“It has to be here,” Alistair repeated almost numbly. “There has to be some record of where the old bitch stashed her money.”
Rudd scrubbed a hand over his face and expelled another laborious breath. “There isn’t. Outsmarted you, she did.” He raised an arm that felt weighted by heavy iron bands and swept it lamely about the room. “You’ve got to face it! There’s nothing here. All of this paper, all of these correspondences and household accounts go back for years, and there’s not a single hint of where she might have put her money. She has hidden it too well.” He hauled himself to his knees and, from there, managed to stand upright, albeit with a great deal of difficulty. “The only thing I have any certainty about right now is the fact that there’s not one farthing left in any of the accounts or investments to which I was privy years ago. Wiped clean, every one of them.”
“Damn the shrew!” Alistair railed. “She can’t get away with this! She just can’t!”
“She has,” Rudd replied bluntly, exhaustion robbing him of any semblance of prudent discretion. “Not a bloody thing you can do about it either. At the very least we’d need several more months to search out all of the places where she might have kept the funds. Why, we’d be lucky to find even half of them.”
“I can’t wait that long!” Alistair snarled. “The creditors are at my throat now. I’d be in debtor’s prison now if not for the fact that I’m the old hag’s heir.”
“We could tell them that her affairs were left in some disorder,” Rudd suggested wearily. “Won’t that buy you some time?”
“Aye! Time for all and sundry creditors to start wondering if something has gone awry!” He glared at Rudd. “You knew all of this needed to be handled quietly and quickly. Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t know where her money was to be found?”
Rudd’s face darkened at the condemning tone in the other’s voice. “Don’t try blaming me for this!” He reached for the brandy decanter, found it empty, and slammed it down again on the sideboard. “I played straight and told you that I hadn’t handled Lydia’s affairs for some years now. How could I have possibly known what she did in that time?” He bent a dark scowl upon Alistair. “And we both know what that means. She could have done anything with her blooming fortune!”
Silence reigned as the men glowered at each other.
Rudd threw up a hand in defeat. “Perhaps we should stop for tonight, begin again with a clear head in the morning.”
“When was the last time you had a clear head?” Alistair derided, but he, too, was ready to call it a day. He fell back in his chair, surveying the mess that their search had produced. It was the same almost throughout the whole house. The whole day long they had rummaged through everything that they could lay hand to and had found nothing. Wardrobes had been turned out, drawers emptied, even mattresses upended. The servants would be returning on the morrow, and after one look at the disaster that had been heaped upon the house, they’d likely guess that something was amiss.
Alistair winced as a sudden, terrifying vision of himself locked away in prison flashed before his mind’s eye. Filthy, hungry, exhausted, totally at the mercy of guards who had none. It was a scene that had haunted him much too often of late and, with it, had always come a sharp feeling of queasiness.
He forced himself to think of other matters and realized that he hadn’t eaten for the better part of a day. He scowled, fixing his gaze upon Rudd. “Go find Sybil and tell her to cook us something to eat.” As the attorney passed through the door, he called after him, “And it had better be edible or she’ll feel the back of my hand. That bitch is as worthless as the rest of them.”
“I’ll see what I can do to help her,” Rudd mumbled, preferring that option to trying to down anything the wench could come up with. He had tasted her cooking before and had regretted it for days.
Rudd had been gone for several moments when a distant rap of the front door knocker reached Alistair in the library. Immobilized by fretful worry, he made no attempt to answer the summons until it sounded again. Only then did he realize that with the servants gone and Rudd and Sybil in the kitchen, he would have to go to the door himself. Cursing sourly beneath his breath, he rose on stiffened limbs and picked his way through the stacks of papers littering the library. As he entered the entry hall, the mantel clock chimed the ninth hour in the parlor.
Damnable late hour for someone to be calling. Unless, he thought with a small surge of hope, Cerynise has decided to come crawling back. If only she has! He certainly wouldn’t let the comely little bitch out of his grip again, at least not until he had wrung every bit of information that she possessed from her.
