction, in subtle defiance. “However, please understand that I will not be volunteering anything beyond the issues detailed in the order, nor will I indulge in any speculation that in any way concerns the Percival family or the Seddington estate.”

Sound, but rigidly conservative.
Barnaby recalled Thomas’s description of Foley’s reputation; everything Barnaby had thus far seen, from the office, to the clerk, to the man’s private office and the man himself, confirmed that assessment.

Stokes didn’t immediately respond to Foley’s declaration but instead studied the man with a somewhat piercing and steady gray gaze. Then he slowly arched a brow. “I understand the heir to the estate, William Percival, Viscount Seddington, is currently missing, having disappeared on the evening of his parents’ funeral.”

Stokes now had Foley’s complete and unwavering attention; the man’s face gave little away, but the tension in his hands, his frame, suggested he was hanging on Stokes’s every word.

“Our current investigation,” Stokes smoothly continued, his gaze fixed on Foley’s face, “concerns the matters leading up to the boy’s disappearance, and what forces, if any, might be standing in the path of his return.”

Foley frowned, a genuine expression. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.” His eyes locked again on Stokes’s face. “Are you saying that William is alive and that he might return, but”—Foley’s expression grew openly confused—“there are those who might not wish him to?”

Stokes dipped his head in response.

Foley drew himself up. “I assure you, Inspector”—his gaze switched briefly to Barnaby—“and you, too, Mr. Adair, that everyone in this firm, as well as the Percival family, would be thrilled to have William returned to us. More, that we would do everything in our collective power to effect such a happening.”

Stokes held Foley’s gaze, no longer so distant and remote, then, in acceptance, inclined his head. “In that case, Mr. Foley, as the police are now working to resolve William Percival’s disappearance, I would respectfully suggest that it would be in yours and the Percival family’s interest to assist us in whatever way you can.”

Foley was clearly caught on the horns of a dilemma—should he bend his rigid stance against revealing anything about his clients and perhaps assist in the return of the young heir, or hold to his line and . . .

“If I might make an observation?” Barnaby said.

Foley looked at him. “Yes?”

“When William returns, even though he’s a minor,
he
will be your principal client with regard to the Percival family’s holdings and the Seddington estate.”

That was a simple statement of fact, but as William had been a small child when Foley had last seen him, it wasn’t a fact Foley had truly considered. . . . He did now. After several moments, his features eased. Slowly, he nodded, then he looked at Barnaby and inclined his head. “Thank you, Mr. Adair. That is, indeed, a pertinent point.”

Returning his gaze to Stokes, Foley reclasped his hands. “So, Inspector, let me hear your questions, and I’ll answer as best I can without infringing on my duty of discretion toward my other clients. In this matter, I am still constrained, as I act for all the Percivals, not just the principal line and the estate.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue at this point—our questions today concern William Percival and the Seddington estate.” Stokes consulted the notebook he’d settled on his knee. “The first matter we wish to confirm is that Richard Percival was named William’s principal guardian, with the late viscount’s uncle, Marmaduke Percival, as co-guardian.”

Foley nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.” He glanced at Barnaby. “But that’s a matter of public record.”

“Indeed,” Stokes continued, “but we wondered if you could explain why a
principal
guardian and a co-guardian were appointed.”

Foley clearly debated, then offered, “The late viscount, Robert Percival, was well aware of the foibles of certain members of his family, and so he, very wisely in my view, insisted on two guardians.”

“So the appointment of two guardians,” Barnaby said, “came about because Robert Percival didn’t trust one or the other, at least not entirely.”

His gaze on Barnaby’s face, Foley’s lips slowly compressed, then he shook his head. “I cannot comment on anything specific regarding either Richard Percival or Marmaduke Percival. Both are private clients of mine.”

Barnaby nodded in acceptance. He glanced at Stokes.

“Our second question,” Stokes said, “relates to the estate itself. We are in the process of confirming that the estate is intact—our contacts have led us to believe it is. Can you add anything to that confirmation?”

Foley hesitated, then, clearly choosing his words carefully, said, “To my knowledge, the estate remains intact in all ways. It has been preserved as it was at the time of Robert Percival’s death. And while I am unable to disclose any specifics as to the people involved, the wisdom of Robert Percival in appointing co-guardians, where the approval of both must be gained for any change to the estate, has proved critical in protecting the estate from depredation.”

Barnaby and Stokes shared a glance; that was more than they’d hoped to learn.

“Thank you,” Stokes said. “That brings me to our final question.” He looked up and met Foley’s gaze. “Is the estate entailed?”

BOOK: Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair)
4.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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