The Duke's Last Hunt (26 page)

“Lemonade,” said Eliza, the voice of wisdom. She was not about to drink alcohol-laced punch at eleven o’clock in the morning.

Eliza followed Adele down the hallway to the morning room. Adele threw open the doors, only to discover that most of the seating was already taken—Mr. Pevensey and Mr. Cecil on the sofa, Henry in one of the wingback chairs, and Mr. Turold at the table, signing his name at the bottom of a lengthy letter.

Four pairs of eyes turned in their direction, and Eliza had the distinct impression that they were intruding on some sort of solemnity that was forbidden to the fairer sex. The gentlemen rose to their feet perfunctorily, Walter Turold taking the opportunity to fold his letter in quarters and hand it to Mr. Pevensey.

“What now?” asked Henry.

“Now we wait for Constable Cooper,” said Pevensey.

“Shall I send a groom to the village to summon him?”

“No, we were just at the village a half hour since, and I told him he’d be needed at Harrowhaven this morning.”

“Do I have your leave to go up to my room and pack a portmanteau?” asked Mr. Turold. Eliza’s lips parted. Apparently, Rufus’ friend was preparing to leave the house.

“Of course,” said Cecil. “You give your word you’ll not try escaping, yes?”

Mr. Turold pulled at a piece of hair that had fallen out of his queue. “Where would I go?”

At the word “escaping,” Eliza’s eyes opened wide. Had there been some new development in the investigation? Adele stared openmouthed at Turold. He turned on his heel and exited the room. The curly-haired Mr. Cecil followed him out.

“Lud, what is happening here, Henry?” demanded Adele.

Henry’s jaw set into a hard line. “Walter has confessed that the shooting was no accident.”

Adele let out a shriek. “He murdered Rufus? Whatever for?”

Eliza saw the red-haired investigator and Henry exchange a glance. Neither of them responded.

“I say, what’s going on here?” asked Stephen Blount, peeking around the door of the morning room and seeing the somber gathering.

Adele breathlessly explained the new information. Stephen’s eyes bulged, and he rubbed his invisible sideburns in disbelief. “But we still don’t know why he would do such a thing.” She stamped her foot. “They were friends!”

Stephen offered her his arm, and she took it. It was probably the closest thing to taking hands that they could do with Henry in the room. Eliza found herself staring at Henry’s hands. She blushed and looked away. She was certainly
not
going to allow him to take her hand again.

The butler’s form materialized. “Mr. Pevensey, the constable is here to see you.” The investigator disappeared without a word.

“I’ll tell Mother,” said Adele, and within seconds she and her escort had disappeared, leaving Eliza alone in the morning room with Henry.

Henry walked over to the door which had swung shut and opened it half way. For a moment, Eliza thought he was leaving the room too—but no, he was simply lending a little more propriety to their tête-à-tête.

“I am very sorry about your brother,” said Eliza. She stood uncomfortably, refusing to sit down and thereby signify that she wanted a conversation to take place.

“So am I,” said Henry. His stern face lifted into a wry smile. “But at least the investigator no longer believes that
I
murdered him.” He gave her a direct look. “Nor you either, I hope.”

“Oh!” said Eliza, taken aback. “I’m certain I never believed such a thing, my lord.”

He seemed pained to hear her return to formal address, but he did not insist that she call him Henry.

“You are not as curious as Adele,” he remarked, “demanding to know why this happened.”

“It is not for lack of interest. I can see you do not want to say. Or perhaps it is not fitting for gentlewomen to hear.”

“Both of those things are true. And yet”—Henry gave a slight gesture of his hand and she found herself sitting down without a shadow of protest in a nearby armchair—“I think it only right that you should know. I would prefer you not to share these details with Adele.”

He took a seat opposite her, leaning forward and looking at her intently. “Rufus,” he said, “was a scoundrel. I know you may not believe me—I know it seems that I have every reason to try to tarnish his reputation with you—but the fact of the matter is that he was a libertine through and through. That woman you saw here yesterday was his former mistress, and on the day of the hunt, Rufus was actually hunting something else besides a stag. He was attempting a seduction of a young woman in the neighborhood.”

“Which young woman?” asked Eliza. It was an uncomfortable question, but she felt that—as the late duke’s betrothed—she had the right to know.

“Catherine Ansel, the Reverend’s daughter.” Henry paused. “I think you overheard him discussing her with Turold in the maze that one evening.”

