A Brazen Curiosity, page 16
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
Kesgrave furrowed his brow, not immediately grasping the distinction. “The wrong Otley?”
Bea nodded decisively as an ember crackled in the fireplace. She raised her eyes to meet his, so she could see his expression when he realized the truth. “The letter was not written to the daughter.”
It took another brief moment more, and then understanding lit his whole face. “Well, that is quite a discovery,” he said with thoughtful approval. “How did you ferret out that fascinating piece of information?”
She recalled the conversation with her aunt in all of its ridiculous splendor and decided to keep her response as simple as possible. “Just a little gossip among girls. Emily was not very delighted to have stumbled across her mother’s proclivity. It was only a recent discovery, and I think she likes to reread the letter at regular intervals to remind herself of her mother’s betrayal.”
“Obviously, Mrs. Otley must move to the top of the list, as the relationship with the business associate is undeniable,” Kesgrave said, resting his chin on his hand as he considered the news. “It provides additional incentive for her to remove her husband.”
Bea, who’d been puzzling the matter for hours, immediately agreed with his reasoning but not with his conclusion. “I simply don’t see how she could have done it. Her husband was a full head taller than she, and consider the placement of the wound in his skull. It was toward the top of his head. How could she overcome the height problem? And why do it at Lakeview Hall? As I’ve pointed out before, laudanum in his port at the privacy of their own home would make much more sense.”
“Ah, you’re assuming her actions were thought out and considered,” he countered. “What I propose is a spontaneous act sparked by a flash of uncontrollable anger. If Mrs. Otley had found him here and they had gotten into an argument, then she might have been enraged enough to hit him over the head with the candlestick she happened to be holding at the time. Her fury would have given her strength.”
“Strength, yes, but not height. I agree with your premise in theory,” Bea said, for she knew from personal experience that bitterness carried its own force. There was a power in focusing your ire at the world’s injustices on a single target and releasing your wrath. Too much power, she’d realized while she was still young. Resentment was a blunt instrument yielding wanton destruction, and she wanted no part in the wreckage. It was better, she’d decided, to find humor in the vagaries of fate, a resolution that had the added benefit of flattering her ego, for it required a certain amount of moral fortitude to laugh when most people would cry. “But I’m still not sure even the blackest rage would create enough strength for a woman who is barely five feet tall to overwhelm a man just shy of six.”
“Fair enough. But I think you’re making an erroneous assumption about the amount of damage that was done to the skull on the initial strike. Otley was hit several times. Perhaps the topmost blow came after he had fallen,” Kesgrave proposed. “That said, I must admit that the other point I raised earlier is valid as well, which is that Mrs. Otley doesn’t seem particularly troubled by the ruling of suicide. If she had murdered her husband to gain possession of his estate, she would be more agitated at the thought of losing it.”
Although his remark bolstered Bea’s argument, she was perverse enough to take up the other view. “But if the properties are mortgaged to the hilt and Otley was low in the water, she would have no reason to raise the issue and draw suspicion to herself.”
“You are now making my case for me,” the duke said with a laugh.
“Am I?” she said thoughtfully. “Or am I making my case for Mr. Wilson?”
Kesgrave tilted his head, curious but doubtful. “Ah, yes, the lover who may or may not be in England. Very well, make your case.”
Although Bea had included Mr. Wilson on the list of possible murders only in an outlandish bid to consider every option, he struck her now as just as likely a suspect as Mrs. Otley. “I think he is. He had no reason to stay in India after the opium fields were seized, and if he booked passage on a ship that left in February, he could have arrived in London by the end of July. As you know, it’s September now, so that would have given him plenty of time to renew his pledge to Mrs. Otley and begin plotting his scheme to remove his rival.”
“I agree he has likely returned to the country,” the duke said, “but I cannot conceive why he would attack Mr. Otley here, at the Skeffingtons’ house in the Lake District. Would it not be easier to strike in the city?”
