For Love Alone (35 page)

Dropping his hand from his forehead, he asked abruptly, “I know you and your uncle were not close, and that you were seldom in each other's company, so this is not exactly a fair question, but did he seem different to you any time prior to your meeting at Allenton's house party? Had your paths crossed any time just before the night he was murdered? Did you notice if there was something odd about him? I know you saw him about Anne, but was there any other time? Do you recall anything at all—no matter how minor an occurrence you think it might be—anything, dear Butterfly, that might give us a clue why he was murdered?”

Sophy stared at him for several minutes, thinking back over her few interviews with her uncle prior to the night he died. At first she was certain there was nothing. Certainly nothing about the unpleasant interview with Agnes and Edward the morning after Anne had come to stay revealed anything new or strange about him. Suddenly she caught her breath, and a peculiar expression crossed her face.

“How very odd—and I wonder that I did not think of it before. Of course! It explains everything!”

Her face blazing with excitement, she bent forward and declared, “I think I know
precisely
why Edward was killed. Even better, I'll wager I know exactly what our housebreaker was looking for and did not find—because I had it with me! It has to be!”

While Ives stared at her in astonishment, she went on excitedly, “Oh, I know I am right. Don't you see—when I showed it to him, Edward recognized it but pretended not to. The rogue! He was probably already planning to blackmail the owner then—even as he was declaring to me that he had never laid eyes on it!” She gave a delighted crow of laughter. “The ruby cravat pin! It has to be what links everything together—Edward's murder
and
the housebreaker!”

“
W
hat the devil are you talking about?” Ives demanded, the expression in his green eyes suddenly bright and alert.
“What
bloody pin?”

“Let me show you,” Sophy said. Springing to her feet and running for the door, she tossed over her shoulder, “I shall be gone but a moment.”

Before Ives's startled gaze she darted out of the room, leaving him to sit and stare at the door through which she disappeared. He had not long to wait. Not three minutes later, a breathless Sophy reentered, a small ornate box held in her hands.

“I believe that the reason the house was broken into,” she began excitedly, before the door had hardly shut behind her, “was because our housebreaker was searching for what I have in this box. At least, I strongly suspect it was his reason. And if I am right, and he
was
after the cravat pin, it would certainly explain the queerness of the attempt to rob us.”

She smiled impishly. “Of course, he did not find what he was looking for because I had taken this little jewelry box with me when we went to Harrington Chase. My mother gave it to me, oh, years ago, and for sentimental reasons, I suppose, I always take it with me wherever I go—I always have. It does not contain anything of importance, just a few trinkets and odds and ends, nothing valuable.” She looked rueful. “At least I did not think so until now.”

Sitting down across from him once more, she opened the pretty little box, rummaged around for a second, and then, a triumphant expression on her face, brought forth the ruby cravat pin. Handing it to Ives, she said, “I found this near the top of the stairs the night that Simon died.”

There was no denying that the square-cut ruby was worth a small fortune, even to Ives's untrained eye. The setting was unusual, the diamonds surrounding it cunningly placed, and the size of the ruby itself made the pin quite distinctive.

“You found it? What, three, four years ago?” he asked slowly, still examining the pin. “And no one has claimed it before now?”

A little flush stained Sophy's cheeks. “Until recently, no one knew I had it.”

At Ives's look, she muttered, “I did not intend to keep it, if that is what you are thinking. I had every intention of finding out who owned it, but you have to understand that when Simon died things were, er, chaotic. I did not give the pin any thought. I was too busy burying my husband and removing myself from Marlowe House at all speed to think about a pin, even an expensive one. The night I found it, I simply shoved it into this little jewelry box, meaning to say something about it the next morning. The discovery of Simon's body put it completely from my mind.”

She smiled grimly. “At that time, you must remember, it was openly bandied about that I had pushed him down the stairs—murdered him. I had rather a lot on my mind, and I am afraid that the finding of the pin did not take up any of my thoughts during those days.”

“You said ‘until recently.' Dare I assume that you mentioned it to Edward shortly before his death?” Ives asked, a glitter of excitement in his eyes.