“Oh…yes,” said Eliza, swallowing. She had thought they were discussing her own self. Perhaps she was not the simpleton Walter Turold had referred to. And perhaps she did not have just the style of beauty that Rufus Rowland preferred. “She was not quite right in the head, Adele said.” Eliza shuddered at the thought of Rufus taking advantage of the poor girl. “Why? What happened to her? Was she born like that?”

Henry stood up and paced over to the window. A moment passed. “I suppose the polite thing to do would be to say that I don’t really know and pass on from the subject—but I find myself unable to give half-truths to you, Eliza. I have never shared this with anyone before, but since you ask…Catie Ansel’s condition is entirely my fault. Several years ago, when she was really little more than a girl, I encountered her in the forest, and—”

Eliza’s face drained of color. She stood up from her chair. “Thank you for your frankness, Lord Henry, but please, go no further. I understand that you consider me to be of greater maturity than your sister, but I have no desire to hear such tales.” The half-open door called to her like a beacon in a hurricane. She darted toward it and disappeared into the hall, hurrying breathless through the saloon, and up the stairs to her room.

What horror had he been about to confess? Rufus was a scoundrel, he had said…. “But what about you?” her heart demanded. “What about you?”

26

P
evensey walked pensively over to the entrance hall. The confession from Walter Turold had been unexpected, and somehow…incomplete. There were so many details still unresolved. But perhaps it was best to take the man into custody and sort those details out later.

Constable Cooper was waiting in the entrance hall, his bushy gray sideburns nearly doubling the width of his round face. “Ah, Mr. Pevensey,” he said. “I thought I’d come round this morning before the inquest and see if you have made any progress.”

Pevensey could tell that it would delight the man to no end to find that no progress had been made. He kept quiet.

“I still have that statement by Mr. Turold,” said the constable helpfully, “should you be needing it.”

“Very kind of you,” said Pevensey brightly, “but I’ve taken a new statement from Turold this morning, and he’s confessed that it was no accident. He murdered the duke.”

“Dear me!” said the constable, his jaw falling open in shock. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Are you sure he’s quite sure?”

“The confession was made of his own free will.”

“Well then,” said the constable, “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to hold him for the time being.”

“Yes, exactly so. He’s upstairs packing his things as we speak. Mr. Cecil should be bringing him down shortly.”

Pevensey took a seat on the bench in the hall, and Constable Cooper followed suit. Out of the corner of his eye, Pevensey saw Miss Malcolm heading through the saloon, a look of distress on her face. Henry Rowland emerged from the morning room half a second later, his eyes on Miss Malcolm, but as soon as she disappeared, he stalked away in the other direction, presumably to his study.

Pevensey shook his head. There was clearly an attraction between these two, but also an impediment that stood in the way. The girl’s mother was not in favor of the match—he had overheard as much yesterday—and the girl herself seemed undecided about something, hesitant to trust. He snorted. But who was he to fault someone for that? He had never been one to lower his defenses for anyone….

Constable Cooper initiated some small talk, and Pevensey reluctantly exercised his conversation about the weather in Sussex, the condition of the roads, and his opinion on the Prince Regent’s diet. What on earth could be keeping Cecil and Turold? It was not as if they were packing a woman’s trousseau.

After a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Pevensey signaled for one of the nearby footmen. “Could you show me where Mr. Turold’s room is?”

It was the loquacious footman who had gone on leave the day of the hunt for his sister’s wedding. He responded with alacrity and even a little show of excitement. Apparently, word of Turold’s confession had already spread through the domestic staff. When they reached the door, the footman stood back at a discreet distance.

Pevensey knocked, but there was no response. He tried the door—locked.

“Who has keys to this?” he demanded.

“Mr. Hayward, Mrs. Forsythe—”

“Get them now!” said Pevensey, his tone clipped and urgent.

The footman broke into a run, making for the servants’ staircase. It was not more than two minutes before he returned, thrusting an iron ring of keys in Pevensey’s hands. The butler—stately Mr. Hayward—was only ten steps behind, his lined face glistening with the exertion of ascending the stairs so rapidly.

“This one,” said the butler, reaching for the correct key. Pevensey put it in the lock.

He entered the room slowly, with the two domestics peering over his shoulder. There was no sign of Turold.

A man’s body was lying prone on the floor near the bed. Pevensey knelt down and turned it over. Cecil!

He was still breathing, but unconscious. Pevensey saw something wet on his black curls and touched his head. His fingers came away red. Turold must have struck him with something hard.

The fireplace poker lay nearby.

While Pevensey examined Cecil, Hayward and Frederick searched the small room.

