He understood what she was asking. During the slow journey down from the falls, she’d told him what Malcolm had said before he’d arrived at the bridge. But now that Malcolm was dead and gone, how much did they need to make public? “I—”
He broke off as the thump of approaching hoofbeats reached them. They turned to watch as three horse men, riding hard, thundered up across the fields, then swung onto the drive leading to the stable yard.
Gabriel, in the lead, saw them; checking his hunter, he trotted over.
Barnaby followed, along with a greatcoated individual Charlie recognized. “Inspector Stokes,” he murmured to Sarah. He’d met Stokes on a number of occasions.
Taking in their state, Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “What’s happened?”
“In a moment.” Charlie looked from Stokes to Barnaby. “You couldn’t have reached London. What’s brought you back hotfoot?”
His expression like granite, Barnaby met his eyes. “You may not believe it, but our villain is Sinclair.”
Charlie nodded. “We’ve just learned the same thing.” He glanced at Sarah, then looked up at the three men. “Why don’t you leave your horses with Croker, then wait in the library. Give us a few minutes to change, then you can tell us what you’ve learned, and we can tell you our news.”
Barnaby frowned, but Gabriel nodded. “Good idea.”
He wheeled away; Stokes followed. With an impatiently curious look, Barnaby was forced to fall in with that plan.
Twenty minutes later, Charlie opened the library door, held it for Sarah, then followed her in. The other three had gathered in armchairs before the fire; as Sarah approached they all rose.
Charlie introduced Stokes to Sarah.
A tall, dark-featured man, neatly and soberly dressed, the inspector bowed. “A plea sure, countess.”
Sarah smiled. “I’ve ordered tea and crumpets.” She looked around at the faces. “I daresay we could all use the sustenance.”
She sat on the chaise; Charlie sat beside her as the others resumed their seats. He caught Barnaby’s eye. “You first.”
Barnaby hesitated, then acquiesced. “I never made it to London. I ran into Stokes near Salisbury. He was riding this way with news of Montague’s discovery.”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who took up the tale.
“Montague did as I believe you suggested”—Stokes inclined his head to Charlie—“and searched for the source of the funds used to buy land for subsequent profiteering. He concentrated on one property, one amount. The instant he traced it to an account owned by Malcolm Sinclair, he realized the implication. Montague took his suspicions to His Grace of St. Ives.”
“Devil checked further,” Barnaby said. “He spoke with Wolver-stone, who put him on to Dearne and Paignton.” He looked at Sarah. “As it happens, Paignton’s wife, Phoebe, is a connection of yours.”
“Cousin Phoebe?” Sarah frowned, then her eyes widened. “At one time she lived with my aunt Edith. Did Phoebe know Malcolm Sinclair?”
Puzzled, Barnaby shook his head. “No, she didn’t. But her husband, Paignton, did. As a minor, Malcolm Sinclair had been involved with his guardian in some scheme connected with white slave trading. Back in ’16. Paignton, Dearne, and some others exposed it.”
“But Malcolm Sinclair wasn’t charged,” Sarah said, “even though the scheme was suspected to be his creation.”
Barnaby stared at her. “How did you know?”
Sarah held up the silver-plated diary she’d brought with her. “My aunt Edith suspected that, and told him so—and advised him to reform his ways. She wrote it all down in here. And I inherited this volume of her diaries.”
“As you can see, the diary is distinctive. Sinclair recognized it and stole it so Sarah wouldn’t learn the truth about his past,” Charlie said, “and perhaps tell me, who might then suspect that his interest in railways could have a reason beyond simple investing.”
“Indeed.” Stokes started to say more, but paused when the door opened; he waited while Crisp and a footman brought in trays of tea, toast, and crumpets. The lure of honey, jam, and fresh butter caused a temporary hiatus, then, having wolfed down a crumpet, Stokes washed it down with a draught of tea and set down his cup.
He glanced at Charlie. “We’ve grounds enough to reel in Mr. Sinclair, and plenty of questions for him. I was on my way here, to take him into custody and back to London, when I ran into Mr. Adair. His news about the orphanage fire only gives us yet more reason to take Sinclair up immediately.”
