Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (32 page)

When, still frowning at him, Rose nodded, Percival looked sideways at Stokes. “I grew up in that house. I knew as well as Robert did about the problem of speaking privately in the study. If I had been so stupid as to want to boast to a friend about committing a double murder, I wouldn’t have chosen that room in which to do it.”

“But . . .” Rose couldn’t work it out. “I know your voice. I heard you say the words—it certainly wasn’t Marmaduke. But aside from all that”—she searched Percival’s face—“who but you could say that only William stood between you and the estate?”

Percival’s expression blanked. Slowly, his gaze on Rose, but not as if he was seeing her, he straightened. “Ah.” A second later, he looked at Stokes, then at Thomas and Barnaby. “So that’s what this”—with the fingers of one hand, he gestured at himself—“suspecting me stems from. You think I’m William’s heir.”

Barnaby asked the obvious question. “Aren’t you?”

Percival held his gaze, then quietly said, “Robert Percival wasn’t my brother. He was my half brother. I’m illegitimate, which is why there were so many years between us in age—our father dallied with my mother long after Robert’s mother had died. My mother was a widow and didn’t wish to remarry, but she died soon after birthing me. My father and Robert didn’t care about my birth. To them, I was always my father’s son, Robert’s brother.” He glanced at Rose. “Which is why Rosalind never knew of that, and, indeed, few outside the immediate family do.” Looking back at Stokes, he said, “But my illegitimacy does mean that I cannot inherit either the title or the entailed estate. If William dies, the estate will pass to Marmaduke, which is why Robert made a point of making me William’s principal guardian—he would have made me William’s only guardian except Marmaduke got . . . huffy. As it was easy enough to appease him with co-guardianship, Robert did so, knowing he, Robert, could rely on me and Foley to keep William and the estate safe through any term of minority.” Percival paused, then went on, “Robert and I were close—he knew I would protect William and Alice, and Rosalind, too, if anything happened to him, and, in fact, I swore I would.” He glanced at Rose. “It was that vow that’s driven me to search and search for William, Alice, and Rosalind through the last four years.”

Rose held his gaze; it remained steady, unwavering—true. She frowned. “But who, then, did I hear? I will swear on any Bible that I definitely heard all I’ve said I did.”

Percival’s gaze narrowed fractionally, then he nodded. “That’s why you fled.” His jaw firmed. “Because you thought . . . I was going to kill William.”

“I had no idea you’d sworn to Robert and Mama to protect them.” Rose paused, then added, “Mama had previously asked me to promise to always keep them safe, so I felt I had to act—immediately, that night.”

Percival grimaced. “In hindsight, that was an error on Robert and Corinne’s part.” He flicked a glance at Thomas, Stokes, and Barnaby. “The pair of them feared I would, entirely unintentionally, simply by being me, turn Rosalind’s impressionable head, so they asked me to keep my distance from her, which I dutifully did. But once they were gone”—Percival looked back at Rose—“that meant that I did not know Rosalind well. I had no idea why she had so precipitously, without any apparent reason, fled with the children. Conversely, she had no basis on which to judge me—neither of us knew the other well, certainly not enough to trust.”

After a moment, Stokes tapped the table. “Back to the point—if it wasn’t you Rose heard, who was it?”

Percival looked at Rose. “It couldn’t have been Marmaduke—you wouldn’t have mistaken his voice for mine, not even allowing for the distortion of the chimney.” Percival glanced at Stokes. “Marmaduke booms.”

Rose shook her head. “It definitely wasn’t Marmaduke.”

Percival searched Rose’s eyes . . . then his expression hardened. “Roger.” His tone was harsh. Turning to Stokes, Percival said, “It had to have been him. He and I sound alike enough to pass, certainly heard through that chimney. And although it’s Marmaduke who inherits after William, Marmaduke is . . . not a strong character, and very easily led. He’s most easily manipulated, virtually constantly, by his only son—Roger. That’s a large part of the reason why Robert made me William’s principal guardian.”

