The Perfect Princess (39 page)

Hugh Templar’s wife came to mind. “Open the door, Harper,” she’d begged, and against his better judgment, he’d opened the door and got them both damn near killed. Jason Radley’s wife was another. She’d sweet-talked him into taking her to Hampstead, and look what they’d found when they got there! And now Lady Rosamund.

He didn’t know what his chief would say when he found out.

The door opened and Lady Rosamund swept out, followed by the keeper. “You may be sure, Mr. Proudie, my father shall hear of this. Your conduct was above reproach, and I shall tell him so.”

“And His Grace will put in a good word for me with the governors?”

“You may depend upon it.” Then to Harper, “Come along, ehm, James.”

When they were outside, Harper drew in a long, refreshing breath. He’d never thought much about the air he breathed until he’d spent time as a turnkey in Newgate. London air wasn’t the freshest, but compared to Newgate, it was as sweet as ether.

As they crossed the road to their waiting hackney, he said, “What kept you?”

“Mr. Proudie,” she said. “The poor man’s position is coming under review and he thinks he may be turned off because you and Richard escaped from Newgate. I promised to speak to my father on his behalf.”

“And will you?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

Harper smiled. That was one thing he liked about Lady Rosamund. She never reneged on a promise.

She waited until they were in the hackney and on their way to Mrs. Tracey’s house in Manchester Square before she told him what she’d found out. “Proudie thinks that you or Richard fired that shot. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that he was mistaken, so I asked him
why he was so sure.” She spoke eagerly, falling over her words in her haste to tell him everything. “It seems that when a shot is fired in the prison, there’s always a report written up about it. None of the turnkeys’ weapons was fired; the prisoners don’t have pistols and the turnkeys had surrounded them and their visitors anyway, so they know the shot didn’t come from them. You see what this means?”

“Well, I sees the way your mind is working. You’re thinking that leaves five people who could have fired the shot, and we knows it wasn’t Colonel Maitland or me or you, so we’re down to two, your friend Mrs. Tracey and her brother-in-law.”

“Charles Tracey,” said Rosamund, her eyes glowing.

“Now, don’t go jumping to no conclusions. Things ain’t always what they seems.”

“I’m sure it was him.”

“Why not Mrs. Tracey?” he argued doggedly. He felt uneasy with her quick leaps of logic, and he wondered where all this was leading.

Her lips flattened. “Callie wouldn’t shoot at Richard. She truly believes in his innocence. Besides, I was between Callie and Richard, so she couldn’t have hit him even if she wanted to. She would have hit me. But Charles Tracey could have done it.”

“Then what happened to Tracey’s pistol?”

“I don’t know. But after the shot went off, everyone panicked. In the confusion, he could have slipped it into his pocket, couldn’t he?”

Harper shook his head. “Why bother? Why not take credit for the shot? He would have been hailed as a hero if he’d shot the chief and stopped him getting away. There was no need to hide his pistol.”

“I’ve thought of that.” In her eagerness to convince him, she put her hand on his arm. “Maybe he didn’t want anyone asking awkward questions. Maybe he’s tied to Richard in some way. No, listen to me, Harper.
There’s something about Charles Tracey that doesn’t sit right with me. Last year, his brother, James, died in a bizarre accident—that’s what the doctor called it, bizarre. James Tracey was a moderate drinker, but he died alone, choking on his own vomit, after drinking a bottle of brandy. Aunt Fran thought the death was more than bizarre, she said it was suspicious, but she was distraught, so we really didn’t take her seriously. But guess who got most of the money?”

Harper groaned. “Charles Tracey,” he answered as though the name was dragged out of him.

Rosamund nodded. “Yes. Callie got her widow’s portion and that was all. There’s something else. Charles is in love with Callie. Oh, I know no good can come of it. He can never marry his brother’s widow. But what if he got rid of his brother just so he could have her all to himself? Not that it worked. I think Callie despises him.”

