Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (27 page)

“Excellent!” Jordan beamed, then looked at Montague. “You realize, of course, that this means you can ask for damned near anything and the boss will oblige?”

Montague smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind, but to return to our present inquiry, can you shed any light on any gambling debts or line of credit maintained by one Richard Percival?”

“With no intention of being coy, the answer to that is yes, and no.” Sitting back, Jordan steepled his fingers, and a certain steeliness infused his expression. “We do know of Richard Percival—he’s a regular enough customer, but he’s never been in any way difficult. Yes, he loses, just like anyone, but, notably, he’s quite a creditable hand at most card games and, overall, rarely loses much. I’ve asked around and got nary a whisper that he ever plays deep—that’s not his style. In our sphere, he’s what we call a dabbler, one who gambles purely for the social interaction rather than from any real addiction, not even from any true desire to win.”

“This isn’t sounding hopeful,” Montague said.

Jordan inclined his head. “And it only gets worse, at least if you were imagining Percival has some gambling-related problem. I mentioned your query to the boss, of course, and he, too, was puzzled. He said that although we know Percival as a sound man, given it was you who was asking, I should look deeper. He told me to ask Symonds.” Jordan broke off to explain to both Montague and Thomas, “He’s the one who took over Gallagher’s patch when the old man passed on.”

Thomas arched a brow. “And Gallagher was?”

“The man to go to to learn anything about the seedier side of life in the capital—its underworld, if you like. Gallagher wasn’t a player himself—his business was information.” Jordan paused, then went on, “So I went to Symonds and asked.”

“And?” Montague prompted.

“Nothing immediately known, but, as it was me asking, and so the boss, Symonds was thorough and put the word around, and even asked his friends, the moneylenders. He sent what he’d learned in a note an hour ago. Seems no one holds any vowels of Richard Percival’s, but he has occasionally been gambling in some of the lower hells, so to speak, and that at a level deeper than we’ve known him to play at in any of the boss’s venues. However, again, no one knows of him being in debt to anyone. More, one hell reported that he’d won a cool fifteen thousand in a single sitting a few weeks ago.”

Jordan looked at Montague. “So if you’re trying to identify where Percival got some sudden influx of cash, that’s the source. But if you’re looking for some ongoing debt, then the tables are the wrong place to look.”

Montague sighed. “Thank you. At least we now know we’re looking in the wrong direction.”

With a what-would-you gesture, Jordan rose, and Thomas and Montague got to their feet.

With handshakes and expressions of goodwill all around—and a reminder to Thomas of his agreement to meet with the Philanthropy Guild at some future date—Jordan departed.

Both Thomas and Montague remained standing. The instant the outer door shut behind the younger man, Thomas looked at Montague. “Where did the fifteen thousand go?”

Montague met his eyes. “There’s no hint of it going into any of his accounts.”

Thomas shifted his grip on his cane. “Fifteen thousand isn’t the sort of sum you put under any mattress.”

Montague humphed and tapped the stack of papers detailing Percival’s finances. “I wonder if that fifteen thousand, the disappearance of same, might be in any way linked to the irregular but constant drain on his coffers.”

“He’s paying for something.” Frowning, Thomas added, “But what?”

“Indeed.” Montague moved back to his chair. “I’ll keep looking. Sometimes perseverance is the only way.”

Thomas nodded absentmindedly, then remembered. “Incidentally, Penelope has summoned us to dine this evening in Albemarle Street. Apparently your wife will already have received a note.”

Brows rising in resignation, Montague met Thomas’s eyes and nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

“Indubitably.” With a nod and a salute, Thomas headed for the door.

But once he gained the street, he paused, thinking over all he’d just learned, then, determination firming, he turned toward Threadneedle Street. With Drayton’s office so close, the chance to mount one last-ditch effort to identify the debt it appeared Richard Percival must, in some fashion, be servicing was too good to pass up.

I
t was early evening when Percival went upstairs to change. Walking into his bedroom, he heard feet pattering up the stairs behind him, and left the door open.

A second later, his gentleman’s gentleman, Wilkes, came rushing through, whirled in something approaching a frenzy, and shut the door.

Before, frowning, Percival could ask what the devil the man was about, Wilkes turned a face alight with excitement his way. “Sir! I saw them! Here!
In town
.”

Percival blinked. “What?”

“I saw them, large as life, in Conduit Street. I’d taken your brown jacket to be mended and was walking back, and there they were, getting into a carriage with some others.”

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Here?
He hardly dared hope. Still stunned, and more than a little disbelieving, he studied Wilkes. “Are you sure?” Even as he asked, he remembered that Wilkes would know.

The euphoric certainty lighting Wilkes’s face didn’t dim as he nodded emphatically. “I had a clear view, sir. It was her and the boy—I’m absolutely certain.”

Wilkes was all but bouncing on his toes in his eagerness.

Percival could empathize; he—they—had been waiting for so long . . . gradually, Wilkes’s excitement reached him. An even stronger euphoria bloomed and surged through him, and he smiled. “Well, well—who would have thought dear Rosalind would be so . . . bold. London, here, right under the family’s noses.”

And just in time. The reason he needed William dead was daily growing ever more pressing, but, it seemed, salvation was at hand.

“Indeed, sir—but there’s
more
!” Wilkes could barely get the words out. “I think I know where they’re staying.”

Percival refocused on Wilkes’s face. “Indeed?” His smile grew intent. “Do tell.”

T
hey started sharing all they’d learned of Richard Percival the instant they gathered in the drawing room in Albemarle Street. By the time they sat down to dine, all their latest findings had been aired but, by common consent, not yet discussed; as the courses came and went, it wasn’t purely the food they were digesting.