“And,” Penelope said, speaking for the first time although she’d been following the unfolding story avidly, “because of that, Roger might, indeed, have stated that only William stood between him and the estate.” She appealed to the others. “Roger didn’t need to inherit himself. He just needed his father to, and that would achieve the same purpose—the same access to the estate’s funds.”

Barnaby straightened. “When we interviewed Foley, he intimated that one of the co-guardians had tried to tap the estate for funds. That wasn’t you?”

Percival shook his head. “That was Marmaduke, almost certainly at Roger’s behest. Foley can confirm that. That was exactly what he and I were there to prevent, and we did.”

“We also learned,” Thomas said, “that someone set the legal clock ticking on William’s presumed death shortly after his disappearance.” He raised his brows at Percival.

Who nodded. “Marmaduke again. Foley and I held back as long as we could, but Marmaduke is the legal heir, so could push the point, and we had to give way.”

Montague cleared his throat. “Our investigations have been wide-ranging, and we noted that you have a steady drain on your income. More, you recently won fifteen thousand pounds at cards, and that has apparently disappeared.”

Percival stared at Montague for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, with resigned acceptance, inclined his head. “Curtis and his men don’t come cheap.”

“Damn!” Stokes muttered sotto voce. “Griselda was right.”

When Percival cocked a brow at him, Stokes waved the point aside. “But speaking of Curtis, and all this searching you’ve been paying him to do, why didn’t you come to us—the police—when Rose and the children disappeared?”

Percival grimaced and threw a sidelong look at Rose. “As I said, I didn’t know Rosalind well. I didn’t know anything about what she’d overheard—all I knew was that she was grief-stricken over the loss of both her mother and Robert, and that she loved the children—I did know that. Then, the next morning, she and the children were gone. We knew she’d taken them, that much was obvious, but in light of my vow to Robert and Corinne, the last thing I wanted to do was bring the law down on Rosalind’s head.”

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “We—me, Foley, and Marmaduke—reasoned that Rosalind had had some sort of hysterical breakdown and had, due to some imagined cause, for some unreal and therefore incomprehensible reason, kidnapped the children. We felt confident she wouldn’t harm them, and I assumed that by hiring Curtis we would track her down soon enough and rescue the children as well as her. We thought she needed care.” He glanced again at Rose, this time with a certain level of respect. “But we never caught up with her, not until recently, when we got some decent sightings in Cornwall.”

Rose had been following the revelations, but distantly. Now she nodded, but, still frowning, said, “I still don’t see how it could have been Roger I overheard.” She met Richard’s gaze. “He wasn’t staying overnight.”

“No,” Richard said. “But he was still at the Grange when Foley and I left. And he had a friend with him—they were intending to leave later and drive to town together . . . Atwood . . . no, Atwell. Ambrose Atwell.” Percival looked at Stokes. “That was Roger’s friend’s name. They were thick as thieves, and had been since their schooldays. That Roger would have so openly boasted to Atwell isn’t all that surprising.”

Stokes’s expression blanked. Then he blinked and looked at Sergeant O’Donnell.

Who had stopped writing and was staring at Stokes.

“Ambrose Atwell,” Stokes said. “Am I thinking of the right man, O’Donnell?”

“If you’re thinking of that incident ’bout two years ago, then yes, sir—that’s the name I recall.”

His expression growing grim, Stokes faced Percival. “Ambrose Atwell was found bludgeoned to death in a wood in Exeter about two years ago. It’s an unsolved murder. It was one of my cases. Atwell was well down on his luck and owed significant amounts to all sorts of people—we never got a whiff of who did it, and put his death down to falling foul of the wrong sort of creditors.”

Percival didn’t say anything for several moments, then he sighed. “If Atwell was the friend Rosalind heard Roger boasting to, at some point in time, Atwell, pressed for cash, might have tried to blackmail Roger.”

