The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (176 page)

“We will discover that when he tracks us down in London before we have the chance to marry.”

She tucked her head against his neck. “I don’t want him to.”

“Sometimes there is just no choice in life, my sweet. You simply have to clean up the mess before you can go on.”

“There is something else we must discover.”

He kissed her lightly on the mouth and said,“What?”

“We must find out who murdered Reverend Mathers.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, his eyes hard, “we must.”

“I dreamed I saw the man who did it, but I only saw his back. He’s evil, Spenser.”

“We will find him,” Spenser said and kissed her again, hard this time. And then he kissed her again.

H
E HAD HELD STEADY. HE couldn’t believe it. He was immensely proud of his strength of will. He was also so randy he thought he would grind his teeth to dust.

He’d had to button Helen’s gown up the back, but still he had managed to hold firm. He leaned forward to kiss her shoulder blade, then bit down on his lip.

“No,” he’d said aloud to the ceiling of the bedchamber. “I will keep to my vow.”

“Who do you think you are, Galahad?”

Helen was irritated with him. Because he wouldn’t make frantic love to her, three times in fifteen minutes? He just smiled. “In one month from now, we can stay in bed until we are smiling and witless.”

“I suppose you are right,” she said finally at least two hours later, when they were riding back to Court Hammering in the carriage he had rented. At his arched eyebrow, she added, “We will wait. We will find the lamp. We will discover if indeed Gerard Yorke is alive. We will find out who killed poor Reverend Mathers. In short, we have a lot on our plate. And to accomplish those things, we must have our wits about us.”

“You mean that when I am loving you, you have no wits?”

“Not a one,” she said and poked him in the arm. “And you know it. Indeed, you are proud of it.”

When they arrived at Shugborough Hall, Lord Prith and Flock met them at the front door. Both were beaming at them. Lord Prith continued to beam even as they walked into the entrance hall, saying nothing at all.

Finally Flock said, “His lordship wants to know the result of Lord Beecham’s outrageous strategy. Just imagine, kidnapping you, Miss Helen, to bring you around to his way of thinking. You will consider telling us everything now, Miss Helen.”

Helen said to her father, “I received a letter from Gerard Yorke six months ago. Until we find out if he is indeed still alive, we cannot marry. However, we are planning to wed in a month. We will tell the world about our upcoming nuptials. If Gerard is here, on this earth, he will have to do something, and then we will see.”

Lord Prith was impressed with this plan. “Naturally, Teeny showed me the letter, Nell, some three months ago. She thought I should know about it, smart girl. I nearly told Spenser about it the other night when he poured out all his frustrated passion to me, your dearest father. But then I thought, no, let the children deal with it. It is a good plan, my boy.”

“Thank you,” Lord Beecham said.

“Teeny is a superlative girl,” Flock said, and lowered his head mournfully. “She did not tell me about the letter.”

“It will work,” Lord Beecham said. “It must.”

“I agree. Bring champagne, Flock.”

“Why champagne now, Father?”

“One must always think positively, Nell. If we celebrate now, doubtless we will be celebrating the same thing again when you and Spenser are wedded.”

“Is my valet still breathing, sir?”

“It has been a close thing, my boy. Flock and Nettle usually just eye each other and sniff, like two stray dogs in the same territory. However, it is Teeny who has stayed their more violent tendencies.”

“What has she done?”

“She has informed them that she is going to marry Walter Jones. She told me, however, in private, that Walter is a ne’er-do-well and that she will have to teach him what’s what. She told me that she has memorized all of your excellent discipline strategies, observed many of them and has selected the ones she believes will be most efficacious with Walter if ever he strays. She is fully prepared to use them.”

Helen laughed so hard that Lord Beecham had to rub her back.

Later that afternoon, while Helen was at her inn in Court Hammering, seeing to her accounts and doubtless doling out punishments, Lord Beecham was working on the leather scroll in her small study. He was humming. The translation wasn’t going too badly now. Reverend Mathers had helped considerably. Poor Reverend Mathers. He paused, frowning. He would write to Lord Hobbs in hopes that he and his Bow Street Runner, Mr. Ezra Cave, had discovered something.

Lord Beecham looked up when Flock cleared his throat from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“My lord, there is a Lord Crowley here to see you.”

“The devil, you say. What does that damned man want, I wonder? Oh, the devil. I will come now, Flock.”

Jason Fleming, Baron Crowley, was in the drawing room, alone, standing by the fireplace. He was staring down into the empty grate. He turned slowly when Lord Beecham walked into the room.

“You wonder why I am here,” Lord Crowley said without preamble.

“Yes.”

Lord Crowley shrugged. “Everyone believes that I murdered Reverend Mathers. I did not.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I came to see if you knew more now. He was murdered because of the scroll, wasn’t he?”

“I have no idea.”

“Come, Heatherington, there is no need to be coy. Damnation, there are men following me everywhere I go. I imagine that one of them is dogging my tracks as we speak, probably standing right outside that window, staring in at me. Lord Hobbs won’t leave me alone; he continues to come by with his questions. He speaks to everyone I know. I know he believes that I killed Reverend Mathers. I did not kill the man.”

“You believe then that it was Reverend Titus Older who stuck the stiletto in his back?”

“No, more’s the pity. That silly old fool wouldn’t have the guts.”

“Then I cannot see that there is another available suspect, can you?”

“No, dammit, and that is what frightens me. I tell you, Lord Hobbs wants me hung and he wants to do it soon. He has spoken to everyone. I am not received. An opera girl recognized me the other night and refused to let me bed her, can you imagine?”