A comment from one of them, most often in the vein of thinking out aloud, or of asking for clarification on some point, would set their collective minds whirling again; Rose found it strange as well as reassuring, having such a company of supporters all plotting and scheming and actively seeking for ways to bring Richard Percival down.

To expose him and free William of any threat; none of them seemed to lose sight of that goal, no matter how absorbed or distracted by specific details they became.

“Right, then.” With dessert consumed, Penelope set her napkin beside her plate and looked around the table. “If you gentlemen wish for brandy, you may drink it in the drawing room, but I suggest we all repair there, summarize our case, and then decide what we need to do next.”

No one demurred. Denying any wish to dim their wits with liquor, the gentlemen followed at the ladies’ heels.

As soon as everyone was settled, from the corner of the sofa closest to the armchair in which Barnaby sat, Penelope looked around the group. “So, where do we start?”

“Let’s briefly revisit the evidence we have.” Stokes paused, gathering his thoughts, then proceeded, “First, Robert Percival, Viscount Seddington, and his wife were found dead, wrapped in the sails of the viscount’s yacht off Grimsby. However, it’s known that the viscountess would never have boarded the yacht willingly. That’s the first clue that some crime was committed, that the pair might have been murdered. Our second clue is what Rose overheard.” Stokes proceeded to lay out the facts as they knew them, through Rose’s flight and the eventual arrival of inquiry agents at the manor, concluding with, “So it appears that our prime suspect, Richard Percival, has been mounting a search for Rose and the children, and he’s been employing professional searchers to do so.” Stokes shifted, straightening. “Today, the watch my men have been maintaining on Percival bore fruit. He’s been staying put, only going out to his club of an evening, then coming straight home, but midmorning today, he traveled into the city, to the office of a man named Curtis.”

Barnaby nodded. “So the searchers came via Curtis.”

Thomas frowned. “I’ve used Curtis myself on occasion. His reputation paints him as highly effective while always operating within the law.”

Montague was nodding. “That’s my understanding, too. Curtis and his firm are well known, well established.”

Stokes inclined his head. “Be that as it may, that’s where Percival went. He was there for over half an hour, then returned to his house.”

Penelope made a
more
gesture. “What do we know about this Curtis—more specifically, about how he runs his business?”

“His firm,” Barnaby said, “specializes in finding people, nothing more. They don’t apprehend. They don’t get involved. They simply locate people. Most often, those people are debtors hiding from their creditors, but, of course, there are other reasons people go into hiding.”

Stokes pulled a face. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of Curtis finding someone when that person didn’t deserve to be found, so to speak.”

“Then again,” Thomas dryly remarked, “if Curtis was engaged in such pursuits, essentially finding innocents for villains, would you necessarily know?”

Stokes grimaced. “Good point.”

“There’s also the fact that few villains would be in a position to, or even wish to, pay Curtis’s fees.” Montague looked around the group. “His services don’t come cheap.”

“However,” Barnaby said, “what we don’t know is if Percival has been using Curtis all along, or whether this is a recent association.”

“True,” Stokes said. “And there’s no denying an outfit like Curtis’s would be just the thing for hunting down a missing heir.”

“And”—Thomas shifted, straightening his weak leg—“as William’s legal guardian, it would be easy enough for Percival to convince Curtis that he, Percival, was acting legitimately.”

Stokes looked from Thomas to Montague. “So where do we stand regarding Percival’s motive?”

Montague pulled a face. Briefly, he summarized the avenues he, Drayton, and Marwell had between them canvassed. “From all the sources we’ve accessed, from the entirely legitimate to the underworld, we’ve established that Percival has a steady income, doesn’t in general gamble heavily, but on occasions might, and that usually in the lower of hells. He does, however, have some as-yet-unidentified drain on his purse, amounting to a considerable sum, and it’s paid via a most peculiar monthly system that dates at least from the time of the murders, and might, conceivably, be an outcome of some debt that occurred prior to the murders. That said, the monthly payments are highly irregular—they start out quite high in the months after the murders, then decline almost to nothing, then rise again, then fall again, and that goes on through the years. The recent payments are high, and rising. Needless to say, the payments are untraceable. In addition, Percival won fifteen thousand pounds at the tables recently, and that money has not appeared in any of his legitimate accounts.”

Montague paused, clearly gathering his thoughts, then stated, “We are left to conclude that there might well be some very large debt that Percival contracted before the murders, one sufficient to provide his motive for the murders, but as for that debt’s specific existence and any description of what it might be . . .” He met Stokes’s steady gaze. “We still don’t have any evidence of that.”

Stokes frowned, then, leaning forward, rested his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands. “So you
have
evidence of payments that might be occasioned by some large and significant debt, but you can’t yet identify the debt itself.”

Thomas stirred. “As to that, I’ve asked my agent, Drayton, to inquire, very quietly, among the lowest ranks of capital suppliers.” Meeting Montague’s gaze, he went on, “The moneylenders who operate below the level that even Symonds would know of.”

Expression turning grim, Stokes nodded. “The real bloodsuckers.”

Thomas inclined his head. “Given the oddity of the payments Percival has been making, it occurred to me that he might have fallen into their hands—some have been known to demand a percentage of a man’s income, month to month, rather than a fixed figure.”

Montague was nodding. “I’ve heard the same, and yes, it might be some payment system of that nature.”

“However,” Thomas continued, “as neither I nor anyone else I know—including, I suspect, even Symonds—have any direct contacts in that exceedingly murky sphere, the approach will have to be handled very carefully. Any answers we get won’t come quickly.”

“Regardless,” Penelope said, “such inquiries must now be made.” She looked at Stokes. “As I understand it, we need to prove either a solid and believable motive or, alternatively, actual intent—meaning catch him in the act.”