Adair nodded. “The same. He has an interest in investigations, too.”
“Along with his wife, Violet.” When, faintly surprised, Thomas looked at her, Penelope grinned—another of her steely, iron-willed grins. “We—myself, Stokes’s wife, Griselda, and Violet—all . . .” She waved airily. “Involve ourselves in the investigations as needed. For instance, I’ll call on your Rose and the children this afternoon to let her know she can call on me, or either of the others, for any assistance of a more domestic nature that she might require.”
Thomas thought that surprising information through, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”
That earned him an openly delighted smile.
Shifting his gaze to Adair, Thomas continued, “I’ve already put my agent, Drayton, onto investigating Percival’s finances. As yet, he’s been unable to get far, but I’m sure Montague’s reach will be more . . . extensive. I’ll instruct Drayton to liaise with Montague’s office.” He paused, then added, “Drayton’s areas of expertise are unlikely to be entirely overlapped by Montague’s—with them working together, we should have a better chance of uncovering whatever clues lie in Percival’s finances.”
Adair nodded. He glanced at Stokes. “In a case like this, it’s almost certain that the motive will lie there. The principal benefit Percival will get from the inheritance is access to money, both directly and via credit against the estate.”
“The only other benefit he might derive is from the title itself.” Penelope frowned. “And the only reason that might matter is if he’s looking to marry, but I’ve seen and heard nothing of that.” She looked at Stokes, then at Thomas. “But I will ask of those who would definitely know.”
Stokes nodded. “Do—best to eliminate that as a motive if we can. Meanwhile . . . I believe I can spare a few constables and a sergeant to set up a watch on Mr. Richard Percival.” He cocked a brow at Thomas. “Any idea where he lives?”
Thomas shook his head.
Stokes shrugged. “No matter. That can be the sergeant’s first task—finding out.”
Adair was nodding. “As it appears that William is standing in the way of Richard Percival’s demonstrably very real push to inherit, and William is now in town, keeping a close eye on Percival might pay dividends on several counts.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “We might learn which inquiry office he’s using, which will at least give us more witnesses as to his actions against Rose and William.”
“Indeed. Witnesses to his active intent might very well be crucial.” Stokes frowned, then said, “The only other immediate action I can think of is to see if we can interview the estate’s solicitor.” Stokes arched a brow at Thomas.
“Foley,” he supplied. “Of Gray’s Inn. Rose doesn’t trust him, but she doesn’t really know him. My own solicitor assures me Foley is sound, if somewhat rigidly conservative, which might explain Rose’s reading of him.”
Stokes nodded. “I’ll have to request a magistrate’s order to induce Foley to discuss his client’s business, but once I’ve interviewed Rose, I should have enough to do so.”
“I’ll go with you when you visit Foley,” Adair put in. “Quite aside from putting any questions, my presence alone might help.”
Stokes humphed in agreement.
Thomas set down his cup and saucer on the small table beside his chair. “One thing—I know it’s early days as yet, but, even if we do show that Richard Percival has been pursuing William, that, due to some financial constraint, he has reason to want William dead so that he can inherit, and we have Rose’s testimony as to what she heard him say four years ago regarding him arranging for his brother and his brother’s wife to be murdered . . .” Thomas met Adair’s, then Penelope’s, then Stokes’s eyes. “Is that going to be enough?”
When no one immediately volunteered an answer, Thomas went on, “We might be able to show motive, but other than Rose’s testimony, as far as I can see we have nothing that definitively proves Richard Percival is guilty of anything criminal. And Rose’s testimony will be easy to discount—a twenty-four-year-old young lady, hysterical with grief, thinks she hears . . . something Percival will insist she didn’t. What judge or court would convict on that?”
Stokes grimaced. “We’ll have to search in Lincolnshire for any witnesses that can link him to the murders on the yacht.”
“If there were any such witnesses,” Thomas quietly said.
Adair exhaled. “Sadly, you’re right. Four years after the event . . . that’s a very cold trail.”
