Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (128 page)

The letter had the usual closing compliments and was signed by Ridley.

If I had been cold enough before for my teeth to chatter, now was flesh and soul chilled so solidly that I could hardly bring myself to move or think.

The monstrous unfairness of it was the first thought to blossom to mind. The missive contained just the right amount of truth mixed with lies to be perfectly plausible, especially to anyone not in possession of all the facts.
I
was to be blamed for this murder.

The second bud to sprout was the absolute certitude that anyone finding the letter on Ridley’s corpse would come to the reasonable conclusion the meeting had not gone well, and Mr. Barrett had foully murdered his host, taking a cowardly and dishonorable revenge for past grievances.

And the last bloom to burst forth was the urgent need to quit the premises and take myself directly home as quick as may be. Recognizing panic, I forced myself to stop and consider the even greater need for caution. Had I left the moment upon finding the body, I’d have missed this damning letter—what if another such item yet remained?

Pushing the cold, choking fear down until it was an icy knot twisting deep in my belly, I made another, much more thorough, search of the flat and Ridley’s corpse, this time looking for anything that might somehow connect me to the crime. I went so far as to turn him over and check through the bedclothes and felt a wave of relief mixed with revulsion when I found nothing more. Only then did I dare put out the candle and leave, never once stopping until I reached the sanctuary of home.

* * *

“Goodness, that didn’t take long,” said Elizabeth, looking up from her book with no small surprise. “We thought you’d be away for hours yet. Did you not find him?” Then she took a second, longer look and rose from her chair by the parlor fire. “Jonathan? My God, what’s happened?”

Oliver, who had been at his ease dozing in his own chair, also stood. I must have been in a poor state indeed for them to wear such expressions, and neither improved when I faltered out with the bad news. Their initial stunned disbelief followed by a lengthy period of shock and horror as I told them of my discovery was in every way a match for my own reaction. None of us wanted this burden, but stuck with it we were, and none was more anxious than I to be rid of it as quick as may be.

Over the course of the next hour I was questioned and re-questioned, and the letter I’d taken from Ridley’s pocket was read over and over, inspected and discussed down to the most minute detail. None of it changed the fact that Ridley had been murdered, and the letter was intended to hold me responsible for the crime.

“It explains why there were no other papers in the flat,” said Elizabeth. “Anyone with half a brain would notice the lack and thus be doubly sharp to pay attention to this one. It might be thought you’d cleaned everything out yourself with the idea of disposing of just such a threat.”

“But why should Ridley write a letter and then not send it?” asked Oliver. “Just so it could be found on his corpse?”

“If Ridley did write it. The murderer may have penned it instead.”

“That’s hardly likely. Anyone familiar with Ridley’s fist would spot it for a forgery, wouldn’t they? Perhaps he was tricked into writing it. He might have been told to do it as a devilry against Jonathan, then once finished, his throat’s cut and . . . well, there you are.”

“Yes,” I said. “There I am, dancing a jig at Tyburn or leaving the country forever as fast as sail can take me.”

“And you think Clarinda might be connected to this?”

“Who else would have a reason? She hates me enough for ruining her plans.”

“But she’s locked up at Edmond’s.”

“And probably has friends outside who could still help.”

“But if they were so cozy together, why then would she want to kill Ridley?”

“He might not have been her only lover, y’know”

“Oh.”

My gaze dropped to the floor. “Perhaps it was because I tried to change him. Clarinda need not be involved. Suppose some of his friends came by to invite him out to a night of prowling and making trouble, and he turned them down?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “That’s no reason to kill a man. Besides, such an action would have been a sudden and reckless thing. The clearing out of the flat and this letter indicates planning. Also, if Ridley could be induced to write such a letter in the first place to make mischief, then it’s likely he wasn’t as heavily influenced into good behavior as you thought. He may have possessed the sort of will to be able to resist better than any of the others you’ve dealt with before.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “You’re not planning to take this to the authorities, are you?”

I blanched. “God’s death, man, and get myself clapped in irons on the spot?”