Stokes caught Percival’s gaze. “In your view, could your cousin have bludgeoned a friend to death?”

After a long moment, Percival replied, “If all we’re thinking is correct, and, finally, we seem to be unraveling the truth, then Roger killed Robert and Corinne, two people who had never done him the slightest harm. Could he have killed again to hide that fact?” Gravely, Percival nodded. “Yes, I believe he could.”

Stokes grimaced, then gestured to Morgan. “Get those shackles off.”

Morgan came forward, key in hand. Percival held up his hands. While Morgan unlocked the shackles and removed them, Rose, studying Percival, said, “I’ve spent the last four years thinking you murdered my mother and Robert, and planned to kill William, but you’re innocent.”

Percival shot her a faintly rueful glance. “I’ve spent the last four years thinking you had lost your mind and had kidnapped the children, but, clearly, you haven’t.”

Rose could barely believe the sense of relief that was flooding her; she found herself returning Richard’s faint smile.

A sudden tapping at the door drew everyone’s attention. Returning to his post beside it, shackles dangling from one hand, Morgan opened it.

“I have a message for Inspector Stokes and must see it into his hands.”

They all heard Violet’s clear tones. “Let her in,” Stokes ordered.

Violet swept into the room. She noted everyone, then her gaze fixed on Percival. After a second of studying him—a regard he returned without reaction—she drew in a breath, glanced at Montague, then looked at Stokes. “If this man is Richard Percival, then he’s not the one who is in terrible debt. It’s his cousin, Roger Percival, who is under threat from his creditors.” Violet handed a note to Thomas. “Your man Drayton sent this an hour ago. I thought you might need to see it straightaway.”

Unfolding the note, Thomas scanned the contents. “Drayton reports that Roger Percival is under mounting pressure to start paying off the quite mountainous debts he’s incurred . . . from the worst of the worst of the moneylenders operating out of the slums near Seven Dials.”

Looking up, Thomas smiled at Violet. “Thank you.” He handed the note to Stokes.

Who received it with a sharklike smile. Verifying the note’s contents, Stokes passed it on to Barnaby, then looked first at Percival, then at Rose. “Despite our wrong assumptions and the false trails we’ve pursued, we have, indeed, got to the truth. That”—he tipped his head at the note now in Montague’s hands—“is the final nail securing our case against Roger Percival.”

Chair legs scraping on the wooden floor, Stokes stood. “Now.” He looked at Richard Percival. “Where can I lay hands on your cousin?”

Percival drew out a fob-watch and checked the time. “As it’s not yet one o’clock, if you’re quick, you should be able to catch him before he leaves home.”

The others all stood. Stokes stepped back from the table. “And his home is where?”

On his feet, too, Percival replied, “He lives in my uncle’s town house in Mayfair—Number five, Albemarle Street.”

The shock on everyone’s faces had Percival glancing around.

“Oh,
no
!” The exclamation came from Penelope.

The others all looked at her; she appeared utterly shocked and had paled.

“What?” Barnaby demanded, his tone like a whip.

Penelope met his gaze. “That gentleman’s gentleman who saw us in Conduit Street—the one who recognized Rose and William. I just realized—he also recognized me!”

Along with all the others, Barnaby stared at her, then he looked at Richard Percival. “Does your cousin or your uncle have a gentleman’s gentleman?”

Richard Percival nodded. “Marmaduke’s valet is old and rarely leaves the house. Roger’s man, on the other hand, is a slimy character.” He glanced at Penelope. “Shorter than average, a trifle rotund, slightly bald with thinning brown hair, a round face with pasty complexion, and a sad liking for paisley waistcoats.”

Penelope swallowed; eyes widening, she nodded. “That’s him.”

Silence fell as everyone extrapolated what that news might mean.

Richard Percival was growing increasingly restive. Glancing from face to face, he eventually demanded, “Where are the children?”

Stokes met his gaze, then shoved his chair under the table and turned for the door. “We left them under guard at the Adairs’ house. In Albemarle Street—Number twenty-four.”

