Scupper scrunched his nose, but his gaze turned ravenous at the mention of pigeon pie. “Will you eat heverythin’?”
“Not everything. Cook will find a use for the rest.”
“Why make so much?”
Beatrice grinned. “Scupper makes an excellent point.”
“Sometimes a man doesn’t know what he wants, what will satiate him, make him happy, until it’s thrust before him in all its tempting glory.”
But Dante knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn’t piquant sauce. He wanted to make love to Beatrice daily. He wanted to dine with her every evening, take strolls in the park, laugh at her amusing stories, feed her confectionery.
“Roasted rat would make you happy if you ain’t eaten for a week.”
The boy’s comment brought Dante crashing back to reality. There were always people in worse predicaments, and despite his harrowing experiences, he lived a privileged life.
“Would you care to serve me lamb cutlets?” Beatrice said to the boy. “It doesn’t matter if you spill any.”
“I’ve been practising with my spoons,” Scupper said proudly.
For the next fifteen minutes, they ate their meal and discussed all aspects of the case, everything that had happened thus far.
Beatrice dabbed her lips with her napkin. “May I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
She paused. “During our journey from Rochester, when you finished giving your statement, you said one man relished the prospect of killing people, while the other appeared nervous.”
After a night of passion, it had been easier to give his account.
“Yes. One man had no conscience. One wavered on the cusp between good and evil. I’d be dead if he’d not argued to save me.”
“And the local magistrate recorded it as a highway robbery?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “Correct me if I am wrong, but the rogue shot my father without asking for his purse. Either they knew he was armed and shot him before he drew a weapon, or he was of no consequence to them.”
“My parents were robbed before they were murdered.” The cold-eyed devil had taken pleasure ripping the ring from his father’s finger, from fondling his mother while— “Wait. The villain molested my mother before shooting her. I assumed it was part of their evil game, but perhaps he was only interested in finding the letters.”
“Did they say they were looking for the letters?”
“No. They said very little. The nervous one rummaged through the luggage, which is why the magistrate believed it was a robbery.” Dante recalled seeing clothes strewn about the muddy thoroughfare.
“Did you hear an accent? Did they sound similar?”
Dante shrugged.
“Were the coves the same age?” Scupper added while clearing away the serving platters. “One might ’ave been his son.”
“No, I got the impression they were both in their twenties.”
“Wot about their horses? You can tell a lot from a man’s horse.”
It was not something Dante had considered, and he rarely thought with a logical mind when reliving the tragedy.
“It was dark.” He didn’t want to close his eyes and picture the men astride their mounts, but he did. “One horse seemed of good stock, the other a shabby beast hired from a cheap post-house. Both men were competent riders.”
“Dante, if they followed your carriage from London and changed horses en route, surely they’d have the same quality mounts.”