The Music Box (37 page)

“Could you check? When you go back to the office, could you go through William’s papers and locate the title and any other letters or papers pertaining to this matter, maybe even something bearing the name of the company that built the yacht?”

“I suppose so.” Banks blinked, his eyes red-rimmed from grief and lack of sleep. “Why are you pursuing this? What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Bryce replied honestly. “All I know is that I don’t agree with the conclusion of the police that a highwayman was responsible for William’s killing, nor am I certain robbery was the motive. I voiced all my reservations in your office yesterday. There are just too many details that don’t fit: Why would a highwayman choose William as a target when Thane was far richer? Why would he strike in broad daylight? And why wasn’t William’s body left in his carriage—if, in fact, he was shot there? I’ve already stopped at the offices of the police, spoken with Officer Dawes. He informed me that Delmore’s carriage was undisturbed—no bloodstains, no torn leather, no sign of a bullet. To me that suggests William might have been murdered on the roadside rather than in his coach. And if that’s the case …” Bryce inhaled sharply. “Let’s just say I want to make sure that Delmore didn’t know his assailant and that there’s no connection between where he was killed and the papers he was delivering.”

“Yes, you did mention that yesterday, but I was too dazed to pay attention,” Banks said, paling. “Now that I’m focusing better, I realize you’re implying that someone at Whitshire might have committed this crime.”

“I’m
speculating
that someone at Whitshire might have committed this crime,” Bryce corrected. “Either that or someone knew Delmore’s destination and followed him there. But to get at the truth I need your help. Can I count on receiving it?”

“Of course.” Banks nodded, mopping at his brow. “Whoever killed William, I want him caught and punished. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure that occurs quickly and efficiently, regardless of what it takes or whom it incriminates. I’ll go into the office first thing tomorrow. The title to Wiltshire’s yacht is doubtless among William’s current papers, either on or in his desk. I should locate it without any trouble.” Banks paused, considering the remainder of Bryce’s request. “As for any other documents—documents that date back to the time when the craft was commissioned—those will be a bit trickier to unearth, assuming William had them in his possession at all. Since it’s been more than a decade since the yacht was built, any related papers would be in our storage room, buried in the old, inactive files. I’ll need some time to sort through those—a few days, at least. How would it be if I send for you the moment I finish doing so? By then I will have amassed all the pertinent material.”

Bryce rose. “That would be excellent. If I might impose upon you a bit further, I’d appreciate your sending me two messages: one to my house here in London and the other to Nevon Manor. I’m not sure in which of the two places your note will find me.”

“Consider it done.” Banks shoved aside his brandy snifter and leaned forward to shake Bryce’s hand. “Thank you. I realize your motive is twofold in this matter: you’re propelled not only by your longstanding association with us but by your business relationship with Thane Rowland as well. Still, I greatly appreciate your commitment to discovering the truth.”

“With all due respect, Frederick, my ties to both you and Thane are secondary in this matter. An innocent man was murdered. I want his killer caught. Now. Not only to bring him to justice but to keep him from harming anyone else.”

At that moment, twenty-five miles away, Thane Rowland was preoccupied with his own search for answers.

He stood rigid at the head of Whitshire’s library as some forty servants filed in, looking distinctly concerned by the summons they had received—concerned not for themselves but for the young woman they suspected was to be the topic of this meeting, as she had been of the meeting His Grace had called several days ago: Gabrielle Denning. At the previous gathering, the duke had explained Gaby’s plight, announced her upcoming visit to Whitshire, and elicited their help.

They’d gladly offered it.

Now they waited with varying degrees of curiosity and suspense, wondering if their efforts had paid off, if the delightful child they remembered from years ago had benefited from her day’s outing at the estate, and if the duke had something more to ask of them.

All of them would eagerly comply.

All but one.

“Thank you for coming,” Thane began, flattening his palms on the desk. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by the particular group of you I’ve assembled today, this gathering pertains to Gabrielle. First, I want to thank you all for your kind efforts in making her day here an enjoyable and memorable one. That was, after all, our primary goal.” A sigh. “Unfortunately, it appears Gabrielle’s painful memories are buried deeper than we realized.”