Rose uttered a choked sound and raced for the door. Thomas beat her to it, held it open for her, then, his expression grim, his jaw set, followed at her heels.

Chapter

15

T
hey piled out of police headquarters and rushed down the steps and across the street to where a row of hackneys idled. People were constantly coming to and leaving the building, so the hackneys waited expectantly.

Thomas reached the first coach in the line and wrenched open the door. “Albemarle Street, as fast as you can,” he called to the jarvey as Rose caught up with him, gathered her skirts, and climbed up.

Following her into the carriage, Thomas was about to slam the door when Richard Percival caught the outer handle.

Percival met Thomas’s eyes, then his gaze shifted to Rose. “Please. I need to see that William’s all right.”

Rose paused only for a second, then nodded.

Thomas released his hold on the door and Percival opened it wider, climbed in, then shut it.

The driver snapped his whip and the hackney pulled away from the curb, quickly picking up speed.

Richard Percival dropped onto the seat opposite Thomas and Rose. Sitting back, he met Rose’s eyes, then grimaced and looked away . . . but then he forced his gaze back to meet hers. “I’m sorry. I feel like I failed the children, and you, and even more, Robert and Corinne.” He shook his head. “I knew Roger was always hungry for cash, always pushing for more, but I never imagined . . .” Gesturing helplessly, Percival looked away.

Rose stirred. “Roger’s actions, and all the repercussions to date, are not your fault any more than they’re mine.” When Percival glanced at her, she continued, “As I see it, what’s happened so far is a . . . concatenation of events arising from the impact of Roger’s murderous actions on the careful arrangements Robert and Mama had set in place. If they hadn’t protected me from you, if they hadn’t hidden your illegitimacy from me, I would have known better than to think it was you I overheard speaking about killing William in order to inherit the estate. But I didn’t know, and so I acted.”

Percival all but shuddered. “Thank God you did. I’ve been heaping oaths on your head for years, but if you hadn’t taken them and fled . . . who knows what might have occurred even on that night. We can never know.”

“True. But my point is that both you and I acted as we did from the purest of motives—to protect the children. Neither of us, in my view, needs to apologize for that.”

Percival held her gaze for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Thank you. In return, let me state that I in no way hold you responsible for the last four years’ difficulties.”

Rose nodded in acceptance.

Thomas shifted his gaze to the façades whipping past; their jarvey had taken him at his word and was weaving in and out of the traffic thronging Cockspur Street. As the jarvey somewhat enthusiastically took the turn into Waterloo Place, Thomas and Rose swayed, shoulders brushing.

Percival, righting himself as the hackney straightened and pressed up Regent Street, glanced somewhat grimly at Rose. “I can’t help remembering how Roger used to put himself out to charm the children. Do you remember?”

Thomas glanced at Rose as she shivered.

“Yes.” She paused, then, sensing Thomas’s gaze, she elaborated, “Roger used to come up to the nursery and spend time with the children, playing silly games with them, making them laugh. That sort of thing.”

Thomas hesitated but then voiced his inference. “So they will most likely view him as a friend.”

Rose nodded. “If they remember him at all, and William certainly will, they’ll remember him as a family member, one they like.” She drew in a shaky breath, held it for a second, then said, “If he asks them to go with him . . . they very well might. He can be extraordinarily charming when he wants to be.”

Percival leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs; light fell across his face, revealing lines of mounting anxiety. “I swear,” he said, his voice low and thrumming with latent anger, “if Roger has hurt them in any way whatever, I will literally wring his neck.”

Thomas studied the other man’s face, then looked out of the window. If Roger Percival had done anything to harm William or Alice, all others would have to wait in line.

Despite his rising protectiveness—stronger, finer, more powerful than any compulsion he’d ever felt before—he kept his mind focused and refused to let it fragment, to plunge into assessing this scenario and that. There was no point. They needed to find out if anything had happened to the children and, if so, what, before wasting energy in futile, too-early planning.

