The Black Widow (12 page)

He reined his pair to a stop in front of a three-story building, and a liveried employee of the law firm hurried down the steps to attend to the horses. Assisting her to descend, Lord Thorverton whispered in Meribe’s ear, “Are you ready to beard the lion in his den?”

“Yes, but ever since I awoke this morning, I have been wondering what we will do if Mr. Wimbwell refuses to tell us anything,” she murmured.

Lord Thorverton shrugged. “I shall do my best to persuade him, and if he refuses, we shall merely have to think of some way to manage without that information.’’

They were met at the door by an employee, who bowed and led them to another, more dignified personage, who in turn passed them on to a junior partner, who handed them over to a somewhat less junior partner, who with a flourish ushered them into the presence of the senior partner of the firm, Mr. Augustus Wimbwell.

The solicitor was quite old and bent, and the few remaining hairs on his head were snow white. Moreover, he regarded Meribe in such a kindly and benign fashion that she was reminded of how he had been in the habit of bringing her and her sister each boxes of sweets when he visited their father in Norfolk. Consequently she no longer felt the slightest bit of trepidation at the upcoming interview, for surely he would do everything in his power to assist them.

After introductions were made and tea was called for, Lord Thorverton explained succinctly why they were there.

“Murder?” Mr. Wimbwell asked, his eyes widening. “I am sorry, but our firm has nothing to do with criminal cases. We limit our business to legal contracts and civil suits.”

“But that is why we are here,” Meribe said, smiling in what she hoped was a persuasive manner. “We need to know the terms of the trust my father set up for me in his will, so that we will know who has a motive for keeping me from marrying.”

At her words the solicitor looked even more shocked than he had when Lord Thorverton had uttered the word “murder.” “But, my dear child, surely you are not asking me to break the law? Your father’s will stated specifically that the terms of the trust are to remain confidential until you come of age.”

“Which will be in less than a month,” she reminded him.

“Of course,” he replied. “I have it entered on my calendar already. On that date I shall be happy to explain everything to you. You will not find me the least bit tardy in the execution of my duties.”

“Mr. Wimbwell,” Lord Thorverton said firmly, “with all due respect, this is a matter of life and death. As I explained, we fear that four young men have come to untimely ends for reasons contained in that trust. I myself was attacked the night before last by someone I believe was hired to kill me.”

“Then by all means, my lord, you must take your proof and lay it before a magistrate, and he will see to it that the proper person is apprehended. But I repeat, we do not handle criminal matters.”

“As of this moment, I have no proof, only suspicions, but reason tells me that the motive for the murders is contained in the terms of the trust,” Lord Thorverton said so fiercely that it was obvious to Meribe he was in imminent danger of losing his temper.

The solicitor did not appear to be the least bit intimidated by Lord Thorverton’s temper. Smiling benignly, Mr. Wimbwell said in an equally firm albeit still mild voice, “If I am to understand you correctly, you are asking
me
to break the law myself.’’

“Only because we wish to prevent another murder,” Meribe interposed, trying not to think about the fact that if there was another murder, Lord Thorverton would be the victim.

“I am afraid you do not understand, my child,” Mr. Wimbwell said, turning to her. “If we once begin to make exceptions to the law—even if we feel we are fully justified—then after a short time, everyone will think he can decide for himself which part of the law he will obey and which part he will ignore. There would be total anarchy—utter chaos would ensue. No, my child, I must hold myself to the letter of the law.”

“Even if you ignore the intent?” Lord Thorverton asked, his voice now icy.

“I am perfectly aware of what Sir John’s intent was, my lord. I drew up the deed of trust myself, and it exactly expresses Sir John’s wishes.”

“I cannot believe that Miss Prestwich’s father wished for all her suitors to be murdered.”

“If such is the case, and I am certainly not admitting it is, then I am sure the blame lies elsewhere, for I am well-known in the City for my ability to draw up legal contracts that will stand up in court.”

Despite continued attempts at persuasion, the solicitor refused to admit the validity of their arguments, and finally Lord Thorverton stood up and announced that they were leaving.

