The Hazardous Measure of Love: Time Into Time Book Five Read online

  ‘Any members of the staff holding a grudge?’ Luc asked. ‘Someone who had been found wanting and lectured on the subject, or who’d had wages docked? Anyone serving out their notice or recently dismissed?’

  ‘Nobody except Campbell the third footman. He left yesterday. He was mimicking his lordship and Lord Tillingham overheard him. Dismissed him on the spot. Said it was not for the mockery, because a gentleman must learn to take criticism from whatever quarter it came, but because it was a Sunday and he would not have frivolity on the Sabbath. Besides, drink had been taken and Campbell was decidedly the worse for it. I persuaded his lordship to give him a week and he gave him another week’s wages in lieu of notice, but no character. Campbell will have trouble finding another place without references,’ Grainger added in a voice of gloom.

  I was making unobtrusive notes and looked up hopefully. This sounded like a man with a motive for revenge. ‘Where has he gone? Do you have an address?’

  ‘I regret not, ma’am. He left very early this morning without a word to anyone, when by rights he should have worked today as well. I wasn’t surprised, to tell you the truth. Last night in the servants’ hall he was very bitter. I had to speak firmly to him.’

  ‘Uttering threats?’

  ‘Difficult to say, my lord. When he was agitated his accent became exceedingly broad. He’s a North Briton, you understand. Angus Campbell, his name is.’

  North Briton? That was what they often called Scotland, I remembered, noting Campbell’s full name.

  ‘Were there any visitors last night?’ Luc asked.

  ‘Only my lord’s uncle, at about eleven o’clock,’ Grainger said, apparently unaware that he had just dropped a bombshell. ‘Mr Alexander Prescott, that is.’

  ‘And you saw Lord Tillingham then? You presumably brought in refreshments.’

  ‘Well, no, my lord. I would not unless Lord Tillingham rang. Mr Alexander arrived and said he’d had a message that Lord Tillingham required his presence. He went through to the study without me announcing him, as was his habit. He left again just as the hall clock struck half past the hour. He seemed… not angry, my lord. More put out, I would say.’ He screwed up his face with the effort of finding the right words. ‘Tight-lipped.’

  ‘And Mr Alexander is Mr Adrien Prescott’s uncle?’

  ‘No, my lord. His father.’

  At which point there was a tap on the door and Adrien himself looked in. ‘The doctor is here, and the magistrate. He has sent his man for the Coroner.’ He appeared to notice suddenly that we were all staring at him. ‘Is something wrong? I mean –’

  Chapter Three

  ‘That will be all, thank you, Grainger. I suggest you gather the entire staff together. I am sure the magistrate will wish to speak to them. In the meantime they should not talk about this amongst themselves. Mr Prescott, a word if you can spare a moment.’

  ‘My lord.’

  The butler left and Adrien came right in to the room.

  ‘Close the door and come and sit down,’ Luc said. ‘Were you aware that your father was here last night?’

  ‘He was? When? I thought he was at a reception at St James’s Palace. They all were.’ Then the import sank in and he sat up abruptly. ‘At what time?’

  ‘According to Grainger, he arrived at about eleven in response to a message and left at half past the hour in no very good mood. Tight-lipped, apparently.’

  ‘He must have been the last person to see Cousin Henry. Other than the murderer, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Luc said, expressionless. ‘He got on well with his nephew, I assume?’

  ‘Of course.’ Adrien started to shrug, then froze. ‘What are you suggesting, my lord?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever. I am simply puzzled as to why he would leave a, presumably important, reception to answer a summons at that hour.’

  ‘My father is a stickler for the proprieties. Henry is – was – head of the family and, therefore, his word must be obeyed. He was only fifteen years younger than my father, and quite, er, mature in his attitude. It wouldn’t have been like an older man running because some youngster snapped his fingers.’

  ‘I feel a family tree coming on,’ I muttered, trying to make sense of what I knew of the Prescott clan.