His heart plunged into despair when he saw a man of middling years with gray hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and wire-rimmed spectacles standing before the threshold. The visitor was garbed in a neat, sedate style that, if anything, marked him as a member of the professional class. Having expected to be admitted by a servant, the visitor looked back at the rumpled, bewhiskered Alistair with a fair amount of surprise.
“Your pardon for the late hour, sir, but might I ask if Miss Kendall is in?”
“Miss Kendall?” Alistair was instantly suspicious. The fellow was hardly a suitor, and as far as Alistair knew, all of her kin were far across the ocean. Curiosity got the better of him, and with a gracious smile, Alistair stepped aside to allow the man to enter.
“You’re here to see Cerynise, Mr.…?”
“Forgive me, sir. My name is Thomas Ely. I was Mrs. Winthrop’s solicitor. My deepest condolences on her passing.” He frowned slightly as if trying to place Alistair. “Are you a relative, sir?”
“A relative…” Even as Alistair’s tongue stumbled on the word, his mind raced on in a frenzy. Not for an instant did he doubt Mr. Ely’s claim. Nor was he surprised by the barrister’s presence. Throughout the whole miserable day, the foreboding suspicion that something had gone amiss had steadily grown stronger. Rudd had touched on it when he had said that Lydia could have done anything. They had both known all along that there might be a new will. Ely’s presence all but confirmed that theory.
“I’m Mrs. Winthrop’s great-nephew,” Alistair informed the man as he steered him into the parlor, the only room in the house that was still intact. Solicitously he conveyed his appreciation. “‘Tis good of you to come so soon.”
“Oh, but I haven’t,” Ely replied, looking confused and a bit wary at the same time. “That is, I didn’t learn of Mrs. Winthrop’s death until I read of it in the notices today. Frankly, I was surprised that I wasn’t informed immediately.”
“Dear Cerynise didn’t notify you?” Alistair asked in carefully contrived surprise. His mind had begun to work with icy clarity, and he felt amazingly calm, not at all nervous or anxious as he had been for some days now. He had been waiting for the ax to fall. Now that it had, he was keenly attentive to the possibilities opening up to him.
“No, I’m afraid she didn’t,” Ely confirmed. At Alistair’s invitation, he took a seat on one of the settees. “I must say, I was quite shocked to hear of Mrs. Winthrop’s demise. I saw her scarcely a week ago and she seemed in excellent health for a woman of her years.”
“Her passing was very sudden,” Alistair agreed, managing to convey some sadness. “A terrible loss for us all.”
Ely’s expression was noncommittal. “If I might speak with Miss Kendall…”
“Yes, of course…certainly. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll see where she may be. We’re positively at a loss without the servants. They’ve been given the day off to mourn. So it may take me a moment.”
“I’ll gladly wait.” Mr. Ely assured him.
Leaving the parlor and crossing the entrance hall, Alistair entered the dining room and then bolted through the pantry toward the kitchen. He encountered Rudd coming out the door.
“Sybil doesn’t know how to cook,” Rudd complained. “And I’m hardly able to do much better myself. She suggested that we should go out to an inn for supper.”
Alistair seized the man’s lapels and snatched him forward until Rudd’s eyes crossed in an attempt to meet the piercing gaze that bore into him. “Never mind about that now. A Mr. Thomas Ely has come to call. Is that name familiar to you?”
Rudd blanched. “He’s a barrister in the City, well-respected chap, from what I understand.”
“He was also Lydia’s solicitor, or so he informs me. Now he wishes to speak with Miss Kendall. Do you know what that means?”
A whimpering sound emerged from the depths of Rudd’s throat. “We’re undone. What are we to do?”
His trepidation amused Alistair. It was so gratifying to be in control when others were falling apart. It was only further proof (as if he needed any) of his own superiority. “Be quiet, you imbecile! We’re not undone. Do you understand? This is only a minor problem, one I can handle alone. Just make sure that Sybil stays in the kitchens or we will be undone.”
Rudd responded with a convulsive nod and turned about as if he walked on stilts. Alistair paused to smooth his hair back and straighten his shoulders. Pinning a puzzled smile on his face, he crossed the hall and entered the parlor.