“But,” Penelope said, “if we set the earlier murder to one side, then the critical point we have to deal with now is that William still stands between Richard Percival and what he wants.” She met Thomas’s eyes. “William is Richard’s current target—which means that, if it comes to it, we could use William to bait a trap for Richard.” She widened her eyes. “Indeed, that might be the fastest way to assemble conclusive proof against Richard Percival.”
“No.” His expression resolute, Thomas flatly said, “I could never allow William to be used as bait. He’s intelligent and capable, but he’s only nine years old.”
To his surprise, Penelope smiled at him in rather fond condescension. “Of course not—we wouldn’t really have William there. We would just make it appear that he, Percival’s target, was there for the seizing.” She looked at Stokes. “That, I suspect, would be all it would take.”
Stokes grunted. “It won’t be quite that easy, but . . .” He inclined his head. “I have to agree that once we’ve gathered all the information we can, it might come to that.” He glanced at Thomas. “If Percival’s searching as hard as he apparently is, then word that William has been sighted at a particular place will certainly bring him running.”
Adair grimaced. “It’s entrapment of a sort—never the best way forward—but I agree. It might come to that. We shouldn’t turn our backs on the possibility.” He looked at Thomas. “If we stage it correctly, we can make Percival’s intent sufficiently clear, to the point that, along with all the rest, no judge will overlook it.”
Thomas allowed his antipathy to the idea to color his features, but, reluctantly, he nodded. “Very well. We’ll proceed as you’ve outlined, and, first of all, assemble all the information on Percival and his circumstances that we can.”
Grasping his cane, he rose. The others all came to their feet. Thomas met their gazes, then inclined his head. “Thank you.”
The three nodded back, and, joining Thomas, they strolled as a group into the hall.
After confirming the time for them to call at the hotel to meet Rose and the children, Thomas was about to turn away when—to his intense surprise—Stokes held out his hand.
“Until later,” Stokes said.
Hiding his surprise, Thomas gripped the man’s hand. “Indeed.”
As Thomas released Stokes, Adair, too, offered his hand. “As well as Stokes, there’ll be me, Penelope, and Montague if he can manage it—you might want to warn Miss Heffernan and assure her we won’t bite.”
“Naturally not.” Penelope frowned Adair down, then turned to beam at Thomas and bestow her hand on him.
As Glendower very properly gripped her fingers, Penelope noticed Stokes collecting his hat from Mostyn. “Stokes—if you have a moment, I have something for you to take to Griselda.”
Stokes nodded and remained.
Retrieving her hand, Penelope smiled with real delight at Thomas Glendower. “Good day, Mr. Glendower—we’ll see you this afternoon.”
With a last, graceful inclination of his head, Glendower turned to the door and, with a polite nod to Mostyn, who swung the door wide, limped off down the steps.
Her smile undimmed and undimming, Penelope watched Glendower depart, then she signaled to Mostyn to shut the door.
For a moment, she stood luxuriating in the welling excitement of a new and utterly fascinating case, wallowing in the anticipation.
Stokes turned to her. “What did you want me to take to Griselda??
??
Penelope blinked and returned to the moment. “Oh, that. I lied. I wanted to detain you to make sure both you and Barnaby comprehend just who Mr. Thomas Glendower is.”
Propping his shoulders against the drawing room door frame, hands sunk in his trouser pockets, Barnaby smiled lazily at her. “So . . . who is he?”
“He’s . . .” After a second, Penelope waved her hands. “I hardly know where to begin. He’s known as an extremely wealthy, but very reclusive, gentleman—he never appears in public. Clearly, we now know why. But he endowed and manages a fund for the Foundling House—it’s the largest we have, and it accounts for nearly a third of our income. That’s where I first heard his name. Later, I learned that he’s done the same with that new hospital south of the river, and then I discovered he’s endowed the . . .” She listed charity after foundation after institution on her fingers, working through one hand, then the next, then starting on the fingers of the first hand again, ultimately concluding with, “And he’s the largest individual benefactor of the British Museum.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Stokes looked at Barnaby. “I suppose we now know how he’s been spending his time over the last five years.”
