Her hand burned to slap his face. How she longed to scream “liar”, show the good people crowding the taproom that John Sands was not an upstanding member of their community.
“You’ve been like a father to me all these years.”
“But I’m not your father, more of a close friend who cares about your welfare. The man who helped your aunt raise you into the fine woman you’ve become. In my grief, I forgot you saw things differently.”
Beatrice snatched the opportunity to discuss her inheritance. “You must understand, I feel as though I’ve been betrayed twice. By you, the man who raised me, and my father, who named me beneficiary to his estate yet left me without a penny to my name. Aunt Margaret told me about the house in Hampshire, but there are no documents to support my claim to the property.”
Her uncle developed a sudden tic at the mention of her inheritance. “Margaret spoke about Hampshire? What in blazes did she say?”
Beatrice swallowed a sip of fruit punch to chase away her nerves and the autumn chill. Fortune tellers in fair tents used various tricks to convince people they had the magical ability to see the future. They knew how to lead the conversation, how to draw information from unsuspecting victims.
“Aunt Margaret said we moved from Hampshire when my father died. She said you wouldn’t let her take anything from the house, even though my father named her my legal guardian.”
He jerked back. “Why the devil would she say that? She sold everything of value to pay for the move to Rochester.”
So, there was a house in Hampshire.
Her father had been murdered in Hampshire, on the London Road, near Hartley Wintney Common.
“Aunt Margaret said you lived in the same village as my parents.” The siblings were close, and she was sure her aunt mentioned something about living a short walk away, about Beatrice staying with them when her father worked out of town. “That we moved because of the terrible memories, what with my father being murdered near the common.”
His face turned ashen, so white she feared he’d stopped breathing. “The blighters must have known Henry was heading home and practically shot the poor man dead on his doorstep.”
Beatrice’s emotions danced between happiness at discovering her childhood home was in the vicinity of the common, and a deep sadness for the loss of her father, for the loss of what might have been a better life.
Asking more questions might rouse her uncle’s suspicion, and so she retreated, hoping to draw him closer to enemy lines.
“It must have been a terrible time for you and Aunt Margaret. You gave me a comfortable home, took care of me all those years, and I shall be forever grateful.”
The comment brought life back to his cheeks. “It’s not been easy. I never wanted children, but could not leave you out in the cold.”
Oh, now he wanted her gratitude and her pity.
“What happened to my father’s house? Why is it I’ve never heard from his solicitor? As my guardian, Aunt Margaret must have had control of the property until I came of age.”
They were not the questions Dante wanted her to ask, but knowing she had a home somewhere would make a world of difference when considering her future.
John Sands reached across the table and touched her clasped hands. “There seems to be some confusion. Henry left Margaret the house so she would always have the funds to care for you. She sold it when we moved to Rochester.”
Beatrice froze. Her stiff limbs had little to do with her dashed hopes, more to do with this snake’s touch. Even when he snatched his hand back, she felt his fingers slithering over her skin.
“I see.” All was lost. Unless the man was lying. “But where are my father’s books, the records he kept of solved cases? Aunt Margaret said he might have been the intended target in the shooting because of a previous investigation, that those poor people in the carriage died because of him.”
He scowled with irritation. “Margaret shouldn’t have said anything. We told Henry it was no sort of profession for a man with a young child and always feared he would meet a tragic end.”
Tragic was one way to describe the events of that day.
“There might be something in his notebooks, a clue to what occurred that night.” Or was the clue hidden amongst the notes they’d read? And why had Aunt Margaret kept a few documents and not all the files relating to the investigation? “Do you know what happened to them?”
“Forget about Henry Watson,” he snapped. “Return home with me where you belong, for no good will come from dredging up the past.” Concern marred his tone, maybe even fear. “You’ve created a fairytale picture of the father you lost, and it’s probably best you leave it that way.” He glanced over his shoulder briefly. “We made a bonfire of his notebooks and files, and I suggest you never mention them again.”
“Yet Aunt Margaret kept a handful of notes. Why?”
He shrugged but seemed agitated by her constant prying. “Perhaps she felt pity for the poor woman who lost her life. It was a
tragic case, a case your father was close to solving. Perhaps Henry hid them in the trunk, and Margaret knew nothing about them. Who can say? But my advice is to burn them, let those people rest in peace.”
Peace? Dante D’Angelo would not rest until he had answers. But Beatrice was no wiser than she was half an hour ago, and could feel Dante’s frustration whipping the air.