“My apologies, Mr. Ely. Apparently I’ve been misinformed. Miss Kendall has gone out to visit friends this evening.”
The solicitor looked appropriately surprised. “Gone out? While she’s in mourning?”
Alistair sighed, as if understandably distressed. “Miss Kendall is very young, Mr. Ely, and I’m afraid Aunt Lydia was inclined to indulge the girl overmuch. I’m sure Miss Kendall means no disrespect.”
“All the same, I really don’t see how she could under the circumstances.” Abruptly recalling himself, Ely cleared his throat and began to rise. “In that case, I shall return in the morning. May I assume that Miss Kendall will be available to receive me by then?”
“I would expect so. However, if you’d be kind enough to tell me the nature of your business with her, I shall inform her of your expected return upon her arrival home.”
“My business with Miss Kendall is private, sir. Again let me apologize for disturbing you so late. I bid you good evening.”
“In that case there’s no need for you to return on the morrow.”
Ely sank back to the settee in astonishment. “I assure you, sir, there is every reason…”
“Which you say you cannot reveal to me, but when Miss Kendall is underage and residing under my roof, I’m naturally responsible for any guests she might receive and the reasons for doing so.”
“Your roof?” Before he could consider the knowledge he revealed, Mr. Ely pointed out the error in the other man’s thinking. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is now Miss Kendall’s residence.”
Alistair went deathly still except for his racing thoughts. Keeping his voice low and calm, he probed, “Ah, then should I take it that Aunt Lydia did as I suggested?”
“As you suggested, sir?”
“Well, yes, of course.” Alistair feigned a surprise no actor could have managed. “’Twas I who advised Aunt Lydia to leave her property to Miss Kendall. After all, the girl is alone in the world, having lost both her parents at a tragically young age. Aunt Lydia was her guardian for at least five years and had grown very attached to her.”
“I was certainly aware of the depth of devotion Mrs. Winthrop felt for her ward, but I had no idea you—” Ely broke off, not at all certain about the situation. He looked at Alistair narrowly. “Frankly, sir, such generosity is unheard of nowadays.”
“Ah, but you see I’ve always subscribed to the notion that money is the root of all evil. Don’t you agree?”
“Or at least the love of it, I suppose,” Ely mused aloud. “Certainly in my time I’ve seen a great many evils done with greed as the motive.”
“Exactly so, sir. However, for the girl’s sake, I do hope dear Aunt Lydia’s affairs were left in proper order. That was the case, wasn’t it? Aunt Lydia was such a stickler for details and clarity.”
“Oh, most definitely. Everything is in excellent order. As a matter of fact, I have here”—the solicitor withdrew a folded paper from his pocket—“a detailed and comprehensive list of Mrs. Winthrop’s holdings. I’ll begin notifying the banks and investment firms of the change of ownership on the morrow. As for the will itself…” He glanced over the document perfunctorily. “It couldn’t be simpler. Aside from a few bequests to long-term servants, Miss Kendall inherits everything.”
“Everything?” Alistair repeated softly, having no strength in his voice.
Ely nodded. “Exactly. As I said, it couldn’t be simpler.”
“How very wise of dear Aunt Lydia to keep things so straightforward,” Alistair remarked tightly. “Why, I’ve often heard of wills that required the attention of numerous solicitors and documents passed from hand to hand among the partners of an entire firm with each making his own refinements.”
The other man smiled ruefully. He, too, could see the absurdity of such tangled situations even though he had to acknowledge they did occur. “I can assure you, sir, nothing of the sort will happen in this case. On the contrary, Mrs. Winthrop spoke only with me about this matter. I handled everything from start to finish.”
“I’m sure she greatly appreciated your service,” Alistair murmured as his hand closed on the bronze statue of a dancer that graced one of the small tables near the settee. It looked like the sort of thing that was worth a lot of money, but at the moment it held a different value for him. “Confidentiality is such an important part of the relationship between solicitor and client.”