“Ah, but here nobody would ever suspect him, for nobody would even know he was in the district. It’s the perfect cover for a nefarious deed,” Bea said with relish.
Kesgrave did not dismiss it immediately, but after several moments of thought, he shook his head. “No, I cannot agree, for what you are proposing once again necessitates forethought. Consider the timing—in the house late at night. It had to have been done by someone who was at home here and merely took the opportunity when it offered itself. If an outsider such as Mr. Wilson had arrived in the village with this crime in mind, he would have acted when Otley was more exposed such as during an afternoon expedition to fish or hunt. His plan would not have hinged on his finding his victim in the library at two in the morning, for that is far too random an event.”
“Not if he’s working in tandem with Mrs. Otley,” Bea said. “If he’s hiding on the grounds or even in the house among the servants, then he would be near enough to respond as soon as Mrs. Otley signaled him.”
“I fear the plot you are devising is too intricate to be credible,” Kesgrave said. “In fiction, a complex plan might prosper, but in the world in which we live, the more components a scheme has, the more likely it is to fail.”
As he had already made this charge against her, warning her with superb condescension about complicated plots when she’d suggested the candlestick had been placed in Mr. Skeffington’s room to make him appear guilty, she was well-familiar with his opinion. “You will see, your grace when the second footman or the underbutler or the gamekeeper’s assistant is unmasked as Mr. Wilson before the whole company in the drawing room.”
His lips twitched. “You are imagining quite an elaborate scene.”
“Naturally,” she said, as if he had pointed out something simplistic and obvious. “Without the dramatics, how would we get Mrs. Otley to confess?”
Kesgrave praised her conviction even as he professed his doubt. “Nevertheless, I will consent to putting Mr. Wilson on the list.”
Bea leaned forward as if to direct his hand. “Above Mrs. Otley.”
The duke looked at her, his whole face gleaming with mischief. “You understand the list is figurative, do you not, Miss Hyde-Clare? The names aren’t actually being compiled in order on a sheet of paper somewhere.”
“Yes, your grace, I do understand that. But I see no harm in being as precise as possible. I’m surprised you object, as precision seems to be your raison d’être. HMS Majestic, HMS Audacious, HMS Goliath,” she said with a hoydenish grin.
“HMS Goliath, HMS Audacious, HMS Majestic,” he corrected.
He spoke without inflection and his expression remained blank, but Bea understood at once that he was making the joke this time at his own expense, not hers. Despite his many unappealing character traits, which she hadn’t hesitated to point out—excessive pedantry, obnoxious competency, overweening arrogance—the Duke of Kesgrave wasn’t above laughing at himself, and realizing that, Bea made a shocking discovery: She liked him. There, in her room, well past midnight, by the glowing embers of a dying fire, making a list of suspects in a murder, he was extremely likeable, and she could see for the first time how a woman could lose her heart to him.
Not her, of course. Never her. But a schoolroom miss having her first season or a beautiful young lady desiring only a good match and somehow getting a great deal more.
Bea found the revelation remarkably unsettling, not because she feared she would suddenly develop a tendre for the unattainable lord—for, no, she was far too sensible for that—but because it made her aware of something she hadn’t known existed: amiable camaraderie. Although life with the Hyde-Clares had provided her with adequate if begrudging material comfort, it had provided no hint of the warmth to be found in convivial conversation among like-minded souls. Her aunt and uncle rubbed together tolerably well, but whatever amity they felt for each other did not extend to the unsought orphan in their midst.
Mortified by the turn her mind had taken—imagine, considering the Duke of Kesgrave to be a like-minded anything—she was grateful for the dim light, which hid the blush in her cheeks. The silence, which had already gone on too long, stretched as she tried to think of something to say. They had been discussing suspects, she recalled.
Yes, that would do. “Miss Otley,” she said.
Kesgrave looked at her in surprise. “Miss Otley?”