Eyes on the passing streetscape, he waited . . . for Fate to reveal her full hand.

T
he others were following in two other hackneys that drew up outside the Adairs’ house immediately behind theirs. Percival descended first and paid off the jarvey. Thomas stepped down, then gave Rose his hand.

By the time she was on the pavement, Barnaby was already striding up the steps to his front door. He opened the door with his latchkey; everyone fell silent as, in a close group, trepidation rising over what they might find, they stepped over the threshold and into the front hall.

Everyone stood and listened, but nothing beyond the usual muffled sounds of staff busy in the rear of the house reached them.

Quietly, Montague shut the front door.

Barnaby signaled for them to remain silent and stay where they were. He walked into the drawing room but returned almost immediately.

A second later, Mostyn came hurrying through the door at the rear of the hall, summoned via the bellpull in the drawing room. The majordomo all but skidded to a halt when he saw the assembled group waiting.

Recovering his dignity, Mostyn drew himself up and bowed. “Sir, madam—my apologies. I didn’t hear you arrive.”

“Is everything in order here, Mostyn?” Penelope quietly asked.

Mostyn frowned. He glanced at Barnaby. “I think so, ma’am.”

The prevailing tension noticeably eased.

Rose all but sagged with relief. “Where are the children? Homer and Pippin?”

Mostyn’s expression remained unperturbed. “They’ve gone out for a drive with Mr. Roger Percival—he told me he’s cousin to Mr. Richard Percival, and Master Homer recognized him . . .”

Seeing the shocked dismay writ large on their faces, Mostyn floundered to a halt. He looked at Barnaby. “It is Mr. Richard Percival who’s the villain, isn’t it?”

Barnaby sighed through his teeth, then waved at Richard. “This is Mr. Richard Percival. And no. Sadly, we made a very large mistake. The villain in this case is Roger Percival.”

Stokes growled, “He must have had his man watching the house. He would have seen the children brought here this morning, and would, soon after, have seen you all depart, leaving William and Alice here with the staff.”

“And now he has them.” The quiet anguish in Rose’s voice raked them all.

Thomas reached for her hand, gripped it.

“Well,” Mostyn said. “Not exactly.”

All gazes whipped back to Mostyn’s face.

“By which you mean?” Barnaby prompted.

“Well, when he called and Master Homer was so delighted to see him, and Miss Pippin, too, we saw no reason to prevent him playing with the children in the parlor, although James remained with them the whole time, of course.”

“Are you saying our guards are with the children?” Penelope demanded.

Mostyn nodded. “Indeed, ma’am. The children have gone for a drive with Mr. Percival, but in our carriage, with Phelps and Conner to watch over them. And, I have to say, the drive wasn’t Mr. Percival’s idea—it was the children’s. They got it into their heads to go to Gunter’s for ices, and Mr. Percival asked if that was all right, given he was willing to escort them. The arrangement was that they would go to Gunter’s, then perhaps drive through the park before returning here.” Mostyn glanced at the clock on the hall table. “I would expect them back within the hour.”

Everyone looked at everyone else. No one was sure quite what to make of that.

Eventually, Violet voiced the question revolving in all their minds. “So what do we do? Wait in the drawing room for them to return, or . . . ?”

Richard Percival shifted. “No. We need to find them.” He met Rose’s gaze, then looked at Thomas. “That idea to go to Gunter’s? It might have seemed to be the children’s idea, but Roger would have seeded it. He’s an expert at steering people to do what he wants, and planting ideas in the children’s heads would be . . . well, child’s play for him.”

“But why would he want them out of the house?” Even as the words left her lips, Penelope waved the question aside. “No—that’s obvious. What I mean is, why did he bother going in our carriage with two large men guarding the children?”

Barnaby glanced at Mostyn. “Did he—Roger Percival—try to get you to let them go with him alone, without the guards? In a hackney, perhaps?”

