Falthorne took a deep breath and composed himself with an effort. ‘Best we not think about it until necessary,’ he said. ‘But if there is anyone who is offered a post, and wishes a letter of good character, I will be happy to write one. There is no one else in a position to do so.’ It was duty, the least he could do. There was no lift in his voice.
‘Thank you, Mr Falthorne,’ Mrs Warlaby said quietly. She turned to Daniel. ‘I hope your room is satisfactory, Mr Pitt.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Warlaby. I’m sure I shall be most comfortable,’ he replied.
‘Would you like coffee, and perhaps a cigar, Mr Pitt?’ Falthorne offered.
Daniel was startled. He was being treated as if he were a true guest, not a young lawyer down here after a tragedy, and to search for information in an act that was, in itself, necessarily intrusive. Or was it largely to get him away from the table and perhaps into the study, to leave them in peace?
In that case, he should accept.
‘Thank you. That is very courteous of you.’ He rose, thanked the cook again, inclined his head to the housekeeper and lady’s maid, and said good night to the younger ones, who were little more than children. He had been at school at their age. But then he had started earning his living at twenty-four, not at fourteen. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night, sir,’ came from all around the table.
He went back to the study, as Falthorne had suggested, and sat in the largest armchair. Ten minutes later, Falthorne came in with a tray of coffee and set it down on the table at his side.
‘Would you like me to pour you a glass of brandy, sir?’
‘No – no, thank you. And I don’t smoke cigars, either. I thought perhaps you might prefer to be alone. You have a large task ahead of you, helping them . . . to . . .’ Suddenly, he did not know how to finish.
‘Yes, sir. There was something I was wondering, if I might ask your advice, sir?’
Daniel felt a sudden chill. Had he the knowledge to give this man counsel that was accurate, helpful, worthy of his trust? ‘Of course, Mr Falthorne. Please sit down.’
Falthorne sat very carefully, moving the tails of his coat so as not to crush them. Appearance was never to be forgotten. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Daniel sat forward a little, trying to look attentive, aware that the man was more than twice his age.
Falthorne cleared his throat. ‘We must be practical, sir. It is not at all likely, even with your best efforts, that you will be able to find evidence that clears Mr Graves. I do not mean to . . . to doubt your skills, sir. I do not think the evidence exists. Forgive me for saying it, but I am responsible for these people . . .’
‘I understand.’ Daniel could see his difficulty and his embarrassment. He was a man who took orders every day, but beneath the obedient exterior he was proud, and he took his responsibilities very seriously. The rest of the household was as much his trust as if they had been literally his family. ‘You have to face the possibilities.’
‘Yes, sir. I am grateful that you think it not . . . disloyal of me. There is hope, and there is reality.’ He met Daniel’s eyes with momentary grief, and then he looked down.
‘What is it you wish to know, Mr Falthorne?’
Falthorne cleared his throat again. ‘Before Mrs Graves’ death, sir, I came across a piece of information, quite accidentally, while fetching a book from Mr Graves’ desk. He was in the withdrawing room and required it.’
‘I understand. What is this information?’
‘There is a very handsome estate in Huntingdonshire, many miles the other side of London. Lord Epscomb, sir. A fine house, and a hundred or so acres . . .’
‘Very handsome,’ Daniel agreed. He could not imagine Graves had the money to purchase such a place, and anyway, it was possibly a family estate. ‘And Lord Epscomb?’
‘Very recently deceased, sir.’ Falthorne cleared his throat again. ‘Without issue. The estate, the title, and the money go to his nearest relative, which is actually a cousin.’
‘And Mr Graves’ interest in this? Lord Epscomb is not one of his biographical subjects, is he?’ The knot grew a little tighter in Daniel’s stomach. He thought of the book for which Graves had made side notes. It was surely intended to ruin someone. He had never heard of Epscomb, but the man might have been of such hidden power that his name was not generally known.
‘That is it, sir. The cousin is Mr Graves. He was set to inherit it all.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, sir. There was a lawyer’s letter accompanying the photograph of the house, and a description of the surrounding acreage. I admit, I read it. There is no doubt. The family connection was all there, through his mother. The will was in probate, but there was no doubt that he is the heir. What I want to know is, will Mr Arthur now inherit? Or does the fact that Mr Graves may be hanged in . . . I believe it is in less than three weeks . . . mean that the title goes elsewhere? And if it means a battle of some sort, will you accept the task of fighting for Mr Arthur? I do not believe he is aware of it at all. He and Miss Sarah face possibly a bleak and uncertain future, with their mother dead and their father . . . hanged. They have no one else to fight for them. I doubt Mr fford Croft is even aware of the inheritance, sir.’
‘Yes, of course I shall inform Mr fford Croft of the situation, if he is not aware already, and he will put whoever is the firm’s most skilled man in this field on the case. I am only a beginner, but I will do all I can.’
‘Thank you, sir. It is not only for Mr Arthur, and of course Miss Sarah, it is for the whole household. It will not be easy to see them all settled anew. Not everyone wishes to be connected, however loosely, with such a . . . a scandal.’