Authors: Amy Corwin
He was no gentleman. Not any longer.
He turned away and went to Carnaby’s front door. He knocked briskly with the knob of his walking stick. When the butler answered, William handed him his card and informed him that he wished to speak to Mr. Carnaby.
A few minutes passed before the butler returned. He gravely requested William follow.
“Mr. Trenchard,” Mr. Carnaby greeted him. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you for seeing me. I came about the box we discussed on my last visit. Are you still interested in selling it?”
Carnaby laughed and sat back in his leather armchair. “I was almost surprised to hear you were here this morning.”
“But I indicated before that I would return to purchase the box.”
“Indeed, yes. I must confess, I thought you might be too impatient to wait.”
William’s brows rose, sensing a trap. “I don’t understand.”
“No.” Carnaby smiled as if at a private joke. “I don’t suppose you do. You see, someone tried to steal that little box.”
“Tried? Does that mean the theft was unsuccessful?”
“Not entirely.”
“Then you no longer have the box in your possession?”
“You know, Mr. Trenchard, this all makes me curious. Did that box truly contain love letters as you mentioned? Why would you—and so many others—be interested in it, if that were true?”
“I thought I explained—”
“Didn’t your
client
explain to you?” Carnaby steepled his hands and rested his index fingers against his mouth. “That is the crux of the matter, is it not? I’ve heard of Second Sons. And that agency was printed on your calling card. Tell me, do you consider yourself an honest man?”
“Honest? Why, yes,” William said, wary of the
non
sequitur
. He hooked his ankle over a knee, barely able to keep from drumming his fingers against his thigh. “Why do you ask?”
“Just to satisfy an old man’s curiosity. Why are these particular papers of such great importance?”
“A life depends upon them,” William said at last, settling on the truth in hopes of obtaining Mr. Carnaby’s cooperation.
“Ah, I see. Yet that remark could be construed in so many ways. An innocent man condemned to hang may depend upon papers to prove his innocence. Destroying rashly written love letters may save the life of a husband, or wife, with a jealous spouse. Military secrets may save, or destroy, hundreds of lives. So, I ask myself, what sort of papers you seek, and whose life might they save?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Or don’t know? Is that the true answer? Perhaps you might be interested in a story, Mr. Trenchard. If you have the time? It starts fourteen years ago, during one of our many wars.”
William refrained from glancing at his watch, but a small frown pinched the skin between his brows. “If you don’t have the box—”
“So impatient…still, Mr. Trenchard, I believe you may find this interesting. Let’s begin my tale like so many others and say that once upon a time, there was a dutiful Englishman who went to war for his country. In the midst of terrible fighting, he discovered there were things even worse than the artillery and guns that can take a man’s leg off more quickly than a tear can fall from an innocent girl’s lashes.”
“I don’t—”
Carnaby held up a hand. “Patience. Let’s say this young man, our erstwhile hero, wrote home to his father and told him something was not quite right. Let’s pretend he was afraid corruption had found a path into the very highest ranks. But then, before our hero could discover the exact nature of the corruption and expose it to the healing sunlight, he died. A tragedy for all, except perhaps those who might profit from secrecy. If indeed there was anything to his words, and they were not just the fevered imaginings of a man exhausted by battle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was speaking of my son.”
“I apologize, Mr. Carnaby. You have my sympathy,” William said smoothly, wondering where Carnaby was leading him.
He nodded. “Thank you. However, that is not the end of the story, is it?”
“You have the advantage of me, sir. I don’t see what the death of your son—I’m sorry, I understand how terrible that must have been—but I don’t see the connection to the box.”
“Don’t you? The question this raises in my mind is if your client would profit more from disposing of the contents of the box. Or exposing them?”
“My client is unsure of the significance of the papers, if there is any. However, I can say this much. If some injustice has been done, it is not my client’s doing.”
“Then, I repeat, why are the papers important?”
William put both feet on the floor and leaned forward slightly. “This has been interesting, and I’m sorry about your son, but if you no longer have the box, I must do what I can to locate it. Thank you for your time.”
“I don’t believe I ever said I didn’t have the box.”
“You have it?” His pulse leapt.
“Have it and opened it. And I must say I’m relieved I did before selling it to you. There were nearly six pounds inside.” Mr. Carnaby’s eyes twinkled.
“And…nothing else?”
Carnaby struggled to his feet and walked over to one of the bookcases. William stood, while Carnaby pushed some volumes to one side. He drew out the box. Then, he carried it over to his chair and waved impatiently for William to sit again. The box was a lovely pale honey-colored bird’s eye maple with an elegant brass gryphon pierced through the breast by a keyhole.
William fished the key out of his pocket, but again, Carnaby waved impatiently and lifted the lid. Several folded sheets lay inside. Carnaby fished them out and handed the bundle to William.
“There was a false bottom. I confess I had to break it. And I was disappointed when I did. I had hoped the documents would make sense to me. They did not,” Carnaby said. Hesitating only a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, cotton-wrapped object. “And there was this, as well. A locket.”
William took the locket without examining it. Carnaby’s statement strengthened his growing doubt. Carnaby was an extremely intelligent old gentleman. If the papers meant nothing to him, then how could they be anything but worthless to Sarah?
However, despite the apparent uselessness of the documents, William unfolded the top sheet.
Carnaby leaned forward and tapped the edge of it. “That one is a genealogy for the Sanderson family. Pity, that. Entire family perished in a fire in 1806, except for the sister of the marquess, Lady Victoria. Don’t know why it was in the box. The rest, well, I confess I was hoping for something more. They just look like a few bills of lading. Then there is a peculiar list of names, perhaps a pay schedule. I really had such high hopes. A letter to the damn Frenchies or some other treasonable item.”