He appeared to be taking their defeat quite calmly, but Meribe was angrier than she remembered ever being before. She was still fuming when Lord Thorverton’s carriage had been fetched and they were on their way back to Mayfair.

“I am sure,” she said finally, “that if he had called me ‘my child’ one more time, I would have screamed right in his face.”

But she had not sufficient practice at remaining angry, and before they had gone very far, she felt the tension drain out of her body, leaving only a slight headache behind. “Since Mr. Wimbwell refuses to assist us, what do you propose we do now?’’

“There is still the possibility that we can find my assailant. A friend of mine, Thomas Hennessey, is communicating with certain people he knows to see if he can discover the man’s identity.”

“But how can you hope to achieve success when no one saw the rogue’s face?”

Lord Thorverton smiled. “I am not exactly a small man, and my uncle swears that the man who tried to strangle me was at least a full head taller than I am. There are not many men so large, and the one we are looking for also has a sword wound on his right arm. Consequently I have reasonable cause to think that I shall soon be able to confront the blackguard and discover who hired him.’’

* * * *

Alone in his office, Augustus Wimbwell pulled open a drawer of his desk and removed a flask that was hidden under some unimportant papers. Using his teacup since he had no glass readily at hand, he poured himself a goodly measure of brandy, which he did not hesitate to gulp down.

He was shaking so much, he had to use both hands to hold the cup, and even then he spilled a few drops.

Why, oh why, had he ever done it? One tiny slip—one slight deviation from the strait-and-narrow path—and the consequences were more serious than his worst nightmares!

It had seemed so insignificant when he had done it. Never before and never after had he yielded to temptation. Only once had he not held himself strictly to the letter of the law, and if Lord Thorverton’s suspicions were correct, the results had been completely out of proportion to the offense.

In the course of their rather heated discussion, Lord Thorverton had accused him of lacking compassion, which was patently untrue. It had been compassion—misguided, but well-intentioned—that had so disastrously loosened his tongue all those years ago.

If only there were some way to go back in time! Given another chance, he would never have uttered those seemingly innocent words.

But surely Lord Thorverton’s theories were not well-founded? There must be some other explanation. But in his heart, Augustus knew that he had indeed committed an unforgivable sin—the worst offense a solicitor could possibly be accused of. He had betrayed the confidence of one of his clients. Only once, to be sure, but that was one time too many.

* * * *

Arriving at his house in a less-than-congenial mood, Demetrius was somewhat cheered up by finding Thomas Hennessey waiting for him. His pleasure was tempered by the discovery that the Irishman had taken Collier into his confidence.

That was a minor irritation, however, and quickly forgotten when Demetrius heard the distressing news his friend had discovered.

“I have located your assailant—or rather, a watchman found him this morning. Besides the cut on his arm, which—and you may compliment your uncle on his swordplay—was to the bone, the man was also shot through the head.”

“Shot!”

Hennessey nodded. “I questioned the watchman, but apparently nothing incriminating was found on the body. The man was well-known in certain circles, however. He went by the name of Black Jack Brannigan, and a thoroughly nasty character he was. The authorities have long suspected him of committing various acts of violence, but they were never able to establish proof.”

“Where was the body found?” Collier asked.

“In Bruton Mews.”

Turning to Demetrius, Collier said excitedly, “But that is directly behind the Prestwich residence in Berkeley Square.”

“Which leads me to wonder who was employing him,” Demetrius replied. “Because if it were simply a matter of his attacking another innocent person, surely any person who shot him in self-defense would have reported the attack to the proper authorities.”

“The same thought occurred to me,” Hennessey said. “But it appears that having sought out his employer, Mr. Brannigan received a bullet through his head in lieu of whatever money he was promised. Most unfortunate for us—although as things have turned out, he undoubtedly regrets as much as we do that he is unable to testify against the person who hired him. But tell us, did you fare any better at the solicitor’s office?’’

Briefly and succinctly Demetrius related the events of their interview with Mr. Wimbwell.

“What a stupid old man,” Collier blurted out.

