“Mr Manning toyed with us. He had no intention of revealing the name of your father’s client.”
A whipster? A fox hiding in the warren?
“From the clues, we know the client is a devious fellow, cunning, though that applies to half of the men in London.”
It was then that their carriage pulled up alongside them. Well, Beatrice had presumed it was Mr Bower until she looked atop the box and saw the jarvey. The shifty fellow sat hunched beneath the depths of a blue greatcoat, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low so she could see nothing but a bush of ginger side-whiskers.
The carriage door flew open, taking them by surprise. It was not as surprising as seeing the shiny muzzle of a pistol aimed in their direction, not as surprising as the occupant’s identity.
“Get in!” He glared at Beatrice and cocked his weapon. “Climb inside, else I shall shoot your companion. Shoot her dead.”
* * *
Dante withdrew his pocket watch and noted the time. He thought the mantel clock might be fast, for Beatrice was never late, and Bower knew Daventry hated tardiness.
Daventry caught Dante’s eye, then dropped his gaze to the fresh cut on Dante’s knuckle. “Does Miss Sands know we were to meet in Hart Street at three o’clock?”
“She had an errand to run, which must be the reason she’s delayed.”
So why did the knots in his stomach clench so tightly he could barely breathe? Why did he feel the need to murder someone? Was it merely that his blood still pumped wildly after putting Benjamin Coulter on his arse?
“Then we may as well begin.” Daventry stood near the fireplace, surveying the agents seated on the plush sofas. “I questioned Babington’s servants. They all despised him, though none of them recall hearing anything the night a man ransacked his property. However, I heard a whisper that the footman is the brother of Lady Deighton’s chambermaid. I’ll mention it to Sir Malcolm, unless you have any objection, D’Angelo.”
“No. No objection.”
His grandmother had made her bed, and she could damn well lie in it.
Cole placed his empty coffee cup on the low table in front of him and motioned to the leather case. “I’ve studied Henry Watson’s notes. We’re wrong to assume the caller visited Farthingdale before D’Angelo’s father hired the enquiry agent. Mrs Pickering’s statement isn’t dated.”
Dante sat forward. “Let me explain what I’ve discovered since leaving you yesterday. It will answer many of our questions, and then Sloane can give us Mrs Pickering’s account.”
They all nodded and gave Dante their full attention.
Where to begin?
So much had happened. They’d uncovered so many secrets and lies, and yet the most significant development was that Dante believed himself in love with Beatrice Sands. Love! He almost scoffed aloud. Yet he could not deny what was blatantly obvious.
“Coulter visited Farthingdale. He believes he is Lady Deighton’s illegitimate son. As well as stealing the brooch, Babington took incriminating letters from Coulter’s drawer, though he didn’t know Babington was the thief until Miss Sands told him.”
Dante told his colleagues about Coulter being the man who saved his life due to his timely arrival at the murder scene, about finding the letters at Crockett’s Emporium, about the meeting with his grandmother.
They listened intently.
“After speaking to my grandmother, it occurred to me that I failed to ask Coulter about the attack on my mother.”
“It happened two hundred yards from Coulter’s front door,” Ashwood stated.
“Yes, and now I know why.” Dante flexed his fingers, clenched his aching fist. “Coulter is partly to blame. He was bedding Mrs Killen, his friend’s wife. The woman confessed to her husband during a violent row. Enraged, Mr Killen stormed over to Wilson Street, saw my mother leaving and presumed she was another one of Coulter’s strumpets.”
“So he followed her,” Daventry said, “did to her what he wanted to do to his wife.” He paused. “Did Coulter not give chase?”
“Coulter didn’t know Mr Killen was outside his house. He heard the commotion in the street but never gave it a thought. Mrs Killen told him what happened. The woman said she was finally free of her husband. That he’d come home, packed a valise, took all the valuables he could carry and booked passage to France.”
“And so you hit Coulter,” Daventry said.
“I hit him because he failed to mention it when I questioned him yesterday.” And because someone had to pay for hurting Daphne D’Angelo. “And because he kept his mouth shut, even though he knew the identity of the perpetrator. He let my mother believe the countess was responsible.”
They all fell silent while their logical minds assembled the pieces of the puzzle.