The Duke's Agent (19 page)

‘Your generosity does you credit, sir. I propose that Mr Jarrett be charged with the further investigation of this affair, to report back to an extraordinary petty session – shall we say next Thursday, gentlemen?'

The Colonel was clearly determined that any subsequent examinations would be conducted in private, for only magistrates and invited witnesses or advisers were admitted to such petty sessions. Of his fellow Justices, the Reverend Prattman was eager to agree. The parson was transparently much comforted by the Colonel's arrival to take charge of what had threatened to become a nightmare.

As to Mr Raistrick – the Colonel cast a sharp glance at the heavy-set figure glowering to his right. Given his experience of Mr Justice Raistrick's character, Colonel Ison was confident that the lawyer would swim with the tide – in public at least.

‘Her name is Bronte, though I'd sooner call her Charybdis the way she pulls poor Tansy into her mischief.' Charles jerked the reins impatiently to check the offending mare. He drove a neat pair of Welsh cobs, their glossy chestnut haunches gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

‘They are handsome,' commented Jarrett idly.

‘Aye, aesthetically pleasing at a stand but their motion as a pair is execrable. It is my own fault. I'm such a shallow fellow – ever drawn by outward appearances in both women and horse-flesh.' Bronte shuddered and skipped a step. ‘I thought to school them but this one's an incurable kicker and pulls like the very devil.' Transferring the reins briefly to his whip hand, Charles flexed his gloved fingers to ease the cramp. ‘I suppose I shall have to break 'em up and start afresh.'

Jarrett was impatient with this small-talk. ‘Don't keep me in suspense, Charles. Why so long in York? May I hope your delay was due to some discovery?'

Charles's face focused as his quick mind came to the fore. He sketched a brisk nod. ‘You know I was off to find Dibley, the lawyer, as we parted? Well, old Dibley's papers were quite a mine of information, once his clerk managed to gather it all up. You know I have little head for business…'

On the contrary, Jarrett was well aware that his friend had a sharp eye for a rum deal, a skill honed during a youth enjoyed in a world littered with card-sharps and other rogues determined to regard rich young men as their legitimate prey.

He grinned. ‘So what did you stumble across, my simple pigeon?'

‘Crotter had been purloining receipts and borrowing against my father's properties. He was in pretty deep.'

‘How deep?'

‘Deep enough for him – but for us? Perhaps Father will be cutting down on his racing stable and letting out that hunting box in Leicestershire he no longer uses for the next year or so. And what of matters here? I imagine these properties are in a bad way?'

‘I have uncovered a number of supposed improvements that exist only on paper, yes. However, I should say that the core of the tenants are perfectly respectable and sound. Have you any idea how long this has been going on?'

‘As far as I can tell, only four or five years.'

‘So Crotter did not begin a rogue?'

‘I think not. Lawyer Dibley values himself as a discreet man but he finally decided it prudent to inform me that there had been a rumour a few years back that Crotter had been tempted to speculate in a bid for a military contract – blankets or some such. The man over-extended himself then lost the business to a local competitor. The most likely explanation is that, finding himself with debts he could not pay, Crotter turned to defrauding the estates to cover them.'

The carriage had left Woolbridge behind and bowled down a pretty lane towards Oakdene Hall. Charles turned to his companion. ‘Tell me of your adventures while I have been buried among dusty papers and dustier lawyers. What of this Tallyman you alluded to in your postscript? That scribble gave a touch of melodrama to your epistle. A proper note to be flung by a maiden from a tower!' he teased.

‘I am no maiden!' protested Jarrett. ‘It is ever a pleasure to see you, Charles, but I am confident I should have extricated myself from this latest incident even had you not arrived as you did. Lawyer Raistrick had no evidence against me. As
to my scribble, the postmaster had already done up his bags and I did not want to miss the mail,' he ended defensively.

Charles laughed. ‘So tell me – this Tallyman?'

Jarrett sketched the role he suspected the Tallyman of playing, including his suspicion of the man's involvement in the Stainmoor murder. He gave a lively account of his first interview with Justice Raistrick after he was attacked on the road to Greta Bridge, and how his adventures had led him to suspect that most unusual of magistrates of being the Tallyman's sometime employer. Without intending to at the outset, Jarrett found he passed over his acquaintance with Ezekiel Duffin. It was not that he would not personally trust Charles with his life, but he was not confident his friend would show equal diligence for the welfare of a mere poacher. Charles's nature was exuberant and one never knew what he might let slip.