“I would not call him that,” Demetrius corrected him. “I can well understand his position. As he said, where would we be if everyone felt free to bend the law to suit his own requirements?”

“That is quite generous of you,” Hennessey said, “but in this case his rigid adherence to the letter of the law may well cost you your life.”

Hester surveyed herself in the cheval glass. She was not entirely pleased with the new gown Madame Parfleur had sent over.

“Amaranth is a most flattering color for you,” Jane commented beside her. “You should wear it more often. ‘‘

“But the neckline is much too high,” Hester said crossly. “I cannot imagine what Madame was thinking about. She must have mistaken me for an old lady of ninety who is afraid of drafts.”

Jane experimentally folded under a bit of the fabric at the neckline. “Perhaps it could be lowered by an inch or so.”

“There is no perhaps about it,” Hester replied. “The dress is entirely unacceptable as it is now. It will have to go back for alterations.”

They were interrupted by a light tap at the door. It was Smucker, come to inform her that she had a gentleman caller below.

“Tell Lionell he can wait until I am done trying on my new gowns,” Hester replied automatically.

“It is not Mr. Rudd, Miss Hester. I believe it to be your father’s solicitor, Mr. Wimbwell.”

“Dear old Wimby? How delightful. I have not seen him since shortly after Father died. Put him in the library and tell him I shall be down directly. Oh, and, Smucker, fetch him some tea and a plate of bonbons. Wimby dearly loves chocolates, especially ones with cream centers.”

“As you wish.” Smucker bowed himself out.

“I shall wear this dress, Jane. As old as he is, Mr. Wimbwell will doubtless approve of its excessive modesty. But hurry and fix my hair.”

A quarter of an hour later she joined her father’s solicitor. He had aged shockingly since the last time they had met, and he looked as if he already had one foot in the grave. He struggled to get up out of his chair, but she laid her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Do not get up, dearest Wimby.” She kissed him on the cheek, then seated herself in the chair next to his. “It has been so long since you visited us. I am sorry Meribe and my aunt are out shopping. They would have also been delighted to see you.”

At the mention of the others, a shadow passed over the old man’s face, and he turned his head away slightly. “That is all for the better since I need to speak with you privately. I do not quite know how to say this.”

Hester could not imagine what business had brought Mr. Wimbwell to speak to her rather than to her aunt. “Is it something to do with the trust?”

“Yes,” he said, but his expression became even more hangdog. “I am afraid I have done something quite wicked.”

Hester gasped. “Never say you have embezzled from my father’s estate!”

Now it was Mr. Wimbwell’s turn to look shocked. “My word, nothing of the sort! All the assets are most properly invested in government consols, and as long as there is an England, no harm can come to your ... er, to your father’s money. It is just ...”

“It is just what?” Hester was getting so impatient to discover why he had come that she wished she could shake the information out of him.

“I should never have revealed to you the terms of the trust,” he blurted out in a rush. Then he looked directly at her, and his eyes were filled with great sorrow.

“But you told me all that years ago. Why is it now become such a problem that you have needed to come see me about it? Not that I am not happy to have this opportunity to visit with you, of course.”

After a bit more persuading on her part, Wimbwell finally said, “If your sister marries in the next few weeks, your income will be only a tenth of what it would be if she remains single.”

“Yes, yes, that is what you told me,” Hester said impatiently. “Please go on.”

“I do not know any delicate way to put this...” he continued to hedge.

“Tell me at once!” Hester snapped out, her patience at an end.

Startled, the old man blurted out, “Have you been hiring someone to murder all your sister’s suitors?’’

“Murder?” Hester looked at him in astonishment. Did he actually suspect her of having hired someone to kill Meribe’s suitors? His question was so unexpected—and so preposterous—that she could barely keep herself from bursting out laughing. Poor old thing, he had apparently become completely senile.

Tears of pity now filled her eyes, so upset was she that dear old Wimby had been reduced to this pathetic, paranoid old man. And all those years ago he had been such an intelligent man, awake on every suit, or so her father had always said.