“They stopped by Casleigh to let me know what was afoot.”
Gabriel’s smile was predatory. “Naturally, I invited myself along.”
“And of course we stopped here, so you could come, too.” Barnaby frowned as he searched Charlie’s impassive—unenthusiastic—face. “After all, you know him best…what is it?”
Charlie sighed. “Sinclair’s dead.”
The announcement was greeted with exclamations and disbelief; when those faded, Charlie explained what had happened—that Sinclair had used the diary to lure Sarah to the bridge over the falls, and then used Sarah to draw Charlie there as well.
“He made a clean breast of it all,” Sarah said. “He was truly regretful, repentent—he didn’t try to deny his part in it at all. They were his schemes, and he accepted that the blame rested with him.”
“But he had an accomplice who, if I understood correctly, was overenthusiastic in interpreting Sinclair’s orders.” Charlie narrowed his eyes, recalling. “Sinclair implied we’d soon learn the accomplice’s identity, but he didn’t say more about that.”
“How did he die?” Barnaby asked. He and Stokes were leaning forward, caught up in the tale.
Charlie looked at Gabriel. “He’d weakened the ropes anchoring the bridge so that they’d only support the weight of two people. When I arrived, he and Sarah were on the bridge. After he’d made his confession and said all he wanted to say, he let Sarah walk off the bridge. The instant she left it, he hacked through the ropes. He fell.”
It was the story he and Sarah had agreed to tell; the rest of Malcolm Sinclair’s revelations had been for the three of them alone.
Gabriel paled. “Good God.”
Stokes looked from Gabriel to Charlie. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
Gabriel caught Stokes’s eyes. “We’ll take you to the bridge—the place where it used to be, Inspector, and you’ll see. No one could possibly survive such a fall.” Gabriel glanced at Charlie. “In effect, Sinclair took his own life.”
Barnaby and Stokes decided they should nevertheless check Malcolm’s house in Crowcombe. While they rode north, Charlie and Gabriel organized a search for Sinclair’s body.
An hour later, after dispatching various groups to search the rushing stream below the falls, Charlie, Gabriel, and Sarah were standing around Charlie’s desk poring over a detailed map of the area when striding footsteps in the corridor heralded Barnaby and Stokes’s return.
They entered, looking even more stunned than when they’d left.
“What?” Charlie asked.
Barnaby fell into a chair. “Incredible.” He shook his head. “He’d left a confession covering more than a decade of schemes, with enough detail to keep any judge happy, all neatly signed and sealed, propped on his desk with a note telling us we’d find his accomplice tied up in the cellar, and that we should check with the local solicitor for further information.”
Stokes had come to look at the map. He glanced at the others. “When he decided to right his wrongs, Sinclair didn’t hold back. His confession will save us, the authorities in general, and the public untold time and expense, and when we went down to the cellar, his accomplice—the agent Mr. Adair’s been searching for—was all trussed up waiting.”
“He’s not going to confess, but with what Sinclair’s given us, that won’t be a problem.” Barnaby’s gaze grew hard. “We didn’t read the whole of Sinclair’s confession—there’s pages and pages of it—but we read enough to be cer
tain that Jennings—the agent—will hang.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it.” Stokes took up the tale. “We went to the solicitor’s, a few doors down the High Street. Seems Sinclair made a new will yesterday.” Stokes looked at Sarah and Charlie. “In it, he asks that restitution be made to those families and individuals who’ve been harmed by his schemes in the past, although he says the railway companies themselves shouldn’t be compensated as it was their own inefficiencies and greed that enabled him to get so much money from them. After all restitution has been paid, he’s stipulated that the residue of his estate should go to Quilley Farm orphanage, for the rebuilding of it, but not in the same place, with the rest of the funds to be used to run the orphanage, and establish others like it as needed.” Stokes paused. “He’s named you two”—he nodded at Charlie and Sarah—“as executors of his will and trustees of the orphanage fund.”
It was Charlie’s and Sarah’s turn to look stunned.