“Yes, for the list,” she explained. “Since we are making adjustments, I think Miss Otley should be shifted to the bottom. Without her thwarted love for Mr. Wilson providing a motive, I can see no reason why she would harm her father, even in a fit of anger. As far as I can tell, securing a rich and titled husband is her only goal in life, and she’s far too sensible to do anything that would undermine her objective,” she said. Then, unable to resist teasing him, she added, “You, of course, are good.”
This seeming non sequitur disconcerted the duke. “I’m good?”
“In the event that you’re worried your suit would not prosper with Miss Otley,” she explained, “I wanted to assure you that you meet her requirements. She’s entertaining offers from marquess-level peers and above, which, as you know, includes dukes. I trust you’ll give the matter serious consideration, for she is, as Miss Otley herself helpfully pointed out this afternoon, an incredibly beautiful young woman. Incomparables of her stature do not come onto the market often. Do consider your cherubic children if not yourself.”
A variety of expressions crossed the duke’s face as she advised him of Miss Otley’s availability—surprise, annoyance, anger, consideration—before settling into amusement. “You are far too kind, Miss Hyde-Clare, to worry about my happiness, but your efforts to ease my mind are entirely unnecessary. If there’s one topic on which I’m qualified to lead a weeklong lecture series, it’s the courtship of women.”
The only thing Bea doubted about this assertion was the length of the series, which she imagined could extend fully into a month. “I hope you will give my cousin Russell a private session, then, for he seems bent on pestering Miss Otley with his attentions. Following her request, I tried to point him in the right direction, but he assured me Miss Otley was only affecting indifference to encourage his interest.”
“Ignorant puppy,” Kesgrave said softly and promised to straighten out the young man’s thinking at the earliest opportunity. Then, returning to the business at hand, he asked if there were other suspects to consider.
“Lord Skeffington?” Bea asked. “I know you believe he’s unaware of the investment scheme, but is it possible he’s learned of it? Discovering that one of his oldest friends had swindled his son would have made him very angry. Perhaps he confronted Otley and the two men had a violent argument. There was, you know, a cheroot among Otley’s things when I searched his rooms. Otley himself did not smoke, as he claimed in his journal to find the smell repellent, but I know Skeffington does. Skeffington might have visited him in his room to discuss the matter originally, and unsatisfied with the conversation, arranged a second interview in the library. If the two men were in their cups, it could have gotten heated very quickly.”
“It’s an interesting theory,” the duke said, “but I see a few problems with it.”
Bea smiled faintly and assured him she’d expect nothing less from him than several dozen problems. She was needling him again about his love of finer points, but in this case she had to admit the issue he raised was fairly significant, as Skeffington had been the cause of his delay in following Otley to the library.
“If you recall, he congratulated me on catching the only fish of the day and by the time I extricated myself and arrived in the library, I was too late to witness the assault,” he said. “Skeffington is an agile man for his age, but even he could not have raced from his study to the library quickly enough to dispatch Otley before I arrived.”
“So you are ruling out entirely the possibility of a secret passage between rooms?” she asked in a tone that clearly implied such an assumption was foolish and shortsighted.
He did not rise to the provocation. “No, Miss Hyde-Clare, no. You will not get me to while away the next half hour discussing the likelihood that Lakeview Hall not only has hidden passageways between rooms but that it has one most suited to our particular need. You may try to distract me with your absurdity, but I will not fall in line. Your observation about the cheroot, however, is worthy of contemplation. Mr. Skeffington also smokes them, and he was no longer in the drawing room. He’d left about a half hour before.”
“Burning with rage to revenge himself on the man who’d betrayed him, perhaps,” she said darkly. “Where is he currently on the list? I can’t remember.”
“Before Mrs. Otley,” he said.
Bea shook her head. “No, let’s move him to after. The letter is still the most damning piece of evidence we have.”
“More damning than a bloody candlestick?” he asked pointedly.
“That was planted in his room to make him look guilty,” she said with firm insistence. “I’m sure of it. What of Amersham? Does he smoke cigars as well? I confess I haven’t noticed.”