Charles paid close attention to the tale. As his companion fell silent, he paused a moment. ‘So, let me sum up,' he began. ‘First, we have one dead steward whose account books are missing. Second, the sums taken from our estates are considerable – I cannot believe that they were all sunk into Crotter's debts. Next, this Tallyman is put at the manor at the time of Crotter's death, possibly seen in the act of carrying off those missing account books.' Charles's profile was perhaps his best feature. He had a classical nose and a noble forehead. When he was thoughtful, as now, the pale cast of his skin gave his head the illusion of being carved in marble. He turned to his companion and the illusion shattered. Face to face there was an earthy knowingness about him that was entirely human. ‘How certain are you of that tale?'

‘Certain enough. I would trust my witness,' Jarrett replied.

Charles threw him a penetrating look but did not press him. ‘And finally we suspect that the said Tallyman is in
the employ of one of the local magistrates – the same who snatched the opportunity to select you as a likely suspect when this fortuitous corpse turns up at your door. And we conclude?' Charles raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘That Raistrick was in partnership with Crotter in defrauding your father's estates,' responded Jarrett promptly. ‘Indeed, I suspect that our lawyer Raistrick had the unfortunate Crotter well under his thumb.'

‘And sought Crotter's death perhaps?'

Jarrett took a deep breath, puffing his cheeks as he let it out. ‘Why would he kill so productive a goose? It only leads to the expense and trouble of corrupting a new agent. No. I suspect Crotter died as he appeared to die – his heart gave way unexpectedly, leaving his confederate to cover his tracks as best he could.'

‘Then you appear. Raistrick must have expected someone to arrive to pick up my father's affairs.'

‘But maybe not so soon. By arriving alone at least I arrived in short time.'

Charles grinned. ‘Ah-ha! We come to your unconventional appearance in these parts. Am I to understand that that was strategy, not whim?' His manner became half-serious, half-playful. ‘I have a lecture for you, sir! Lady Catherine informed me that you asked Sir Thomas not to speak of your true identity. Why, Raif? This whole late affair could not have unfolded as it did if you had only permitted the proper introductions.'

‘Anonymity gives greater freedom of movement.' Jarrett shrugged impatiently. ‘Besides, if the town cats had once grasped the notion that I might be the Duke's kinsman they would have worried me to death with their picnics and teas until they established the precise nature of my blood, fortune and degree …' He trailed off with an impatient wave of a hand. ‘And all the rest.'

Charles's eyes contemplated his companion with a sympathy
at variance with his satirical tone. ‘You are such a retiring fellow! You have been a spy too long, Raif.'

‘Intelligence officer, I beg you!'

‘As you will. But,' there was a sudden note of sincerity in Charles's tone, ‘you must shake this habit of concealment. It is unnecessary.'

‘Is it?' Jarrett rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. His cuff fell back to reveal the plait of hair he wore about his wrist.

‘You wear it still, I see,' Charles observed quietly.

Jarrett glanced down. ‘Aye.' He tucked it out of sight and straightened himself. ‘It is the fetter that binds me to the truth of my situation. But you are right. Information-gathering in the field suits my temperament. I seem to have a natural inclination for solitude and concealment.'

‘I dispute that it is a true part of your nature.' The words broke out with energy, then Charles continued more quietly. ‘It arises rather from the misfortunes you have encountered.' He touched his friend's arm, his voice low and earnest. ‘Raif, your family acknowledges and values you. That fact upholds you against any petty gossip.'

Jarrett folded his arms with a wry shrug.

‘Forgive me,' Charles said. ‘I do not mean to cause you pain.' Dispelling the tension, he moved into a light comic vein. ‘I am awaiting word from Ravensworth. I expect to be called back any time. I hear that my father is in another of his blue deeps.'

‘How blue?'

‘Purple to indigo,' responded Charles in a resigned tone.

Jarrett tossed his head. ‘Of course, he is approaching another anniversary, is he not?'