“The window is open, Mr. Pevensey,” said the butler.

Pevensey wiped his hand on a handkerchief and stood up. Hayward was right, the window had been opened and propped up, the space large enough for a man—especially a lithe, athletic one like Turold—to slip through.

How far was the drop? Pevensey walked over to the window sill and looked down. It was a goodly distance, but there was grass below, and if he had lowered himself down by his arms first, it might have done no more than jar him. But then again, perhaps the open window was only a ploy—perhaps Turold had exited the bedroom through the door and hidden himself somewhere in the house.

“Have you notified all of the staff about Mr. Turold’s confession?” asked Pevensey.

“No, sir,” said Hayward. “I was never instructed to—although tongues wagging as they will, it may have spread to most of the downstairs servants by now.”

“But probably not to the stables,” said Pevensey. If Turold
had
left the house, Gormley would have had no warning to deny him the use of his horse. The fellow could have twenty minutes’ start on them.

He looked back at Cecil, torn between running to the stables to give chase and looking after the needs of the fallen. Friendship won out. “We need a doctor. Now.”

“Yes, Mr. Pevensey,” said Frederick. He darted out of the room and ran down the corridor.

“Help me, Hayward,” said Pevensey, and together they lifted Cecil onto the bed.

* * *

Henry sat down heavily. He
had tried—for the first time in ten years—to bare his breast about that awful day. And Eliza had not even stayed to hear the whole of it. He took a deep breath. He had never considered the fact that he might someday find the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and fail, through no fault of his own, to gain her good opinion.

He stretched and rolled his shoulders. What was he doing here anyway? The investigation was over. Once Rufus was in the ground, he could return to London. That was where his life was now.

The letter from Mr. Maurice was still in his pocket. Taking it out, he slid a finger under the flap and broke the seal. No doubt this was a summons to return to his duties.

An urgent knocking sounded on the door of his study. Without waiting for his answer, Mrs. Forsythe threw open the door.

“What is it?” asked Henry, standing up from his desk as he read the concern on the housekeeper’s face.

“Oh, Master Henry!” she said, reverting to his childhood name. “Mr. Turold’s attacked Mr. Cecil and run off.”

Henry dropped the letter on the desk and made for the door. “Where’s Pevensey?”

“Here,” said Pevensey, just coming from the saloon into the corridor. “Cecil has a serious head injury. I’ve sent your footman for the doctor. Mrs. Forsythe, if you could tend to him until then—Hayward’s putting some bandages on him to stop the bleeding. Brockenhurst, I need
you
to help me with the search.”

Henry did not take time to mince words. He reached for the bell rope in the study and rang it sharply four or five times. Several of the staff came scurrying, and Henry sent them back to call the others for an emergency assembly in the saloon.

Meanwhile, Pevensey ran out to the stables, presumably to check with Gormley about the status of the horses. By the time he had returned, the caps of the maids were fluttering around the saloon like a bevy of white butterflies.

As the servants gathered on the floor below, the family and guests congregated on the staircase above. Adele and Stephen came down with Henry’s mother. Lady Malcolm and Sir Arthur were not far behind. Robert poked his head out from the top of the stairs to see what all the commotion was about. Henry noted that only Eliza was missing.

Pevensey ascended a few of the steps in the grand staircase so that he could project his message into the crowd. In short order, he explained about Walter Turold’s confession, his attack on Cecil, and his disappearance. “He has not taken a horse, which means he is either hiding here in the house”—a gasp went up from the maids—“or has escaped through the window and is making for the woods on foot. I shall need every able-bodied man to help with the search.”

Henry heard Constable Cooper clear his throat from the back of the crowd. “Excuse me, Mr. Pevensey, the gentlemen should be arriving for the inquest quite soon.”

“It’s not an inquest anymore,” said Pevensey. “It’s a manhunt. I’m sure we can use the extra help. My lord?”

Henry stepped forward to sort the male domestics into pairs and sent them off to search different quadrants of the house. He told the maids to stay in the kitchen with Hayward and asked his mother and sister to step into the morning room with the Malcolms. “Stephen,” he said, “go out to the stable with Robert and have Gormley saddle our horses.”

“I say, Hal,” said Robert, “I think it would be better if I stayed here to guard the ladies.” He blinked his poor, shortsighted eyes.

“Suit yourself,” said Henry. The crowd started to disperse, each to his own assigned location. “I’ll be with you momentarily, Stephen.” Taking the stairs two at a time, Henry reached the top and strode down the corridor. He reached Eliza’s door and knocked sharply.