No longer smiling patronizingly, Barnaby pushed away from the door frame. “Regardless, that’s impressive.” He paused, then arched a brow. “I wonder what Montague’s view of Mr. Thomas Glendower is.”
“You can find out tonight,” Penelope declared. “Dinner here at seven o’clock, gentlemen—I’ll send messages to Griselda and Violet, as well as Montague, so don’t be late.”
At three o’clock that afternoon, in response to a polite knock, Thomas opened the door of their suite and stood back to allow Penelope, Adair, Stokes, and a conservatively dressed man Thomas took to be the great Montague to enter.
He’d told Rose of his earlier meeting and had warned her they were coming. She’d been sitting, waiting, on one of the two sofas; coming to her feet, she somewhat nervously smoothed her skirts.
Penelope Adair, in what Thomas suspected was her habitual forthright fashion, swept up to Rose, a warm and transparently genuine smile on her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Heffernan. And might I say how indebted I am to you and Mr. Glendower”—she waved at Thomas—“for bringing us such an intriguing case. I, for one, am grateful for the distraction.”
Across the room, Rose briefly met Thomas’s eyes, then, clasping Penelope’s offered fingers, murmured, “Please, call me Rose.”
Penelope’s smile deepened. “And as you’ve no doubt guessed, I’m Penelope Adair.”
Thomas shut the door but didn’t have to make the rest of the introductions. Penelope blithely did that for him, then she looked at the children, both watching from chairs at the table by the window in the far corner of the room. “And these must be . . .”
Finally, Penelope stopped and glanced at Thomas.
Obediently, he obliged. “Allow me to introduce”—at his beckoning wave, both children, openly curious, came forward—“Miss Pippin and Master Homer.”
Pippin bobbed a wobbly curtsy. Homer’s bow was more certain.
Penelope beamed at the pair. “Are you busy with your lessons?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the children chorused.
“Indeed.” Rose turned the children back to their books. “Thomas and I have promised to play a game with them later—once they finish.”
Reminded of that reward, the children retreated and settled once again at the table.
Turning to Rose, Penelope arched a brow.
With a wave inviting Penelope to share the sofa with her, Rose sat, and while Penelope set aside her bonnet and reticule, and the gentlemen arranged themselves in the armchairs and on the other sofa, Rose quietly explained, “We think it best that they continue to use the nicknames they chose four years ago, when we left Seddington Grange.” She met Stokes’s gaze. “Using their real names might prove dangerous, and they’re very comfortable with their nicknames now.”
Extracting a black notebook from his greatcoat pocket, Stokes nodded. “There’s no benefit in them changing back just yet.” He glanced swiftly around the circle, then looked at Rose. “If you don’t mind, Miss Heffernan—”
“Please. Just Rose.” Rose smiled wryly. “I’m also more comfortable with that name now.”
Stokes nodded easily, the expression in his eyes reassuring. “Rose. I’d like to go through the details of what happened four years ago in Lincolnshire, but it would help if we could start from further back—from your mother’s marriage to Robert Percival, when you first went to live at Seddington Grange.”
Fleetingly, Rose arched her brows. She understood why Thomas had taken the step he had, and if she didn’t as yet fully comprehend all the ramifications, she fully appreciated that securing Stokes’s—and Adair’s and Montague’s—support was a major advance. So she nodded and cast her mind back. “I was fifteen when my father died of a fever and nineteen when my mother remarried. Robert wooed her for several months, and I felt comfortable with him. He was kind, caring, and I was very happy that Mama had found someone who truly cared for her.”
“So you weren’t upset by her remarriage.”
“No, not at all. I was relieved.” She paused, then added, “Mama wasn’t strong physically, so having Robert appear, and then be so intent on sweeping us up, into his care, was, from my point of view, a happy circumstance.”
“Nineteen,” Penelope said. “Did you make your come-out?”