  ‘We will set up the boards once the officials have gone,’ Luc said. When Adrien looked puzzled, he explained. ‘We find that when we are dealing with a crime it is helpful to create boards to which we pin information in an orderly manner: witnesses, suspects, the timetable of events, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I see. That must be helpful in bringing order.’ The sudden flare of interest flickered, then was gone again and the worry was back.

  I suddenly remembered something completely obvious that we had forgotten to ask. ‘What about enemies? We have heard about the footman who was dismissed, but your cousin was in public life. Was there anyone?’

  ‘No.’ Adrien shook his head. ‘He could be dogmatic about his opinions, but he never allowed himself to be involved in acrimonious disputes. Not while I have been with him, anyway.’

  ‘What about his private life?’ I persisted. ‘No enemies at all? No arguments or disputes?’

  Adrien looked oddly uncomfortable. ‘Only – No, it could not have been that.’

  ‘What? Out with it,’ Luc ordered.

  ‘There was someone who visited last week. An, um, irregular connection of the family.’

  ‘You mean someone’s illegitimate child?’

  He shot me a harassed glance and blushed.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Adrien! You ought to know by now that I am not some mealy-mouthed female.’

  ‘Yes, he was that,’ he admitted. ‘But Cousin Henry knew about him and he was only sorting out the paperwork, as it were. There was a legacy involved.’

  ‘Whose child?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. My cousin was very disapproving of that kind of thing, so he did not tell me any details. In fact I only heard about it through servants’ gossip. I mentioned it to Cousin Henry on Saturday, I think it was, and he brushed my concerns aside. He said that the matter was in hand and that the person was irritated by his meticulous approach and had become rather heated.’

  ‘How did the Viscount react to that?’

  ‘Oh, he was very calm about it.’

  ‘You didn’t think to mention this before?’ Luc demanded.

  ‘Why no. I had quite forgotten it because I had asked my cousin whether the man had uttered threats and should be refused admission if he called again, and he said there was absolutely nothing to worry about and he had the matter perfectly in hand and the, er, claimant, knew he would get his legacy in due course.’

  I could see that Luc was not entirely satisfied, but I couldn’t see why an illegitimate twig from the family tree should want to murder the man who was sorting out his inheritance for him.

  ‘I must speak to my father as soon as possible,’ Adrien said, back to looking merely harassed.

  ‘Who inherits the title?’ Luc asked bluntly. ‘It is not your father, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Adrien seemed to find that a relief and, I suppose, it certainly removed a strong motive. ‘My Uncle Frederick. He is not –’

  ‘What?’ I asked when he fell silent.

  ‘Er – I can hear the doctor.’ Adrien opened the door and retreated into the hall.

  Luc raised an eyebrow. ‘That young man has one of the most transparent faces I have ever encountered. He is going to have to learn to dissemble if he wants a political career. I wonder what it is about Uncle Frederick that causes him such unease.’

  ‘You don’t know the family well?’

  He shook his head. ‘The old Viscount, the father of Tillingham, and Adrien’s eldest uncle, was very active in politics, I believe. None of his other sons showed any interest and seemed to prefer country life, but Henry – ’ He jerked his head towards the study, ‘– He took after the old man. I don’t think I have ever encountered any of t
he others. I’m surprised to hear that one of them was at a Palace function, frankly.’

  ‘Adrien said, They all were, so I suppose other family members are in Town.’ Luc nodded, but I was not certain he was actually listening to me. ‘Do you suspect Adrien?’ I asked bluntly and saw from his reaction that must have been what he was brooding about.

  ‘No,’ Luc said, and smiled as he paused with his hand on the door. ‘For a moment, I wondered, because he is a relative and there is a title and presumably lands and money in play now, but unless my judgment is wildly astray, I simply cannot see him throwing away this position. He needs employment and a situation where he can make contacts and advance himself if he is to marry Miss McNeil.’

  But he will be loyal to his family and perhaps one of them is the killer, I thought, pausing in the doorway. Even his father.

  I knew better than to offer an opinion in the presence of the magistrate, Coroner or the doctor and they were not going to comment on the crime in front of a lady. But, fortunately, they were all talking in the hallway, so I stayed hidden behind the half-open door and jotted notes.