“What in the name of all that’s holy,” said Harper slowly and patiently, “has this to do with the chief?”

“Well, I don’t know yet. I’m hoping Callie will be able to help me, or Aunt Fran.”

Harper was horrified. “You can’t just go in there and start insinuating that Tracey is a murderer.”

“I know better than that! I’ll be very discreet. I’m not really interested in James Tracey’s death unless Richard is involved in some way. Maybe, before he died, James spoke to Richard about something. Maybe Charles was afraid Richard would start investigating. I don’t really know. But there’s something not right here, Harper. I can feel it. If Charles Tracey tried to kill Richard in Newgate, there must be a reason for it.”

This was the time to put his foot down, thought Harper. On the other hand, she had a point. There was no getting round the fact that someone had let off a shot in Newgate. If it wasn’t a panicked turnkey, who else could it have been but Charles Tracey? And why conceal it?

“You’ll be careful?” he said.

“Word of honor.”

“At the first sign of trouble—”

“I’ll scream for you. But nothing’s going to happen, Harper. If Charles is there, I’ll keep my lips sealed.” Her hand tightened on his arm and she went on appealingly, “If I don’t do this, no one will. Richard can’t show his face in Callie’s house. It was the same at Newgate. Richard may not like it, but he has to depend on his friends now.”

After this little speech, Harper was completely won over. It wasn’t that women wrapped him round their little fingers, he decided. Sometimes they spoke a good deal of sense.

Peter Dryden’s study was as comfortable and as shabby as its owner. Books were piled on the floor and every available surface was strewn with papers. He seemed not to notice. It was the same with his clothes. His neckcloth was askew and the buttons on his waistcoat were at odds with the buttonholes. And none of that mattered a damn, thought Richard, because of the man himself. He was an innocent, in the best sense of the word, a worldly innocent who had seen the worst in men but never gave up on them.

“That’s when my correspondence with Frank Stapleton’s cousin stopped,” Dryden said. “When I went to Liverpool and became chaplain in one of the prisons there. It was just one of those things. He moved, I moved, and we lost touch with each other.”

They were waiting for Prudence Dryden to return from a walk with Dryden’s wife and their three small children. Richard couldn’t help thinking how lucky this bald-pated, bespectacled cleric was. He didn’t have much money, but he was rich in everything that mattered.

He hadn’t known what kind of reception he would receive when he arrived at Dryden’s door unannounced. Dryden might have threatened to go to the magistrates or yelled for help. He need not have worried. Prudence Dryden had not exaggerated. Her brother was staunchly in his camp. The ice had been broken when they’d both admitted that the years had made such a difference that they wouldn’t have known each other. They’d both filled out, and Richard’s blond hair had faded to a streaky brown, while the vicar had lost his hair entirely.

Richard saw no point in prevarication, so he’d told Dryden straight out that he thought there might be a connection between that long-ago incident at Cambridge and Lucy Rider’s murder, and Dryden had reciprocated by answering all his questions frankly and without fuss.

“You’ll have another sherry?” said Dryden, breaking into Richard’s thoughts.

Richard demurred, but Caspar, who had stationed himself at the window that overlooked the garden, allowed his glass to be topped up.

When Dryden seated himself, Richard said, “You never wrote to Frank Stapleton directly?”

“No. He wasn’t my friend. George was. But I was always interested to hear how Frank was doing, and he did very well until that tragic accident took his life.”

As they sipped their drinks, Richard went over in his mind what he’d learned from Dryden. Frank Stapleton had left England right after the Cambridge incident and had been taken under the wing of an older cousin, George Withers, who was doing very well for himself in the fur trade in Canada. Frank also had done well, but mainly because he’d married the daughter of one of the richest independent fur traders in Upper Canada. Then tragedy struck. Mrs. Stapleton and her father died in a boating accident, and Frank had inherited a tidy sum.