“Who is it?” The thick wood of the door deadened her voice.

“Henry. I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything more to say.” He could hear her voice closer now, as if she had moved directly in front of the door.

He took a chance and turned the door handle.

“Lord Henry!” she said, affronted at the imposition. Later on, Henry would have no memory of what she was wearing or how her hair was arranged, but he did remember how lovely she looked when she was angry.

“Listen to me, Eliza,” he said, overruling her objection. “Turold has escaped. He’s injured Cecil—badly—and he could be hiding in the house still. I need you to go downstairs with your parents. Immediately.”

She hesitated.

He held out his hand. “Please.”

She placed her hand in his, removing it to the more proper position of the crook of his arm as they went down the corridor. Despite the macabre circumstances, Henry’s mind could not help seizing on what might have been….

As soon as they reached the hard floor of the saloon, she took her arm away. Henry felt an acute sense of loss. “They are in the morning room,” he said—because he was unable to say what he really wished to say.

“Thank you,” she said crisply, and headed in that direction without a backward glance.

* * *

It was nearly nightfall when
Pevensey dismounted from his horse outside the small stone manor belonging to the Cecil family. He tied the horse to an iron ring and knocked on the door.

A suspicious housekeeper answered the knocker and was about to shoo him away when he inquired after Cecil until a clear, feminine voice floated towards them from an adjacent room. “It’s all right, Mrs. Potter. He can come in.”

Pevensey was shown into a small sitting room where a young lady sat at her embroidery, working away at an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves on a large hoop. Her curly black hair hinted at her identity right away.

“Good evening, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey with a bow. The lady’s black curls, half of them unpinned, fell forward over the shoulders of a pale blue day dress, a slightly softer shade than the blue of her eyes.

“Good evening, Mr. Pevensey,” the young woman said, gesturing toward a nearby chair. He sat down. “Any luck in the search?” She laid her embroidery hoop in her lap.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” said Pevensey. It had been a grueling day of searching the woods on foot and on horse with a pack of bloodhounds that never picked up the scent. “I heard your brother was transported here by carriage. Is he…?”

“Quite well,” she said reassuringly, “or at least as well as one can be after such an ordeal. I believe he came to his senses before the doctor even arrived at Harrowhaven. He has a good-sized bandage and a splitting headache, but he may be walking about in the morning.”

“Is he asleep now?” asked Pevensey. They had never had the chance to speak together after Walter Turold’s confession, and Pevensey dearly wanted to know what had transpired upstairs directly before the suspect’s flight.

Miss Cecil smiled. “Probably not. He wanted to come down for dinner, but I insisted that he follow the doctor’s orders and stay in bed for at least one day.”

“I hope you at least sent him up a tray.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Of course. I hardly think I could have enforced fasting, even if the doctor had required it.” She stood up, laying her embroidery down on a small table. Pevensey rose to his feet as well. “Shall I show you upstairs?”

“Yes, please.” Pevensey fell in behind her as she left the sitting room.

They went up a narrow staircase, and she opened a door leading off the top landing. There was Cecil, his black hair wrapped round with a strip of muslin. He was propped up in bed with half a dozen pillows, a tray of cold meats and soup on his lap. “Pevensey! I hoped you would come.”

“How did it happen? Did you turn your back on him?”

“Regrettably, yes. We had no sooner walked into the room than he walked over to the fireplace. I went over to the wardrobe to open it, and within seconds, there was a very large bump on the back of my head. But enough about me. What news? Did you apprehend him?”

“Regrettably, no,” said Pevensey. He walked over to the bed and took the nearby chair. Miss Cecil stayed farther back, leaning her black head against the frame of the door. In keeping with human nature, she would want to know what events had transpired today. “He’s gone to earth somewhere,” continued Pevensey. “We couldn’t trace him, even with bloodhounds.”

Cecil frowned. “Did you try the parsonage?”

“It was the first place I looked, but the Reverend swore on his Bible that he hadn’t seen so much as Turold’s whiskers today.”

“Did he seem…surprised to learn of the confession?”

“In my estimation, no,” said Pevensey. “At the same time, though, he made no admission of prior knowledge. He acted doubtful when I told him the shooting had taken place just outside his home.” He cast a sideways glance at Miss Cecil, for whom this information might be too detailed. Turold had wanted them to leave out Miss Ansel’s involvement in the sordid affair—but then Turold had also bludgeoned Cecil on the head and fled the premises. It was perhaps not necessary anymore to honor that request.