Sophy nodded. “Until Phoebe accidentally spilled the contents of this box one afternoon a short while ago, I had completely forgotten about it.” She smiled wryly. “If I can help it, I do not think about the time I was married to Simon.”

Ives let that comment pass, wondering wryly about her thoughts on
their
marriage, before probing gently, “But once Phoebe spilled the box and you noticed the pin?”

“Then, of course, I recalled finding it. I was not certain what to do about it after all this time. I
did
think it was odd, however, even suspicious, that no one had ever asked about the pin or mentioned that it had gone missing. I realized that the house was in such an uproar right after Simon died that whoever lost it might not have wanted to mention it just then. But surely, something would have been said a few weeks later, wouldn't you think?”

Ives nodded and Sophy went on, “If the pin were paste, that would be one explanation, so I decided to find out if the ruby was real or paste. It is real. Once I knew that, I knew that I should make an effort to find out who owned it.” She made a face. “Edward seemed a logical place to start. He denied any knowledge of anyone inquiring after a lost piece of jewelry. I even showed it to him and asked him if he recognized it. He claimed never to have seen it before.”

“Did you believe him?”

“At the time, I thought he might be lying, but I could think of no reason
why
he would lie—except, of course, for pure spitefulness.”

Ives sat back in his chair and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his eyes still on the ruby pin he held in his other hand. “Most interesting, especially in view of Edward's death,” he said after a moment. “If Edward recognized the pin and realized there was some desperate reason why the owner had not come forth exclaiming its loss....”

“I think he did precisely that,” Sophy interrupted eagerly, “and I think he decided then and there to try to blackmail the owner.” She hesitated a moment before saying, “I have come to believe that the pin being found at the top of the staircase is significant.” She swallowed and confessed, “It is probably silly, but I have always had the impression that someone else was in the hall the night I confronted Simon. And knowing that Simon had traversed those stairs a hundred times in a far more drunken state, I agree the suspicions surrounding his death were not unwarranted.” Her gaze locked with Ives's green eyes.
“I
did not push him, but someone else could have.”

“And lost his cravat pin in the process?” Ives asked, his voice giving nothing away.

“It could have happened,” Sophy said a little defensively, the color burning in her cheeks.

“Oh, I do not doubt that it could have,” Ives said easily. “And from what I know of Simon Marlowe, I'm inclined to think that is exactly what happened.”

He paused, scowling. “But even if it were so,” he admitted slowly, “the simple fact of the pin being found at the top of the stairs proves nothing. Unless Edward saw Simon being murdered, your having found the pin when and where you did is not reason enough for him to attempt to blackmail the owner. Besides, if he saw the actual murder, why wait all these years?”

It was a reasonable question, but Sophy had no answer for him, and some of her first flush of confidence began to ebb. Perhaps the pin had nothing to do with Edward's murder.

“I think,” Ives said slowly, “that the pin plays some sort of pivotal role in the whole affair, but because he did wait all this time, we have to assume that your uncle did not see the murder being done. But he must have had his suspicions—suspicions that remained only that—until you brought forth the pin and told him your story.”

“But it still doesn't prove anything, the pin being found at the top of the stairs.” She looked doubtful. “I don't think simply its location would be enough for blackmail, do you?”

“I agree. The timing of your finding it and the location alone would not give him a strong enough hand. He had to have known more,” Ives replied. “I'll wager your uncle already had his suspicions about Simon's death, perhaps even guessed who the real murderer might be. Your story about the pin only confirmed those suspicions for him, but did not prove them. Yet that does not mean that the pin isn't important. It's possible that its reemergence acted as a catalyst, both for Edward to try his hand at blackmail and his subsequent murder.”

Ives stared off into space a moment, frowning. “Edward had to have known something more about his killer. I think it was that something, coupled
with
the rediscovery of the pin, that decided him to approach the person he tried to blackmail
and
got him killed.”

“And Agnes Weatherby tried the same thing and suffered the same fate?”