Glancing at her, Rose nodded. “The following year. I had two Seasons, but . . .” Her lips quirked. “You might say I didn’t take.” She looked at Stokes. “But then William was born, and Mama never fully recovered. I helped her take care of him, and, I’ll admit, as I wasn’t enamored of ton entertainments, the Season, the marriage mart, and all the rest, I used caring for him, and then later Alice, too, as an excuse to avoid the social round.”
“So,” Stokes said, “would it be correct to say that you, the children, and your mother and stepfather were happy and content, with no acrimony or tensions, at the time of the accident?”
“Yes.” Rose nodded decisively. “That’s exactly how we were . . . and then, they were gone.” Telling Thomas had been easier; she hadn’t had to relate the details, hadn’t had to relive the memories, bringing them to life in her mind. She drew in a slow breath. Stokes, to his credit, didn’t prompt her, but she knew what he wanted to know. “Mama was sickly and often spent her days lying down. But on the morning they left, she was having one of her good days, so Robert thought to take her out for the day—fresh air always did her good. So they ordered a picnic basket from the kitchen, and we”—Rose tipped her head toward the children—“all three of us, stood on the front steps and waved them away. Robert was driving his curricle, and Mama was laughing.”
She looked at Stokes. Head bent, he was scribbling in his notebook.
Without looking up, he quietly asked, “When did you realize something was amiss?”
“When they didn’t return for dinner.” She paused, recalling. “Fisk, the butler, sent a rider to Grimsby. Robert had mentioned they would head that way.”
“And . . . ?” The gentle prompt came from Penelope.
Rose drew in a shaky breath, shook her head. “We heard nothing until the next day. About eleven o’clock, the head constable from Grimsby arrived with the news. Fishermen going out that morning had spotted the yacht and found the bodies.” Her voice strengthening, she caught Stokes’s eye as he glanced up. “I knew, then, that something wasn’t right, that Mama, at least, could never have drowned, would never even have been on the yacht, but . . .” She drew in a sharp breath. “I had William and Alice to console.” She glanced briefly at the pair. Heads bent, they were busy with their lessons; they were far enough away that they couldn’t hear. “They didn’t understand, not exactly, but somehow they knew that they would never see their parents again, that they had gone forever, and they were . . . inconsolable.” She paused, then,
pressing her hands together, drew in a deep breath. “It was a difficult few days.”
A massive understatement; she’d been battling her own grief, compounded by her confusion, and dealing with Alice, who, at two, had worked herself into hysterics. . . . Rose pushed away the memory. She felt Penelope’s hand briefly squeeze hers and spared the other woman a weak smile.
“What happened to the curricle?”
It was Adair who had asked. The question helped Rose refocus. “It was found on the headland, but the horse was wandering aimlessly, so we had no idea where they’d actually stopped. But they had eaten their picnic.”
“Had anyone seen them take the boat out?” Adair asked.
Rose shook her head. “But that wasn’t necessarily a surprise. If they’d gone out in the afternoon, the fishermen’s boats would have been well out at sea, and when the boats returned at dusk, the fishermen might not have spotted the capsized yacht.”
“So”—Stokes studied his notes—“next came the funeral.” He glanced at Rose. “Anything particular about the service or the wake?”
Remembering . . . she shook her head. “No. It was all very somber. No one had expected them to die, not so young. Everyone was in shock. Both were well liked, and, of course, Robert had lived there all his life.”
“Who of the family attended?”
“The Percivals—Richard, Robert’s younger brother, and Robert’s uncle, Marmaduke, and Marmaduke’s son, Roger Percival. Beyond that, there were a great many connections and many distant cousins, but”—Rose shrugged—“no one I really knew. No one elected to stay on at the house except for Richard and Marmaduke.”
“And them staying makes sense,” Thomas quietly said. “Richard and Marmaduke were named William’s and Alice’s co-guardians. Although Richard was named principal guardian, he and Marmaduke would have had arrangements to discuss and decisions to make.”
Scribbling furiously, Stokes nodded, then looked at Rose. “Tell me what you did after the guests left, in as much detail as you can remember.”