  ‘There are no wounds other than that single stab to the heart.’ I assumed that was the doctor speaking.

  ‘Impossible to see how it could be anything but murder.’

  I frowned, puzzled: that voice sounded familiar.

  ‘I will hold the inquest in three days’ time,’ said another man. Clearly the Coroner. ‘I believe that there is a room of suitable size at The Moon and Sixpence inn: that will be nearest. I assume there is adequate time to allow you to continue your examination in more detail, Doctor Harris? Mr Prescott, you, the butler and any other servants and witnesses that Sir William here deems necessary, will receive summonses to attend. This house will remain staffed?’

  Wonderful! I should have put a name to the second voice immediately. It was General Sir William Abernathy, a very senior magistrate and an old acquaintance from my very first journey back in time.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Adrien sounded subdued but competent. ‘I shall attend here daily to manage affairs until I know the wishes of my uncle, Doctor Frederick Prescott, who is the heir. He a Fellow of a Cambridge college and is not in good health. This will be a considerable shock to him.’

  ‘To everyone, I would imagine,’ the Coroner said tartly. ‘Very well. Constable, see that the body is delivered to Doctor Harris in a respectful and decent manner and as rapidly as may be. I shall await the outcome of your further enquiries with interest, Sir William. Good day to you.’

  The front door opened and closed, but I stayed where I was while the constable announced that he was going to fetch an undertaker with a temporary coffin shell and a decent cart and there was a brisk argument when Adrien insisted on a closed vehicle.

  When he had finally gone, Adrien having won the point, I looked out. ‘Sir William, good morning.’

  ‘Why, Miss Lawrence.’ He looked surprised, as well he might. ‘I would say a pleasure, but under the circumstances, perhaps not.’

  ‘No, it is very sad.’ We shook hands and I decided some explanation was necessary as he was under the impression that I was a distant cousin of the family from Boston, America, a ruse to cover any slips I might make in this time. ‘I am staying with Lady Radcliffe again for a few weeks.’

  ‘I see.’ The one-armed ex-soldier gave me a look that plainly said he was not certain exactly what to make of me in general and my presence at a murder scene in particular.

  ‘I accompanied Lord Radcliffe in case any female servants were distressed,’ I said demurely, attempting to look as though nothing else would have dragged me over the threshold.

  As Sir William had previously encountered me covered in blood (someone else’s) in the aftermath of rescuing a kidnapped girl, it was apparent he was not entirely convinced. Then he smiled. Thinly, it is true, but it seemed genuine. ‘I am about to question the staff. Perhaps you could accompany me, Miss Lawrence. A lady’s presence may reassure the nervous ones.’

  ‘Of course, if that would help.’ Hopefully I managed not to give the impression that I would have had my ear glued to the keyhole otherwise.

  ‘We will go into the drawing room, I think. Some formality might be helpful, but I see no need for us to be uncomfortable.’ He led the way and tugged on the bell pull, then sat in an upright chair with a small table to one side.

  Luc and I followed and arranged ourselves just behind him. I took out my notebook again and concealed it as best I could in the folds of my skirts.

  Grainger came in answer to the bell and was taken through the full events of Saturday, the night, and that morning in some detail. I noticed that despite his bald head gleaming in the light from the window there was no sign of perspiration. He looked upset, but not as though he had something to hide, and his account tallied closely with what he had told us.

  It emerged that Lord Tillingham had been at his club on the Saturday morning and had also visited his tailor and his dentist. He had returned home in the afternoon and had worked in his study until he had taken dinner alone. Then he had returned to the study and that was the last Grainger had seen of him.

  Yes, he assured Sir William, the Viscount’s mood and health appeared to be normal. He had received several deliveries of post which Grainger had brought to him. There had been nothing unusual about any of the items that he could see. Yes, his lordship habitually opened the window onto the garden. No, he had not been aware of anyone loitering around the house or any unexplained incidents in the neighbourhood recently.

  ‘Who was sent with the message to Mr Alexander Prescott?’ Luc asked.

  The butler looked blank. ‘No one, my lord.’

