“Miss Sands is a little distraught.” Dante did not turn around but kept his gaze trained on her. He seemed annoyed by the interruption. “We’re both finding aspects of this case difficult to deal with.”
“Indeed,” came the only smooth word from Mr Ashwood’s lips.
Thankfully, Mrs Gunning appeared, carrying the tea tray. Mr Ashwood relieved her of the heavy burden, and she hurried back to the kitchen to fetch another coffee cup.
“Perhaps I can help,” the gentleman said, pushing aside the papers on the desk to make room for the tray. “Let’s sit, and you can explain the problem.”
Dante dragged another chair closer to the desk.
Having taken the extra china from Mrs Gunning, Mr Ashwood closed the door and took to playing maid.
“While it’s traumatic to witness the horrors of some criminal cases,” Mr Ashwood began as he poured coffee into a cup, “crimes that affect us personally prove infinitely more disturbing.”
He gestured for Beatrice and Dante to sit together, while taking a commanding position behind the desk. Dante explained the dilemma but avoided any mention of her uncle’s attack.
“So, your uncle is the only person who can shed light on your father’s work in the years preceding the shooting,” Mr Ashwood stated. “Equally, based on the fact there has been no mention of an inheritance, and you’ve passed the age of majority, one presumes your uncle has something to hide.”
Mr Ashwood was right on both counts, but that didn’t make the thought of seeing John Sands any easier.
“I left Rochester because my uncle attacked me, Mr Ashwood. No doubt he holds a wealth of information in that twisted mind of his. While I try to tell myself he acted out of character when he made his lewd remarks, I believe I saw the real man that night.”
Instinct said John Sands knew something about Dante’s parents. It’s just she didn’t want to be the one to drag it from his lying lips.
“And you’re frightened to confront him?”
“I fear I lack the experience to coerce him into any sort of confession.” She feared she might pull a blade and stab the devil in the heart.
“But you did a remarkable job with Babington.” Dante’s tone brimmed with admiration. He leant forward, took a cup of coffee from the tray and handed it to her. He held her gaze as she gripped the saucer. “Let me help you. Let me help you punish the rogue, so you never have to think of him again.”
His words echoed the statement he’d made last night, though this time he meant to accompany her to Rochester, meant to keep her safe, not devour her mouth and set her body ablaze.
But the thought of meeting John Sands again sent her stomach roiling, roiling as if she were on a ship amid a violent storm, a ship destined to crash into the rocks and plunge to the depths of the sea. She sipped her coffee, though it did little to allay her anxiety.
“And Miss Sands made a valid point,” Dante said. “As an eyewitness to the shooting, I need to make a statement about what happened on that road.”
Despite Mr Ashwood sitting opposite, she reached for Dante’s hand. Oh, she knew how difficult it was for him to make the declaration. She knew he’d done it to show he understood her pain, too.
Mr Ashwood’s expression turned solemn. “A few weeks ago, I applied to the local magistrate for information relating to the shooting. He could not locate the paperwork and said it must have been lost when they moved offices. Suffice to say, anything you can remember, D’Angelo, would prove useful in finding those responsible.”
They’d reached a point in the road where they must decide whether to continue along the treacherous path full of thorn bushes and brambles, or remain in no-man’s-land forever. But they had come too far on this perilous journey to turn back now.
Ignoring the voice of caution, she released Dante’s hand and straightened. “I shall meet my uncle, though I want to know you’re close by, Dante,” she said, forgetting that calling him by his given name would raise eyebrows. “I shall do this once, and if I fail to gain what we need, we must find another way to gather the information.”
“I have every confidence you’ll succeed, Miss Sands. And once we’ve dealt with your uncle, you may take my statement.”
Beatrice nodded. She looked at Mr Ashwood. “Sir, might you be free to assist us? We thought you could search my uncle’s house while he is distracted in the tavern. I can draw a map of the rooms, tell you where to look. But you would be taking a significant risk.”
Mr Ashwood cast a mischievous grin. “As your uncle is a suspect in an investigation, I have an excuse to be there. As a man who upholds the law, one must enter a building when they encounter a door left wide open. And as few men are brave enough to question a member of the aristocracy, it will be one of the rare times I’ll be glad I have a title.”
Chapter 11
The Sir John Falstaff coaching inn in Higham stood on a popular road running past Gravesend and Rochester. A route used by merchants and seafaring men travelling to Dover, by lovers fleeing controlling parents and seeking sanctuary across the English Channel, by thieves and crooks who knew those heading to the port carried all their precious possessions.
The inn was but a two-mile ride from her uncle’s house. If Mr Ashwood had played his part in this charade and delivered
the note without arousing suspicion, John Sands should arrive at the Falstaff inn at around seven o’clock.
Beatrice sat at the round oak table in the bay window, staring out into the darkness, dreading the moment she saw the face that haunted her dreams.