“’Tis indeed. Why, I’ve ofttimes had to explain to my dear wife that I cannot possibly discuss—”
Alistair pivoted with the dancer gripped in his hand. Ely had only a scant second to see the blow coming. Even so, his reflexes were good for a man of his years. He threw up an arm in a desperate attempt to block the blow, but he failed. The heavy bronze smashed into his forehead with a sickening thud. Behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes rolled back in his head as he slowly toppled aside where he lay unmoving.
Alistair’s breathing was more rapid than usual, but not excessively so as he observed the trickle of blood that ran across Ely’s brow. When it threatened to stain the settee, he yanked a silk afghan from a nearby chair and wrapped it about the lawyer’s head. Then he dragged the man from the couch, tugged him across the rug to the bare floor, and continued through the entrance hall toward the back stairs.
Rudd stuck his head out of the kitchen door and glanced around, having heard a sound that had struck him as odd. He gasped sharply in shock as he espied Alistair towing the body, and immediately a sickening dread filled him. If anyone could rail in a whisper, then he did exactly that as he demanded, “What have you done?”
Alistair was tempted to chuckle as he noted the lawyer’s ashen face and the horrified expression that had frozen his features. “Go to the parlor,” he instructed without pausing in his labors. “There are papers on the floor. Pick them up and bring them along.”
Rudd stammered, “Wh-what are you going to do?”
“What in hell do you think I’m going to do? Leave the corpse in the parlor until the servants return? Or allow Sybil to see it and leave here screaming? The hell I will!” Alistair declared. Really, was it too much to ask that he not be saddled with a dunderhead at such a time? “We’ve got to get rid of him, of course. Dear Auntie wrote a new will leaving everything to Cerynise. Mr. Ely, here, was thoughtful enough to bring it along with him, as well as a current list of all of Lydia’s holdings.”
Dazed, Rudd shook his head lamely. “That’s terrible…wonderful…It will help us track down all the money, but it isn’t yours. It’s—”
“Mine!” Alistair claimed emphatically. He was half crouched over Ely as he pulled him along, but he paused and raised his head to look at Rudd with a wickedly feral smile. “’Tis all mine. The little bitch will never see one farthing of it. Now be a sensible fellow and do as I say.”
Without bothering to look up again to see
if Rudd obeyed, Alistair resumed his task, dragging Mr. Ely down the passage leading to the small, walled garden behind the house. From there, a door draped in ivy led out onto a small lane that ran alongside the house. If memory served him well enough, there was usually a handcart in a small shed at the end of the garden.
Rudd joined him at the storehouse a few moments later, looking decidedly grayer in the moonlight. Alistair snatched the papers that he clutched from him and tucked the bundle within his own waist shirt.
“Help me lift him,” Alistair urged, gesturing to the body.
Rudd grimaced at the notion. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” Alistair snapped. “What do you think I am? A dimwit?”
Gingerly Rudd took hold of the man’s legs and together they swung the body into the cart.
“Step out beyond the gate and take a look down the lane to see if anybody is out there,” Alistair directed. “We can’t take any chances with a full moon.”
Once again Rudd obeyed and returned with assurances that he hadn’t caught a glimpse of anyone either near or far. “Where are we taking him?”
“The river,” Alistair answered bluntly. “Now go get three of those old cloaks hanging near the servants’ entrance.”
Rudd felt on the verge of throwing up what little he had on his stomach. He didn’t like what he was having to do, but neither could he find it in himself to depart the premises. Mrs. Winthrop had been a very wealthy woman, and if he could, he wanted to share some portion of the sizable inheritance that would presumably be forthcoming. He just hoped they’d live that long.
Upon the lawyer’s return, Alistair noticed that the man looked unusually pale and haggard even in the moonlight. “What’s the matter with you?” he hissed caustically. “A body might guess from the way you’re carrying on that you’d just seen me kill your own sweet mother.”
Dutifully slipping into one of the black shrouds, Rudd raised dull, worried eyes to his partner-in-crime and mumbled gloomily, “I’ve never done anything like this before.…”