“I just wanted to be sure,” he said, unoffended by my strong reaction. “Well, then, what are we to do?”

“Try to find out who did kill him, while avoiding all connection to the crime.”

“That may be a bit difficult.”

“I’m well aware of it.”

A glum silence settled upon us until Elizabeth threw it off.

“You forget the attack made upon you at Mandy Winkle’s and those men who chased you from Ridley’s earlier.”

“I’ve not forgotten; I just haven’t wanted to think about it,” I muttered.

“It’s time you did. Certainly the two are linked.”

“Then please enlighten me how,” said Oliver.

“Let us suppose they saw Jonathan going in and out of Ridley’s flat on that first visit this evening, and gave chase for the sport of it. Then when they went up to see Ridley themselves, they may have had a falling out, forced him to write the letter to put the blame on Jonathan and killed—no, that doesn’t work, or why should they try to murder Jonathan in his bath later? They need only wait for the body and the letter to be found and laugh themselves sick while the law took its course.”

My gaze lifted from the floor. “You almost have it.”

“What, then?”

“All right, assume they saw me go in and come out, gave chase and went back to see their friend—then discover Ridley’s
already
dead.”

“Oh,
hell,”
Oliver whispered.

“They wouldn’t need to search the body for any letter, but naturally conclude I’d just cut his throat. They have a quick talk among themselves over Ridley’s brandy, and decide to come after me in a fit of revenge. One of ’em sets himself to watch our house, finds out we’re at Mandy’s, and the next thing you know I’m being hauled from the bath like a drowned rat. None of that could have been planned by the murderer; he couldn’t have known I’d come calling that evening. He’d meant for the body to be found in a day or so and me to get the blame, which is as it turned out, but not in the way he’d expected.”

“But if Ridley was already dead when you called, how could you go into the flat and not notice a dead body? You found him quick enough the second time.”

“The second time I stayed long enough to draw a single breath of air. The scent of blood led me to the body. I must not have breathed at all the first time—busy listening, y’see, and the place was empty-quiet. I was there and gone in but a matter of seconds.”

He sat back to digest this.

Elizabeth, more used to the eccentricities of my condition, found it easier to take in. “Good God, if that’s true . . . to think Ridley was lying there dead all that time . . . ugh. I wonder when he was killed, anyway?”

“Perhaps just before sunset or a little after,” I said.

“Why do you think that?”

“The curtain in the bedroom was open and the only candle I found was out in the sitting room. The killer would have had light enough to do his work until the sun went down. He cleans the place of other paper, shoves the letter into Ridley’s pocket, and when it’s dark enough to hide his face and form he goes off to wait for Ridley’s friends to come over for a visit so they will find the body, not knowing how things would really turn out. They see me leaving the place and assume without reading the accusation in the letter that I’d done it.”

“But he gets what he wants; Ridley’s dead and you’re blamed.”

“Only by the Mohocks, and for the moment they think I’m dead.”

“Until they learn better and make a second try,” said Oliver. “Thank heaven you found that letter or the magistrate’s men would be hammering on our door any minute now to take us away.”

“Ridley knew his killer,” Elizabeth said, again breaking the short silence that followed as we counted our blessings. “Who of his friends could do such a thing?”

“Any one of ’em, as far as I’m concerned,” Oliver grumbled. “The letter was to go to that pasty-faced gull who was his second at the duel. His name’s Litton. He’s not too smart, but loyal as a lapdog to Ridley. If you want the names of Ridley’s other friends—such as they are—you need only go to Litton to get them.”

“I have to,” I said. “You know where he lives?”

“No, but I can find out—unless he’s been murdered in his bed as well.”

“Not likely, or why write a letter to him? He’s needed to raise a hue and cry against me.”

“What about Arthur Tyne?” asked Elizabeth, looking at each of us and getting an answer from neither. “He was Ridley’s cousin and closest friend, close enough to be willing to help him murder Edmond and Jonathan. Where’s he gotten to in this?”