Clearing his throat, Thane glanced around the room, warmed by the anxious expressions he saw, from Mrs. Darcey’s furrowed brow to Mrs. Fife’s drawn mouth, from Thomas to Averley and even to Couling, whose impassive features were now troubled, taut with concern.

“I visited my aunt at Nevon Manor this morning,” Thane continued. “It seems that Gabrielle’s sleepwalking episodes have worsened and her fragmented memories of the fire have become clearer and more distinct. Evidently, when she awakened in the storage shed that night and saw the flames blazing about her, she overheard two men shouting, crying out for help, before she stumbled across the room and made her way to safety. Judging from the proximity of those voices, I suspect the men were trapped either in the coal room or the woodshed. Do any of you recall one of your colleagues heading in that direction prior to the fire?”

Silence.

“Please think hard. Your answer could help Gabrielle understand what she was inadvertently subjected to that fateful night—in addition to her grief at losing her parents and her helplessness at being unable to prevent their death. I was away at Oxford at the time, so I’m of no use in recounting specifics. All of you, however, were here. So try to remember. Did any one of the servants who perished in the fire strike out toward the coal room or mention his intention to do so?”

“Dowell.” It was Thomas the groom who spoke up, abruptly naming the man who had been Whitshire’s head gardener at the time of the tragedy.

Thane whipped about to face Thomas. “Dowell? Are you sure?”

“Positive, sir.” The groom nodded vigorously. “I’d forgotten about it until just now when you asked your question. I guess I was so shaken up by that night that I did my best to block out any memory of it. But Dowell was definitely in the coal room. I passed him on his way there. I was heading toward the stables, just a half hour or so before the fire broke out. Dowell seemed very distracted, lost in thought. I asked him if he was all right, and he said he was fine but needed to get going because he had business to take care of before he went to bed. I remember looking back over my shoulder when I reached the stable door. I saw him going into the coal room, probably to borrow one of the shovels that were stored in there. So if Miss Gaby heard someone calling out, it could very well have been Dowell.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes, sir. All alone.”

A frown. “Did you see anyone else—before that, perhaps?”

Thomas puckered up his face, thinking.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but Thomas was no more than a lad when the fire struck,” Couling interjected. “Surely he can’t be expected to remember every detail of an event that occurred thirteen years ago.”

“People often remember details surrounding a tragedy,” Averley countered thoughtfully. “Broken images become ingrained in the mind, along with the horrors of the event itself. So it’s not surprising that Thomas’s memory of what happened just before the fire is so vivid. I myself shall never forget that night.” A sorrowful pause. “None of us will.”

“Thank God you spotted the flames when you did,” Thane reminded Averley, with a wealth of gratitude. “Otherwise I shudder to think how many more people would have died.”

“I’m thankful I was in the right place at the right time,” Averley replied. “But as to your question …” He pursed his lips. “I too recall the minutes preceding the fire. I was making my way back from the tenants’ quarters. A handful of people were still about when I neared the service wing. I remember seeing Thomas, as he just told us, crossing over toward the stables. I didn’t see Dowell, but I did spot two or three footmen heading toward the carriage house and a maid leaving the dining quarters on her way to bed. Do you think that information might be helpful?”

“The way the service wing was constructed then, the carriage house was just past the coal room and the woodshed,” Thane mused with a nod. “So it’s possible that one of the footmen you noticed came upon Dowell and stepped inside to speak with him, then became trapped by the flames.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Do you recall which footmen in particular you saw?”

Averley frowned. “Not offhand, Your Grace. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m asking you to think back thirteen years. Furthermore, this entire avenue I’m pursuing is still pure conjecture. But it is a start.” Thane’s gaze darted from one servant to the next. “I want all of you to keep racking your brains to see if you remember anything more. In the meantime, I’ll pass the information you’ve just given me on to Lady Nevon. She’s extremely worried about Gabrielle.”

“We all are,” Mrs. Darcey inserted, wringing her hands.

“You’re right—we are,” Thane agreed. “I don’t know what’s prompting Gabrielle to remember all these terrifying details at this particular time, but we’ve got to try to uncover the cause of her sleepwalking. Should any of you recall anything of consequence, please let me know immediately.” Thane dismissed the staff with a fatigued wave of his hand. “Thank you, Thomas, Averley. Thank you all. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.”