Mostyn looked concerned. “Not exactly, but . . .” He glanced at Penelope. “I got the impression that he’d imagined doing that—taking them off in a hackney—but when James and I explained about the carriage and the guards, that we couldn’t agree to let the children go out without them, Mr. Percival fell in with our arrangements without any argument.”

Thomas met Stokes’s gaze. “Consider this—in arranging the deaths of Robert and Corinne Percival, Roger could not have known they would go for a drive until they did. Those murders were very neatly carried out, left no hints or clues that he was involved, yet he had to have been forming and re-forming his plan as he went. The murder of Atwell—I’m sure there’s no evidence there either, and almost certainly that would have happened in the same way, with Roger Percival reacting to an unfolding situation.” Thomas shifted his gaze to Richard Percival. “And as Richard said, Roger will continue to work the situation to his own ends, step by step making adjustments, until he gets what he wants.”

Rose nodded emphatically. Grasping Thomas’s arm, she locked gazes with Stokes. “Thomas and Richard are right. The children may
appear
to be safe, but they’re not. They’re with a man who wants to murder them—William, at least. And he
will
find a way, an opening, an opportunity, guards or not.”

Abruptly, Richard ran a hand through his hair. “He’ll probably view it as a challenge—him against Fate. Him succeeding in bending the situation to his own ends.”

Thomas stilled. Richard’s words resonated through him, a clarion call, and he knew. He looked at Barnaby. “We have to find the children.”

Barnaby met his gaze and didn’t argue.

Stokes stirred and growled, “I want to rush around to Gunter’s, but they most likely won’t be there.”

Barnaby glanced at Mostyn. “How long have they been gone?”

Mostyn looked at the clock. “They left at about twenty minutes past twelve, so they’ve been gone for close to an hour.”

“Long enough to have gone to Gunter’s and left.” Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “But I suspect none of us are imagining they’re currently bowling along the Avenue.” She looked at Barnaby, then at Stokes, at Richard, and finally at Thomas. “So where will he take them? How will he engineer the opportunity he wants?”

After several moments of silence, Richard said, “If he’s had murdering William in mind all along, and has come here today and succeeded in inveigling the children out of the house . . . he won’t stop there. He won’t pass up the chance.”

All color drained from Rose’s face.

Noting it, Thomas closed his hand over hers where it gripped his sleeve. He looked at the others. “We have to start thinking like him. We have to look at the challenges, the hurdles he has to overcome, from his point of view.” Something Thomas himself was exceedingly well qualified to do. “Whatever he does, he has to make sure he can either claim it was an accident, or, as with Atwell, and Robert and Corinne, not be identified as being with the victim when they died.”

Grim-faced, Barnaby nodded. “You’re right. So in this instance, given he’s known to be with the children, he’ll need to make William’s death appear to be an accident, and for that, he’ll need to get rid of the guards in some way.”

“Or,” Thomas said, “find somewhere Phelps, with his coach, and Conner, being a groom, can’t readily enter.”

“And which they won’t see as a dangerous place,” Violet put in, “and so won’t prevent the children from going in with Roger.”

“Exactly.” Thomas looked around the circle they’d formed. “So where will he—has he—taken them?”

They all cudgeled their brains, then Penelope volunteered, “The Royal Exchange?”

Thomas thought, then shook his head. “No—too public. It qualifies otherwise, but there will be too many others about, and from memory, there’s only one entrance.” He paused, then said, “So we can add the stipulation that it needs to be somewhere either deserted, or close to it—and preferably somewhere the children themselves will be keen to go.” He glanced at Rose, then Richard. “Roger got the children to suggest going to Gunter’s, and he’ll do the same again—he’ll lead William and Alice to desire to go somewhere, to demand to be taken there, rather than Roger suggesting it himself. Only in response to their entreaties will he offer to take them, and that will help sway Phelps and Conner.”

Barnaby, Stokes, Penelope, Violet, and Montague were all nodding, all following the logic.