I spread my hands and shrugged. “For all I know he might have been the one who shot me.”

“For all you know he may have cut Ridley’s throat himself.”

“I doubt that, though stranger things have happened,” said Oliver, shaking his head. He turned his gaze on me. “Weren’t you going to talk with him as well?”

“It can wait until tomorrow night. I’m too unsettled for further rambles.”

“Then perhaps I should have a turn.”

“No, you should not!”

“The idea!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“I just want to help. Why should Jonathan do all the work?”

“You’ll have work aplenty tomorrow finding where this Litton is without getting caught at it.”

“Without getting caught?”

“You’ll have to pretend not to know anything about Ridley’s death,” she said. “We all do.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be rather odd if I—”

“Odd? It could be
fatal
, dear Cousin. Promise me you won’t risk yourself in any way.”

Well, Oliver was as soft as a down pillow when it came to Elizabeth, so he readily gave his word to use the utmost caution in his inquiry. “Tell you what, I can call on Brinsley Bolyn. He knows everyone and can keep his mouth shut when he has to. All I need do is get him started about that duel and let him run with it. He’ll probably blurt out the address of Litton and all his relatives without my even asking.”

That satisfied Elizabeth, but I saw another problem arising. “That letter was meant to bring harm to both of us, Coz. I may be out of the way of injury for now, but you could be next.”

“Or any one of us, for that matter,” he added with a glance to Elizabeth.

“Therefore, I propose you move your household to someplace safer until we understand exactly what—”

“Move? You think the danger is that great?”

“Certainly I do, and until I learn better, it’s wise to expect the worst, is it not?”

“But we’re in the heart of London.”

“So were Ridley’s lodgings.”

“Well, his was hardly a decent neighborhood—”

“And you think his killer or killers incapable of traveling to this one?”

I tapped the spot on my chest where the pistol ball went in. “Here was I delivered ample proof that they know exactly how to get around the city.”

He sucked in his lower lip and nodded.

“We have to think in terms of safety and are in need of a fortress. I can think of none more formidable than Fonteyn House.”

“Surely not!”

“It’s removed from the city, has more servants to keep an eye on things and has a good high wall with a gate.”

“May I remind you that none of those things prevented Ridley and Arthur from invading the place.”

“But that was during the funeral when the gate was open and no one was expecting trouble. Things will be different this time. It won’t be forever, just a night or two until I can sort this business out.”

“You’re really serious that we should go?”

“So much so that I’ll send Richard and Mrs. Howard off there alone to keep him safe.”

That was enough to stir Elizabeth to a decision. “Then my mind’s made up. That child will have my company, if no one else’s.”

Thus did she decide for Oliver, who immediately fell in with the idea. “We can start packing a few things tonight.”

“Not too much,” I advised. “I think we should be as deceptive as possible so this place looks like we’re all still at home and nothing is amiss. Load any cases you might want to take into the coach while it’s still in the coach house. When you leave, it should be separately and by different routes. Elizabeth, Richard and Mrs. Howard can take themselves away in the coach at some time in the morning as if going on another shopping expedition. You can take your horse, pretending to go on your usual round of calls. The servants can leave by ones and twos throughout the day—”

“But what about you?” he asked. “You’ll be helpless in the cellar all that time.”

“I’m well hidden, and it’s not likely for anyone to look there, anyway. I should be safe—the Mohocks think I’m dead, so why should they look for me? Besides, they’re not likely to put themselves in jeopardy by breaking into the house in broad daylight.”

“How do you know?” he muttered.

“I don’t, but it’s an acceptable risk. More than acceptable.”

“I’m not easy in my mind for you to be completely unguarded,” said Elizabeth. “What if we ask Jericho to stay until you wake? That way he can answer the door and put off callers. It will make the house appear more occupied.”

I was most reluctant to put Jericho in the way of any peril. “Only if he is made fully aware of the danger and has one of the larger footmen for company. Jamie will do. He’s as big as a house and can redeem himself for talking to strangers. Once I’m up for the night, then off they go.”