Gabriel spoke, sounding a trifle awed. “You said there were twenty-three earlier cases of suspected profiteering. Even after paying generous reparation for those, from what I’ve heard from sound sources of Sinclair’s fortune, there’s going to be a massive amount left for the fund.”
“Assuming the courts allow the will to be exercised,” Barnaby put in, “but even without a body, his assets would be confiscated as the majority must have derived from what were originally ill-gotten gains.”
Stokes nodded. “He even thought of that, and left a letter begging the courts to let the will stand. And in the circumstances, with all he’s done with his confession, and handing over his accomplice, and now that he’s dead by his own hand, saving us the bother of his trial and execution, I imagine their lordships might well look favorably on the money being used for orphaned children.” Stokes shrugged. “Who knows—even in that, he might be saving them the bother of having to decide what to do with such an amount.”
Gabriel grinned. “We can leave that to Devil and Chillingworth. I can’t imagine there’ll be many peers keen to see such largesse disappear into the Crown’s coffers.”
Feeling a trifle giddy, Sarah sank slowly into the chair behind the desk. “He wanted to do something right, something good—he said so.” She glanced at Charlie.
He met her eyes. “It seems an eminently good use for those funds he amassed through legally investing his ill-gotten gains.”
Barnaby slowly shook his head. “I still can’t get over it—the complete confession, the accomplice trussed and waiting, the will, his death. It’s as if he suddenly woke up and was shocked with himself.”
“It happens,” Stokes said. “Something will trigger it and they’ll realize what they’ve done, what they’ve become, and suddenly they can’t stand it anymore.”
“Self-disgust.” Charlie looked at Sarah, then met Barnaby’s eyes. “That was definitely there when we spoke with him.”
“But”—Barnaby leaned forward—“what triggered it?”
Charlie glanced at Sarah, and didn’t reply. That it had been through Malcolm’s remaining in the area and seeing things, relating to things, from Charlie’s perspective, and through Charlie’s link with Sarah understanding so much more, was too private a revelation. Too much something that they alone knew, had shared and now understood.
Malcolm Sinclair had gone, and left them to live. More, he’d adjured them to live life to its fullest.
Sarah smiled softly at Charlie, and said nothing, either.
“So.” Stokes peered at the map. “This is the bridge?” He pointed.
Gabriel nodded, then traced the path of the stream below the falls. “The falls themselves face west, but later, here, the stream strikes a ledge and turns north, and then eventually east until it runs into this lake.” He tapped the map. “It’s small, but deep. From there the water exits via the river to the east and eventually runs into Bridgwater Bay.”
“So we’re likely to find the body between the bottom of the falls and the lake.” Barnaby had come to stand beside Stokes.
Charlie exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “We’ve sent searchers to cover that stretch. The streambed through that section is extremely rocky, and with the recent thaw, the water is running high. If we don’t find the body before the lake, or around its shores, the chances are we won’t find it at all.”
Stokes straightened. “I’ll go and have a look at these falls, then check with the searchers.”
Barnaby nodded. “I’ll come, too.” He glanced at Charlie. “We’d better see this through to the end.”
Neither Charlie nor Gabriel saw any need to join the search. Sinclair’s body would either be found or it wouldn’t.
Together with Sarah, Charlie walked to the stables to see the others off. Gabriel departed for Casleigh, to report to Alathea, Martin, and Celia, all of whom had met Malcolm Sinclair.
Barnaby rode out with Stokes, leaving Charlie and Sarah walking slowly hand in hand back to the house.
Later, standing at the base of the falls looking up at the rock steps that used to lead to the bridge, Stokes shook his head. “Must have been a huge shock, walking off that bridge, then seeing it and Sinclair fall.”
“Look at this.” Barnaby dislodged a splintered plank from between two rocks. They were standing a good fifty yards from the jagged rocks onto which the falls constantly thundered; between lay nothing but more broken rocks over which the water churned and surged.
Turning from the stream rushing by in full spate, Barnaby showed Stokes the plank. “It’s a piece of the bridge. The wood’s weathered and hard as nails, yet the edges have been frayed like flax.” He glanced back at the falls. “If it’ll do that to hardened wood, imagine what it will have done to a body.”