The staff filed out as pensively as they’d arrived. On the surface, nothing had changed.

But the pernicious seeds had been planted.

Moonlight filtered through the window of Bryce’s bedchamber, illuminating the slowly moving hands of the mantel clock.

Three o’clock.

There would be no sleep tonight, he realized with a resigned sigh. Despite his weariness, his thoughts simply would not permit him to rest.

He folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and reviewing the events of the day.

His business with Banks had gone as well as could be expected. The poor man was still in shock, and the request Bryce had made of him was both tedious and time-consuming. It would also be painful, given that it necessitated sorting through Delmore’s papers so soon after his death. Nevertheless, Banks had agreed, just as Bryce had anticipated, if for no other reason than to ensure he’d done everything he could to unearth his partner’s murderer. Now all Bryce had to do was wait. After which, with a modicum of luck, Banks would provide the documents Bryce needed to either substantiate his theory or silence his qualms.

His visit with Lucinda had been a good deal more difficult.

Not that she’d made a scene. Quite the opposite, in fact. She’d listened patiently, accepted his decision with her customary grace and dignity, even wished him well when she bade him good-bye.

All of which had made him feel like a cad.

It hadn’t eased his guilt to hear himself insist on taking all of the blame for the way things had turned out. After all, that was nothing more than a truism, given it was he and not she who had changed. Nor had it helped that she didn’t shout out accusations or shed a tear when he explained the feelings he’d developed for Gaby, feelings he felt compelled to mention, given his plans for the immediate future.

What
had
helped was Lucinda’s response when he told her who Gaby was.

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, her expression genuinely baffled. “The woman you’ve come to care for is that waif Lady Nevon took in? Bryce, are you sure you know what you’re doing? What in the name of heaven do you two have in common? You’re a renowned barrister, on your way to being the youngest barrister ever to become Queen’s counsel. She’s a sheltered provincial girl whose only frames of reference are an eccentric old woman and a houseful of peculiar servants. I know the depths of your compassion, but please try to remember that taking someone on as a cause is quite different from taking her on as a … a … romantic companion or, even worse, something more permanent. Dear Lord, Bryce, consider your future, your reputation.”

Never had Bryce been more aware of the stark differences between himself and Lucinda than at that very moment.

Two weeks ago her speech would have enraged him.

Now, thinking of Gaby, the beauty she’d brought to his life, Lucinda’s speech succeeded only in inspiring pity.

“I am considering my future,” he’d replied with absolute candor, “quite clearly and carefully. The very fact that you can ask me those questions is a perfect illustration of why, even if Gaby were not involved, you and I could never build a life together. We simply see things too differently. Perhaps we always have.” A tactful pause. “Let’s leave it at that,” he’d concluded, scooping up his coat. “Feel free to tell people this parting was your decision. Not that it matters. You’re well aware that you have many admirers, all of whom will leap at the opportunity to take my place in your life. An hour after you make the announcement, you’ll be bombarded with invitations from men far better suited to you than I.” He’d managed a cordial smile. “I wish you the best, Lucinda. Truly I do.”

She’d nodded, still looking utterly baffled. “I wish you the same.”

You needn’t
, he’d thought silently.
I already have it.

On that uplifting thought, he’d taken his leave and gone home.

Well, not truly home, he corrected himself. A temporary stopover, cold and impersonal compared to Nevon Manor.

Gazing up at a patch of moonlight that danced across his ceiling, Bryce smiled, thinking of what Gaby’s reaction would be when he flourished the two gifts he meant to take with him—gifts he’d be picking up at midday tomorrow. He had already arranged for the more significant one. Oh, he’d had to exert a fair amount of influence to obtain it on a day’s notice. But one of the advantages of being a well-established barrister was knowing enough influential people so that when, at times like this, he needed to expedite a bureaucratic process, he could manage to do so. Unwilling to accept defeat, Bryce had put forth his case and had gotten a positive—actually, a good-natured—response. Thus, the paper he sought would be signed and ready just after noon.