“He prefers snuff. Collects snuff boxes, which isn’t quite the fascinating hobby he thinks it is,” he said with a hint of cantankerousness that delighted Bea, for she relished the idea of his having to sit through a seemingly endless lecture on an exceedingly dull topic. “Nuneaton smokes.”
“Does he?” she asked thoughtfully. “Very well, let’s put him on the list.”
“Nuneaton?” Kesgrave said, furrowing his brow as he lifted his head to meet her gaze. “He has no reason to wish Otley ill. He was not among those who were fleeced. I made sure of it before accepting the invitation.”
“I’m not doubting the accuracy of your research, your grace,” she assured him calmly before doing just that, “but you cannot know everything about the gentleman. Perhaps he and Otley have a history that goes back farther than the hibiscus scheme. Perhaps he was involved in the opium venture. Don’t you find it curious that his name hasn’t come up a single time in our investigation? Is that not a cause for suspicion in and of itself? Why is he trying so hard to evade our notice? What is he hoping to hide? For all we know, he could be Mr. Wilson in the Bedford crop.”
Bea knew the suggestion was preposterous for many reasons before she made it, for there was nothing about his appearance that aligned with Emily’s description of him. She nevertheless still made it because she felt it spoke to a larger issue—namely, that they couldn’t make any assumptions about anyone. When dealing with a growing list of suspects, they had to allow for all possibilities, even ones that seemed like plot devices from a Mrs. Radcliffe novel.
Kesgrave did not agree with her open-minded approach and shook his head firmly. “I would sooner grant the existence of a secret passageway from the study to the library before I entertain the notion that the gentleman calling himself Nuneaton isn’t the gentleman I’ve known since our days at Oxford together. The fact that you would require me to even make such an absurd statement reflects the depths to which I’ve sunk in this investigation, and make no mistake, Miss Hyde-Clare, I resent it intensely.”
Bea blinked at the duke innocently and said she was merely trying to be as thorough as possible. “Surely, that level of detail would appeal to you, you grace.”
“I’ll put Nuneaton on the list below Miss Otley,” Kesgrave said, ignoring her taunt.
If she was a little disappointed the duke had taken the high road, she did not show it. “Very good. I trust we both know what we must do tomorrow,” she said and paused to wait for the duke’s agreement. When he gave it, she added, “Figure out where Mr. Wilson is hiding.”
Kesgrave, speaking at the same time, said, “Discover Mrs. Otley’s movements.”
Irritated, Bea glared at the duke and discovered he was staring back at her with an equally annoyed expression. “You are wasting your time,” she insisted. “The murderer is Mr. Wilson in whatever form he is currently taking.”
“The murderer is most likely the deceitful wife,” he said, “as she had the most to gain from his death. Even if she does not inherit his property, she gets the freedom to marry the man she loves, who can offer a modicum of financial stability. Moreover, she had the opportunity to perform the deed, for she occupies Lakeview Hall and could have easily snuck into the library to kill him. Unlike Mr. Wilson, who not only isn’t in the Lake District but also isn’t a wizard in a child’s fairy story to turn himself into a dragon to escape detection.”
“Footman,” Bea said, speaking through clenched teeth. “I said second footman, under butler or gamekeeper’s assistant, not fantastic creature from a child’s fairy tale. A dragon would hardly be a discreet disguise.”
“Forgive me,” he said without an ounce of contrition. “I’m afraid one fantastic theory is very much the same as another.”
He sounded so arrogant and satirical, Bea wanted to scream, but she held on to her temper and accepted his apology with a placidity so calm it bordered on hostile. Then she advised him to work on injecting the proper amount of remorse into his apology to make it sound more convincing. “Oh, I’m sorry, I should define my terms so you understand. Remorse is when you feel distress for something you’ve done wrong. If the concept still escapes you, perhaps you can apply to your valet for a brief lesson. You’re going to need it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked, ignoring her condescension.