Stokes grimaced. He, too, looked up at the falls. “They were right—only divine intervention could get a man through that, and I doubt any such grace was extended to Sinclair.”
Nevertheless, in a mutual quest for thoroughness and completeness, Stokes and Barnaby continued following the stream, checking in vain with the searchers they came upon and sending them back to the Park.
Dusk was falling by the time they reached the lake. There were three men there. Harris, the head gardener from the Park, came forward. “We’ve been right around, sir—twice. No body in the weeds by the edges, and none we’ve spotted anywhere in the lake. However, as you can see”—he nodded to where a visible current was rippling the lake’s surface—“the water’s running high and the current’s that strong he might well be out in the middle of the channel by now.”
They glanced in the direction Harris indicated, to the leaden expanse of the Bristol Channel not all that far away.
Stokes grimaced. “We’ve done all we can.” He nodded to Harris. “We’d best all get back before night sets in.”
“Aye, sir.” Harris touched his cap and gathered his lads with a look, and they trudged off to where they’d left their horses.
Barnaby and Stokes had left their mounts at the point where the stream from the falls entered the lake. They started walking back.
“I have to admit,” Stokes said, “I never thought to see the end of this—not so soon, nor yet so neatly.” He glanced at Barnaby. “Your father’s going to be pleased, and the other governors, too.” Stokes grinned and looked ahead. “And you’ll be back in London in time for the start of the Season, with all those balls and parties.”
Barnaby groaned. “That’s the one flaw I can see in Sinclair’s otherwise exceptional planning. As long as I was chasing some crime of that magnitude the pater would have kept my mother from descending on me—at least in person. Now…I’ll just have to invent some other investigation to excuse my disinterest until a real one comes along.”
Stokes regarded him affectionately through the gathering gloom. “But I thought that’s what all you toffs do—look over the young ladies presented and choose your wife from among them. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?”
“Theoretically, assuming one intends to w
ed. But I’m a third son. No real reason I have to get leg-shackled, no matter what m’mother and her cronies believe. Not that I’ve anything against marriage—not for others. Well, there’s Gerrard and Jacqueline, Dillon and Pris, and now Charlie and Sarah, and I can see and appreciate what they have, but…”
“Not for you?”
Barnaby wondered why he was speaking of such things, yet he and Stokes had grown considerably closer over the years they’d worked together; if there was one man who would understand his stance, it was Stokes. “It’s not so much ‘not for me’ as…can you honestly imagine a lady, Stokes—and do remember that my mother would gasp her last if I married anyone but a lady, and moreover one of suitable degree—can you truly imagine a lady of that ilk being content for me to devote so much of my time to something as unmentionable in polite circles as criminal investigations? To being perfectly happy when I drop everything and hie off into the country, or don some disguise and disappear into London’s underworld, in pursuit of some villain who needs to be exposed?”
“Hmm.” Stokes had attended enough tonnish gatherings in his official capacity to have some comprehension of what Barnaby meant.
“And that’s aside from the potential stigma involved, and the constant courting of tonnish excommunication if somehow I get things wrong.” Barnaby snorted. “It would never work. She’d be in hysterics in less than a week.”
After a moment he went on, “This—investigating and the associated endeavors—is what I enjoy doing most. I’m good at it, and you and the pater and the other governors need me. You have no one else who can take on this sort of work within the ton.” He hesitated, then continued, more to himself than Stokes, “This is my career. I’ve carved it out for myself, and I intend to pursue it, and there’s no lady on earth capable of making me turn away from it.”
Stokes made no response; Barnaby expected none. They reached their horses, swung up to the saddles, then looked at each other.
“What now?” Barnaby asked.
Stokes considered, then said, “I see no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth. With his fit of conscience, Sinclair’s made this easy for us, and I’m going to accept that boon. I’ll ride back tomorrow and report the presumed death of Malcolm Sinclair.” Stokes looked back along the rock-strewn stream. “I can’t imagine we’ll find any trace of him now.”