It wasn’t the only tragic accident to have touched Frank’s life. His father had died in a house fire just before Frank embarked for Canada. Maybe someone had begun to think that so many “accidents” were highly suspect. Maybe that’s why Frank Stapleton had conveniently died in a house fire as well.

Richard said, “Who inherited Frank’s estate?”

“George, I suppose,” answered Dryden. “He never said. But I know that there were no other close relatives. That was why George felt it was his duty to offer Frank a home. There was more to it than that, though. Frank had always been difficult, was always getting into scrapes. George blamed Frank’s father for being too hard on him. He thought Canada would be the making of his cousin.”

“And was it?”

The vicar thought for a moment. “Well, Frank prospered. There’s no doubt about that. George didn’t say too much, but I always got the impression that Frank was a disappointment to him. I can’t say I was surprised. George was the kind of person who was very easily taken advantage of. He wanted to go into the church at one time, you know. That’s how we met. My father tutored him in Greek. But there wasn’t the money to send him to university, so he went to Canada instead.”

Richard nodded. Everything was falling into place. George Withers was too trusting for his own good, and his cousin was as trustworthy as a scorpion. Maybe George had become suspicious, maybe he’d started asking awkward questions. For whatever reason, Frank had decided to get rid of him and take his place. Then he could have George’s fortune and inherit his own as well.

He said, “When did you last hear from your friend?”

“Mmm? Oh, he wrote to tell me about Frank’s death. He seemed very despondent. He said he would stay for the funeral then start over somewhere else, somewhere
like Georgia. The winters in Canada were too harsh for him, you see. That must have been about ten years ago.”

Dryden went on, “That was the last letter I received, but he’s here in England. In town, in fact. It was the strangest coincidence. Prudence met him in Mrs. Tracey’s house, not three, four days ago. He said he was in England for business reasons, then he’d be returning to Charles Town. The odd thing is, he didn’t seem to know me. I don’t think he wants to renew the acquaintance. I must have written something in that last letter to offend him. I’m afraid I wasn’t always charitable about Frank. But I can’t leave things like this. I must make the effort to make amends, even if he snubs me.”

“Was Lady Rosamund there?”

“Of course. There would be no reason for Prudence to be there without her.” Dryden gave a wry smile. “And that fellow was there, too, the one who let you get away. Major Digby, is it not?”

At the mention of Digby’s name, Caspar turned from the window and Richard’s head came up. They exchanged a long look, then Richard looked at Peter Dryden.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said. “Last night, Major Digby was murdered along with a colleague and an unidentified boy. Lucy Rider was murdered and someone shot at your sister. I believe that all these attacks are connected to George Withers.”

He realized he’d been too abrupt when all the color washed out of Dryden’s face. Moderating his voice, he went on, “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I believe you may be in some danger. If you’re wise, you’ll forget about approaching George Withers. You should take your family and go into hiding for a few days. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, and don’t come back here until you read in the papers that George Withers has been arrested for murder.”

If Dryden was shocked before, now he was dumbfounded. He blinked rapidly as he struggled to find words. “You can’t think George murdered all these people? He wouldn’t! He couldn’t! If you knew him, you’d know how absurd that sounds.”

Richard got up. “I don’t think George Withers murdered anyone. I think your friend died ten years ago in that house fire and Frank Stapleton stole his identity and all his worldly goods. I believe the business he came to England for is me.”

Caspar said quietly, “That’s quite a stretch, Richard, isn’t it? I mean, I’m willing to accept that George Withers is who you say he is, but there’s nothing to tie him to you, except Cambridge, of course, and that happened a long time ago.”

Richard was too impatient to argue what was patently clear to him. “I’ll reserve judgment on that until after I speak to George Withers.”

Peter Dryden wasn’t convinced. “What about his last letter?” he said. “George was staying for the funeral. Frank couldn’t show his face at his own funeral. Everyone would recognize him.”