The clerk’s mouth curled downwards. “Perhaps it was a personal matter, sir.”
“But I dealt with all matters. You must be mistaken, Andrews.”
Oliver exhaled. “Can we not simply call Mr Jameson in and ask him the question?”
Mr Andrews shuffled forward. “Mr Jameson is away at Park Hall drawing up papers for Viscount Trench.”
“Then find my father’s file and bring it here.”
Both men looked at him as though he’d suggested sacrificing all first-born males.
Mr Wild shook his head. “We cannot enter a colleague’s office without his permission.”
“If your colleague drew up papers for my father, then they belong to me. The fact Jameson has failed to pass them over to you is suspicious.”
There was a prolonged silence.
“Very well.” Oliver shot to his feet. “I shall search for it myself.”
“No, no.” Mr Wild waved his hands in the air. “It is best that I go. The drawers are full of private documents. Should our clients learn of a security breach they’re liable to take their business elsewhere.”
Oliver gestured to the door. “Then let’s get to it.” There wasn’t a minute to waste.
Accompanied by the clerk, they entered the office across the hall from Mr Wild’s. The room was just as dark and dingy, the smell just as musty.
Wild scurried over to a tall cabinet, glanced back over his shoulder numerous times even though he knew his colleague was miles from home.
“This is highly irregular,” Wild muttered as he flicked through the contents of a drawer. “I can see nothing listed under Stanton or Darby.”
“Then I suggest you look again.” An odd feeling in the pit of Oliver’s stomach convinced him they were looking in the right place. “See if anything is filed under the name Benting.”
Mr Benting was an alias used by his father when he wished to travel incognito. When he stalked his wife and booked into coaching inns to check she wasn’t meeting a lover.
Wild opened another drawer and scanned the row of files. “Yes, there is a Benting,” he said with some surprise. Placing the thin file on Mr Jameson’s cluttered desk he read a missive, examined a document embossed with the company’s wax seal.
“Well?” Oliver said. His fingers tingled from the anticipation as he contemplated ripping the document out from under the solicitor’s nose. “What have you found?”
“There is no proof that the Mr Benting mentioned here is your father. There is nothing to suggest a connection or why he purchased the property.” Wild glanced down at the piece of paper and shook his head. “Without Mr Jameson to corroborate Andrews’ story, I’m afraid there is nothing more I can tell you.”
Even if Mr Jameson were available, he would have received a substantial reward for keeping his tongue.
“Indeed,” Wild continued, “I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”
A misunderstanding? The comment caused an irritating prickle at Oliver’s nape.
“You mentioned a property,” Oliver said, his curiosity piqued. There had to be a reason why his father was secretive about the purchase. “Can you not tell me where it is? Is anyone living there?”
“Such places are never short of occupants,” the man answered cryptically. “But it appears the property was bequeathed to a Miss Flint.”
Who the hell was Miss Flint? “Then I see no harm in riding there and introducing myself.” Perhaps his father’s jealousy stemmed from guilt. Could this Miss Flint be his father’s mistress?
The solicitor’s eyes glazed over. “Good Lord, the manor is not somewhere one visits whilst in the neighbourhood. I cannot imagine anyone would want to stop at such a place.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because Morton Manor is an asylum.”