“The box belonged to the marquess,” William replied absently.
“I see. That explains the genealogy, I suppose.”
A sudden question slipped into William’s mind. “I beg your pardon, but what made you buy this particular box?”
He chuckled. “I would never have known about it, except I happened to develop an interest in a certain party in the Pochard boarding house. She told me about the box. Nearly lost track of it when it was sold for non-payment of rent. However, thankfully my—this party—sent word. I was able to purchase it.”
“Then you knew about the previous owner?”
“Yes, yes,” Carnaby replied impatiently. “A servant or some such who managed to salvage the box after the Elderwood fire. As soon as she—that is, this acquaintance of mine—mentioned the gryphon lock, I knew.” He broke off. A curiously embarrassed look rose over his wrinkled face.
“The gryphon? What is the significance?” he asked sharply.
“My son. My son had just such a box made for him before he joined his regiment. Took it with him. Never saw it again until now.”
What did Carnaby’s
son
have to do with this affair? Nothing now, if he was truly dead.
William wanted to ask if Carnaby knew Major Pickering, but he hesitated, not sure if he trusted the old man. Carnaby had known about the box from his association with Miss Letty Pochard. He could have tried to murder Sarah to get his hands on the item. Who could say if these papers were the original contents, or substitutes?
What if Carnaby had Major Pickering killed to protect the reputation of Carnaby’s son? It was possible Carnaby’s son had been engaged in illegal activities, discovered by Major Pickering during the war with Napoleon and that Carnaby’s son had deliberately twisted the story to convince his father of his innocence.
Once the possibility occurred to William, the notion grew more insistent. Carnaby’s son may have committed treason. The pieces fit. Major Pickering had found out and worked with the marquess to expose it. But Carnaby, alone or with his father, had killed the marquess, hoping to burn the evidence along with the family.
Afterwards, he must have confessed to his father.
Then, Sarah had shown up in London with Carnaby’s box. And Major Pickering had arrived, close on her heels and ready to reopen the case. So Carnaby had acted swiftly to kill Pickering and Sarah so he could get the box back.
The papers in William’s hands were most likely substitutions and useless.
Unless Carnaby were innocent and the situation was as he claimed.
Well, the matter would be simple enough to check. William just had to question Sarah.
“What corps was your son in?” William asked.
“The Rifle Corps.”
William folded the papers and tucked them inside his coat. “Is your son buried in London?”
“Anthony? No, Clapham. That’s where our family resides. There’s a headstone there, even if nothing lies below. Damn Frenchies—they wouldn’t even let the dead return for a decent burial. They sunk the ship transporting the wounded and dying. Anthony’s buried at the bottom of the English Channel.”
William studied the old man’s flushed face and glittering, angry eyes. He seemed so honest and genuinely aggrieved over the loss of his son’s mortal remains. The lack of a body, however, was very interesting to William. It seemed to support his theory.
Carnaby might be hiding his son behind the tale of his death.
William’s pulse quickened as his mind sprinted over possibilities. He was so close to a solution—he knew it.
This
and this alone was why he had given up the status and lotus-eater life of the lay-about aristocracy. Nothing made him feel more alive than the breath of mystery.
But more than anything, he wanted to find justice for Sarah Sanderson and her murdered family.
“One last thing, if you don’t mind. I wonder if I may still purchase the box.” William remembered Sarah’s tale. She had no way of knowing the box originally belonged to Carnaby’s son. Her father had thrust it into her hands, and it was her only possession left from her life before the fire. And judging from the lost look in her gray eyes, it meant a great deal to her.
Carnaby hesitated, running his hands over the smooth, wooden edges. “It was my son’s…”
“Surely you have other reminders?”
“What possible use could it have for you? I gave you the contents.”
“Sentimental value. A reminder of better days for that servant.”
Carnaby coughed. He hummed softly, turning the box this way and that before finally handing it to William. “You show a great deal of concern over a mere servant.”
“I’m being paid well for my concern.”
“Very commendable, I am sure. Well, unless you have more questions, I am afraid I must bid you good day.”
William shook his head and stood.
Still seated, Carnaby eyed him. “Just one more thing—and I shall be happy to pay you for your time—will you let me know if you discover the significance of those papers?”
After brief consideration, William decided there could be no harm in complying. “Most assuredly,” William replied before taking his leave.
Outside, he hesitated, turning his face toward the warming sun. The rays soaked into his skin and melted away a fraction of his tension. Carnaby’s house had been several degrees colder than the temperature outside, which was rising rapidly as the sun drifted toward its zenith. The fresh air awakened his wits. He would speak to the survivors of Anthony Carnaby’s unit, particularly the commanding officer. And then, he would have another conversation with John Archer.
Despite the notion that the villain of the piece might be Anthony Carnaby, there was still the potential that Archer had been an ally of Carnaby’s. The fact that Archer and his wife had conveniently been away from Elderwood during the fire was simply too damning to be ignored.
Not to mention that Archer nearly killed Sarah by throwing a jug of water at her head while someone tried to shoot her. And Anthony Carnaby was in the Rifle Corps. Who better to take that shot from the rear window of an empty townhouse?
Most likely Archer and Carnaby failed to coordinate their efforts. They had had no idea they were working against each other during their opportunistic, and unfortunately simultaneous, attempts against Sarah’s life.