Alexander, fourth Duke of Penrith, had been indulged all his life. From the moment he opened his eyes on the world he had been endowed with money, position, good looks and charm. These attributes, complemented by a naturally hard
head for drink and a disarming disregard for expense, had won him a wide circle of friends. He had thus passed his first fifty years without ever giving a thought to his good fortune (His Grace not being much given to thought). Then, at the age of fifty-two, while riding to hounds with his famed recklessness, he had suffered a bad fall. The resulting paralysis of his legs eventually passed, but his spirit never recovered from the shock. Bewildered and indignant that fortune should so suddenly turn her back on him, His Grace took refuge in his bed from the onset of old age. Gradually he assumed the role of an invalid, discovering in that interesting condition the power to make others do as he liked even more effectually than when he charmed them in his prime. Thus His Grace settled comfortably into a premature old age, ruling his family and household from the convenience of his bath-chair. It was his habit to give himself out to be at death's door whenever the supply of amusing visitors temporarily dried up and boredom overtook him. These episodes his family, with weary affection, referred to as his ‘blue deeps'.

The left-hand mare shuddered and shook her head, unsettling her pair.

‘Step up, Bronte!' commanded Charles in an irritated tone. ‘By the bye, I have brought Tiplady to you,' he resumed. ‘His story was that you had been seized by a brain fever and gone mad. I suppose you had another quarrel?'

Jarrett moved impatiently on the hard bench, seeking to ease the ache in his leg.

‘One of his stomachs,' he said shortly.

Charles shook his head sympathetically. ‘Ah me. Family retainers. At times I think we serve them rather than the other way around. But you will have to smooth things over. Poor Tip. He is quite cut up about it all. And another thing. What were you doing camping in a folly? What is the matter with living at the manor?'

‘I have no liking for it.'

Charles gave a tut of annoyance. ‘Then set about rearranging it to your taste. The house must be repaired in any case, it has been neglected long enough.' He sat up in sudden animation. ‘I could assist you! I have a turn for improvements. I must show you the drawings I made for Thorpe Park – not up to your standards, perhaps, but I confess I am pleased with them.'

Jarrett eyed his kinsman with sardonic affection. Charles had abundant energy but his enthusiasms never made allowance for the time and effort it took others to execute his good ideas.

‘Forgive me, but I prefer to stick to my simple folly. Look to your team, man!' he exclaimed, indicating the recalcitrant Bronte who was gathering herself to kick at her companion.

‘Your trouble, my lad,' responded Charles tartly, ignoring this attempt to divert him, ‘is that you
will
stick to your simple folly – no one has a prayer of talking you out of it!' He reined in his troublesome animal. ‘But,' he added, ‘ever faithful, I shall try. No. You shall not put me off.' He turned his elegant head to his companion, his features alight with humorous affection. ‘I have plans. It shall be like our old days when we lodged together in Half Moon Street, Raif – only in a pastoral setting,' he pronounced obscurely.

The curricle passed through the arched gateway of Oakdene Hall. Charles touched his whip to his hat in acknowledgement of the gatekeeper who hurried out to swing open the sturdy iron gates.

‘And what of this dead girl, Raif? Can you make any sense of her death?'

Laughter left Jarrett's lean face, his blue eyes looked away across the green sweep of the park. ‘I cannot see how she fits into our affair – and yet, Mr Raistrick's behaviour makes me suspect his motives.'

‘Might she have been an intrigue he had grown weary of? Perhaps she died for entirely other reasons and he laid her at
your door on a whim? A suitable stranger on whom to lay the blame, as it were?'

‘Maybe.'

To those who knew him well, Jarrett's eyes were as expressive as the sea.

‘What?' Charles demanded.

‘I fear he had the girl killed for no other reason than to entrap me.'

‘Nonsense! Use your head!' scoffed Charles. ‘Oh, I am no innocent – I believe men capable of such horrors. But this man is a lawyer, a magistrate; he has done well for himself; he must have his wits about him. To entertain murder on the off-chance of snaring you? Only a fool or a madman would risk such a thing. It is not as if you came to this place without ties or connections. He knew you as the Duke's agent.'

Jarrett sat back, his arms folded and his legs stretched out straight, braced against the jolting of the carriage, as he recalled the magistrate's efforts to match his boots to the imprints on the rock.

‘Perhaps you are right. Mr Raistrick's behaviour over the last two days has the air of an improvisation. He is a bold opportunist.' Jarrett cocked his head at his companion. ‘So what are we to do about Mr Raistrick?'

‘Do? We do what is rational. We do nothing.'

Jarrett sighed.

‘Raif, what do you expect?'

‘I have a mild affection for justice. She makes a more comely mistress than expedience,' Jarrett replied.