  ‘You said he told you he had come last night in response to a message from Lord Tillingham. How had he received it?’

  ‘I have no idea, my lord. I was not asked to send any of the footmen with such a message.’ He frowned. ‘It is possible that his lordship stepped outside and used one of the lads who wait about in the Square for errands. Or he might have gone out of the back gate and sent one of the grooms or stable lads from the mews.’

  ‘Is that likely, would you say?’ Sir William asked him.

  Grainger shook his head. ‘No, Sir William. It would be unprecedented in my experience.’

  ‘Very well. Please send up the housekeeper.’

  We worked right through housekeeper, cook, two footmen, three maids, the kitchen and scullery maids, the boot boy and then three grooms, a coachman and two stable lads, all without learning anything that was of the slightest help, other than nobody admitted to taking a message to Mr Alexander, or anyone else, come to that.

  Eventually we emerged with very few notes and, speaking personally, a distinct feeling that we were getting nowhere slowly.

  Adrien was in the dining room, using the table as a desk, and making lists. He stood up when we came in and I thought how pale and shaken he looked and how different from the energetic young man who had looked after the twins so well. ‘I have sent one of the footmen with a message for my father asking him to come, but not saying why. It will be too much of a shock to break it in such a way. He should be the one to tell my Uncle Frederick. This will do his health no good at all.’

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ Sir William asked.

  ‘Phthisis. He has suffered from it for years, but has deteriorated very badly in the last few months. The winter weather was particularly bad for him. If we were not at war I am certain my father would have tried to persuade him to go to the Mediterranean coast. He suggested one of the southern English resorts, but my uncle is very stubborn.’

  ‘What is phthisis?’ I whispered to Luc.

  ‘Consumption.’

  Tuberculosis, in other words. A terrible killer, with no cure at the time, or well into the twentieth century, come to that.

  ‘And after your Uncle Frederick, your father, Mr Alexander Prescott, is the next heir to the title?’

  ‘Yes.’ There were set lines bracketing Adrien�
��s mouth. He was clearly well aware of that fact and the implications of his father’s presence in this house shortly before Lord Tillingham’s murder. I saw suddenly why he had been so hesitant to talk about his uncle earlier – he had realised that his father had a very strong motive indeed.

  ‘There is a younger brother, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. My Uncle Horace.’ He took a deep breath then added, ‘My father has four sons and two grandsons.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Sir William looked approving of Adrien’s fairness in pointing out just how far removed his youngest uncle was from the title. ‘Your father is still in Town, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He came up because of an invitation to attend the reception at the Palace. He and Uncle Horace share a house in Upper Wimpole Street. I believe – ’ The sound of the door knocker interrupted him and we all listened as it was answered. Then Adrien said, ‘That is my father.’

  Mr Alexander Prescott looked a little like his youngest son, I decided when Grainger showed him in, although the gangling frame had solidified with maturity and the mousey hair was flecked with grey. He was respectably dressed but, with my eye now attuned to the kind of tailoring Luc wore, I thought him more country gentleman than Town buck.

  ‘Adrien? Where is Tillingham?’ He stopped just inside the door and surveyed us. ‘Lord Radcliffe? And you are Sir William Abernathy, are you not?’ The magistrate’s missing arm and general air of military authority must have made him easily identifiable. Mr Prescott gave me a rapid bow. ‘Madam.’

  ‘Miss Lawrence, my father, Mr Alexander Prescott. Father, Miss Lawrence, a guest of Lady Radcliffe,’ Adrien said hastily. ‘Sir, I am afraid I have very bad news. My cousin Henry is dead. Murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? Good God.’ He cast me a harried glance. ‘My apologies, Miss Lawrence.’

  ‘Come and sit down, Father.’ Adrien took his arm and steered him towards the nearest chair, then tugged the bell pull. ‘Brandy, Grainger,’ he said when the butler came in.

  We all sat while Mr Prescott absorbed the shock, the decanter was brought and he took a gulp from the measure Adrien poured for him. He was not far short of fifty years old, I guessed, studying him as he pulled himself together and put down the glass.