Lord Beecham could, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged. He frankly did not know what to make of this. Crowley coming to him for help? More likely, this was a ruse and Crowley was here to steal the leather scroll. But hadn’t he already stolen the copy? He wouldn’t need the original scroll.

Lord Beecham lightly flicked a small piece of lint from his sleeve. “I think perhaps you did it. You have a reputation for having a black soul. You are ruthless. You deal with scum. You are a luckless gambler, always betting, always losing, always in need of money. You have probably killed before, why not again? I cannot see your conscience pricking you overly. Yes, I can see you doing just about anything to refill your pockets.”

“Damn you, I am a man who looks for opportunities. But I didn’t kill Mathers. Perhaps it was you who stuck that stiletto in his back.”

“I suppose that is possible,” Helen said from the doorway. “However, why would he kill anyone, Lord Crowley? He already has the scroll in his possession. You are a half-wit, sir. You are making no sense.”

“Ah, Miss Mayberry. A pleasure, ma’am.” Lord Crowley managed an elegant bow. “You are looking well, I see. Beyond well, really.”

“Naturally,” she said. “Lord Beecham, Flock tells me that there is a very nice man outside by the name of Ezra Cave. He is our Bow Street Runner, I believe, here, keeping an eye on Lord Crowley.”

“I was mad to come here,” Lord Crowley said, stomping toward the door of the drawing room. “You will not believe me, no matter what I say.”

“Give us one good reason to believe you, Crowley,” Lord Beecham called after him. “Just one.”

Crowley looked back and forth between them, then blurted out, “Just perhaps Reverend Mathers wasn’t murdered because of the scroll.”

“Ah, now that is a rather unique way of looking at the business,” Lord Beecham said.

“I don’t know, not for certain, but I heard that his brother, Old Clothhead, as Reverend Older calls him, was fighting with him constantly. Perhaps he wanted the scroll, perhaps not. Perhaps he was jealous of his brother, perhaps he was finally pushed over the edge and stabbed him in a rage. He stole the scroll as an afterthought. Maybe he already knew it was valuable. That fellow also needs money. You’ll not believe this, but he is married to a very young girl, and she is always encouraging him to buy her baubles and jewels. Yes, Old Clothhead sounds desperate. Surely he is an excellent suspect.”

“Why don’t you tell Mr. Ezra Cave what you just told us?”

“I done ’eard it all, milord. Sounds ’avey-cavey to me, but I’ll pass it on, to ’is lordship, see wot ’e thinks about Old Clothhead wit’ the sticker.”

“Damn all of you, I did not murder Reverend Mathers. I did not even know that you met him in the British Museum!”

“Now, sir, ye’ll burst yer liver if ye squawk like that.”

Lord Crowley looked ready to commit murder now. He grabbed his cloak and cane from a stolid Flock and slammed out of the front door of Shugborough Hall.

“The strange thing,” Lord Beecham said thoughtfully, stroking his long fingers over his jaw, “is that I believe the fellow. He’s afraid. He’s really afraid.”

“But Reverend Mathers’s brother, Spenser? Old Clothhead?”

“I don’t think that’s right either, but who knows? Now, Helen, let us all have some tea and have Mr. Cave tell us what he has discovered.”

It amounted to nothing much at all. Mr. Ezra Cave prepared to take his leave to return to London an hour later. “I got my fivers in all sorts of pockets, milord, and me ears plastered against all sorts of walls wot got blokes on the other side speaking in whispers amongst themselves. Something will pop out, ye’ll see.”

After Ezra Cave had left, Spenser and Helen looked at each other, each feeling the instant pull, the drugging desire. They both held to their places. It was a close thing. They would have leapt on each other if Lord Prith hadn’t chosen that particular moment to stroll into the drawing room.

“Something I never told my little Nell here,” he said to Lord Beecham, “but if I had to describe Gerard Yorke, it would be that he was a fraud. Oh, yes, I know, he was a hero then, and everybody believed him to be Lord Nelson’s right hand. And perhaps it was true at one time. But by the time I met him in ’01, it was clear to me that he was a deceitful creature, all decked out with ribbons and braid. This letter you got from him, Helen, it is what I would call a preliminary exploration. He wants something, don’t doubt it. What he wants, I just can’t figure out. I’m sorry, Spenser, but Gerard is alive. I can smell him.

“Look to your back. If you need help slitting his bloody throat, call me. Where is Flock? Flock! Oh, there you are. I want you to rub my shoulders. All this excitement has left me stiff.”

And Lord Prith walked out of the drawing room, Flock on his heels. They heard him say, “I wonder if one could mix champagne with some sort of sweet cream and perhaps have a perfect concoction to rub into one’s shoulders?”

“Oh, dear,” Helen said. She turned bewildered eyes to Lord Beecham. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“I don’t either, but I believe it is time you and I returned to London. We need Douglas Sherbrooke. He knows everybody in the Admiralty. We have got to get to Gerard’s father, Sir John Yorke. I’ll send a message to Douglas, make sure he and Alexandra are still in London.”

Lord Beecham walked to Helen, automatically raised his hands to touch her, then immediately lowered them, and took a quick step back. “No,” he said, “no. Now, I believe that you and I should discuss what I have added to the translation on the leather scroll.”

Rather than translating word for word, Lord Beecham pulled out several sheets of foolscap from Helen’s desk drawer. “I have put together a narrative. There are still many concepts, ideas, words missing that Reverend Mathers scratched his head over. But what we have here, Helen, is the good beginnings of a story.

“No, please sit over there.” He pointed to the settee, a good eight feet distant.

She sat on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped together, all her attention focused on him. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Helen.”