Ives nodded. “I am sure that is how it happened. Edward was well-known to have had a loose tongue—especially in his cups. I suspect that he was so full of himself and how very clever he was being that he could not help, one night when he was half-foxed, bragging to Miss Weatherby. He may not have told her everything, but I'll wager he told her enough for her to try her own hand at blackmail—and suffer Edward's same fate.”

Sophy shivered. “And what do we do now?”

Ives's jaw set. “If you do not mind, I would like to show this to my godfather and discuss the situation with him. He may even be able to identify it.”

A short time later, Roxbury was rather annoyed at being rousted from his bed by his godson.

Wrapped in a flamboyant robe of crimson silk littered with small black dots, Roxbury entertained Ives in the elegant sitting room that adjoined his bedroom. Stifling a yawn, Roxbury sat down on a chair upholstered in an exquisite shade of puce. The resultant clash of colors made Ives visibly wince.

Roxbury glanced down at the crimson robe pressed against the puce velvet and chuckled. “Tarted up like a whore on Saturday night, wouldn't you say?” he remarked merrily, suddenly in a much more agreeable frame of mind.

Ives grinned and accepted the steaming cup of coffee Roxbury passed to him. “Indeed, sir, I could not have put it better.”

Roxbury gave a bark of laughter, and, after taking a sip of his own coffee, said, “Well, what is it? You didn't forsake your own bed and get me out of mine just for the amusement of it, not after the night we just spent. Tell me.”

Ives's grin faded and, reaching into his vest pocket, he brought forth the ruby cravat pin. Handing it to Roxbury, he said, “Sophy and I think that this little trinket might have a great deal of bearing on why Edward was killed. And, more than likely, Agnes Weatherby. I think that I can even link it to the Fox. But first, have you ever seen it before?”

Roxbury leaned forward and took the cravat pin. He turned it this way and that as he examined it in the light streaming in through the bank of tall windows which comprised one wall of the room.

“A gaudy bauble to be sure, and quite out of the ordinary, but I do not recall ever having seen it before.” He shot Ives a dark look. “I hope that you have not been so foolish as to discuss the Fox with your bride.”

Ives ignored that last statement, and said mildly, “I doubted that you could identify it, but there was always the happy possibility.” Rubbing his fingers tiredly against his temple, he said, “Let me tell you what I know about the pin.”

Ives proceeded to relate to his godfather all that he had just learned from Sophy.

When he finished, he looked at Roxbury, and said dryly, “To the detriment of my relationship with my wife, Sophy believes that I am a debauched rake much in the manner of her first husband. Aware of the importance of what we are trying to do, I have done nothing to disabuse her of that unpleasant notion. You have no reason to fear that I may have been indiscreet. She thinks, however, as I do, that the pin is somehow inextricably tied to Edward's murder. If my suspicions prove true, you hold the means to trap the Fox in your hands at this very moment.”

When Ives said nothing more and sank wearily back into his chair, Roxbury was quiet for several minutes, his expression reflective.

“So,” he said at last, “tell me how you think this helps our cause?”

Restless despite his lack of sleep, Ives stood up and began to pace the room. “Let us suppose,” he muttered, “that the expensive trinket you hold in your hand belongs to the Fox.”

Roxbury's brow shot up. “Isn't that rather far-fetched?”

“It could be,” Ives replied equitably, “but I do not believe so.” He glanced at Roxbury. “Didn't you tell me once that shortly before Marlowe died, he and Scoville were sailing perilously close to treason by selling their gossip to the Fox?”

At Roxbury's curt nod, he went on, “And I recall hearing that Simon Marlowe was a rather nasty bit of goods who liked to know other people's secrets. That he, in fact, delighted in wielding power over friend and foe alike by using anything disgraceful he could ferret out about them.”

Again Roxbury nodded, adding, “There were always rumors to that effect.”

“Knowing that, don't you think that Marlowe might have tried to discover the identity of the buyer of his gossip? It sounds to me like something he would do. And if he
had
discovered such information, would he not have attempted to use it? And might he not even have hinted to Scoville what he had found? They were, after all, intimate cronies.”

An arrested look crossed Roxbury's lined features. “It is possible,” he muttered. “Entirely possible, all of it.”