In the Brief Eternal Silence (59 page)

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,
and set off once again in the night, not headed for his home, for
he could not yet face his mother, but headed for the Dowager
Duchess's house.

Chapter Twenty-three

Friday Morning

It was well after three in the morning when
St. James arrived back to his London home. He rode into the stables
and dismounted, and as there were no grooms up at this late hour,
he saw to unsaddling his mount (an awkward undertaking as his
stitches limited his movement and he was forced to do the most of
the work with but his right hand, arm and shoulder) and leading it
to its stall.

He walked with weariness from the stables,
bypassed the servants entrance and went along the garden path to
the side of the house and the French doors that were there. He
rubbed at his aching chest as he did so and was deep in
thought.

Expecting the doors to be locked when he
reached them, he was fumbling in yet another inner pocket of his
coat for his keys when it unexpectedly opened. Effington peered out
from the doorway. “Is that you, milord?” he asked.

“Damn it, yes, Effington.” St. James glanced
at him with annoyance. “Why in the devil are you still up?”

“I should think the answer would be obvious,
milord,” Effington sniffed as he closed the door behind the
duke.

St. James walked through the drawing room and
into the hallway, going toward his study. Effington dogged him,
hesitated at the door as St. James struggled from his coat and
handed it to the valet, and continued to his desk. “Are you not
turning in now, milord?” Effington asked.

“No. And pour me a drink.”

Effington laid the coat upon the back of a
chair and followed this instruction.

St. James unlocked the top drawer of his
desk, pulled out the file of correspondence between his father and
a young Queen Victoria. He didn't sit then, after laying it on top
of the desk, but instead strode with agitation about the room, not
trusting himself to study it properly when his mind was being
distracted by another matter.

Effington held out his drink to him and St.
James took it in passing, but even in sipping it, he did not stop
pacing, but went to and fro and back and forth, and all the while
his left hand held the goblet, his right hand massaged the painful
left side of his chest.

“Your wound is bothering you,” Effington
observed.

“Hmm,” St. James glanced his way. “Yes. Damn
it.”

“You met with this letter writer tonight,
milord?” Effington persisted.

“Yes.” St. James turned, paced back. He
stopped and stared into the fireplace and unwilling to further
endure his preoccupation, asked in a guarded voice, “Miss
Murdock?”

Effington sighed. “Gone as you had ordered,
milord. With no apparent misadventure.”

St. James nodded, sipped from his glass. “Her
demeanor?” he questioned, unable to help himself and very much
resenting the fact that he could not.

Effington paused in picking up his lordship's
coat once again as though giving his answer some thought. Then he
said, “I should say that she was 'defiantly vulnerable'.”

And St. James gave an unexpected, short
laugh. “Defiantly vulnerable,” he mused. “Yes. I should say that is
what I would have expected from my Miss Murdock. No tears. Not then
at any rate.” He turned from the fireplace. “Thank you, Effington.
You may go now.”

“My pleasure, milord,” Effington said. “And
may I add my congratulations, also, milord.”

St. James glanced at him but seemed far from
pleased. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I should be
congratulated,” and his voice was quietly derisive, “for I have
managed to overcome her objections in the end, so I must be a very
bright fellow, indeed.”

Effington gathered the coat to him and went
with less than his normal dignity to the door, but he had not
closed it entirely before the duke gave out a sudden, violent
curse. St. James clinked decanter on glass as he refilled his
drink.

He drank half of it in an instant, quelled
his sudden impulse to slam the glass into the fireplace and instead
take the entire bottle. He stood, the glass in his tight grip until
at last he forced himself to go over and seat himself at his
desk.

He took another few moments clearing his mind
with a will, then turned his attention to the papers in front of
him. He was further delayed once, when upon turning from the first
letter that he had previously read to the next, he found in between
these two sheaves of paper an envelope, the one that he had sent
Effington to find the afternoon before. He opened it, skimmed it,
laid it aside with a quiet wondering of how much grief could have
been saved if he had only read it before going to Almacks that
night.

Then he turned his attention to reading the
haunting, half-remembered song of his father's handwriting, and it
was not until another hour later that he at last turned the final
page. Even then, he only got up to refresh his glass, and then sat
again at his desk, his fingers caressing with gentleness the words
his father had written nearly a quarter of a century ago as he
stared pondering into the low burning flames of the fireplace.

Then he picked up a pen, dabbed it into a
bottle of ink, and on a fresh piece of paper began to write:

Question: How close was Queen Victoria to
heeding my father's advice? Tentative Conclusion: Very close. Ask
Queen, if possible.

Question: What documents could he have been
carrying with him the night he was killed that someone felt that
they could not afford having the Queen receive? What information
did my father know that it necessitated him to be forever silenced?
Why my mother (and presumably myself) also? Tentative Conclusions:
Documents contained (possibly) misrepresentations by the East India
Company of the exact nature of the primary product they were
trading from India to China—its uses—its addictive nature—the fact
that it was mostly being consumed by the Chinese population as some
drugging, numbing pleasure device (i.e. alcohol when used to
extremes but apparently from my father's writings much worse) and
not being used for any legitimate or legal purpose. Possibly this
product was even minimalized in their accountings of their trade.
It was illegal trade, after all, and they probably inflated profits
from other legitimate trade to cover the opium profits. How many
investors would have bulked if they had true knowledge of product
and true nature of the illegality of the trading that was going on?
If investors pulled out, would company have gone bankrupt? Did
documents contain evidence of fraud?

My father wrote of other trade agreements
being jeopardized, but although England stood to suffer if trade
with China was lost, the East India Trading Company would have been
ruined, along with all of its investors. Along with my own father
if his holdings in company were significant.

Did my father have evidence of this fraud?
Was it that evidence that was in the case the night of murders and
was thus imperative that it not reach Queen Victoria, nor that my
father remain alive to expose the extent of the Company's
activities?

Or, if no outright evidence of fraud, did
'enemy' fear that my father would 'dump' his East India Company
Holdings and that, combined with general unease over prewar
situation, would cause a mass 'dumping' on the Exchange?

Need to investigate how much stock my father
owned at the time. Was amount significant enough to change the
market if he dumped?

Had he foreseen own murder? Did 'enemy'
anticipate that he had left verbal instructions with my mother to
dump stocks if he died unexpectedly, and worse, to publicly expose
fraud? Could 'enemy' be sure this would not happen if she were left
alive? Did 'enemy' have some indication that my father had confided
in her? Letters? Messages? Overheard conversations?

Tentative Conclusion: Agent of East India
Company, or Another large investor in said Company.

Fact: If someone involved with Company, they
would almost certainly have to be in a social circle of my parents
and have some insight into their relationship for them to believe
my mother had intimate knowledge of my father's work (if, in fact,
they feared my mother had knowledge). Unlikely an agent would be in
that circle. Leaves only another large investor.

Note: As I, myself, doubt she had intimate
knowledge, this could indicate that an extremely nervous 'enemy'
were only guessing that they need kill her also, and all of this
could be just so much rot.

St. James held the pen poised for another
moment after that last sentence. So much rot. But if he were in
fact puzzling through to a motive, then he could find no reason in
it why his death would be desirable. And as his chest was aching,
he knew very well that there had to be a motive for his death as
well somewhere in this puzzle.

He rubbed a finger across his upper lip as he
thought, his face a scowl of concentration (for it is not pleasant
to try and figure out why someone is bent upon taking your life,
and indeed, has already killed both of your parents) and his gold
eyes were very dark in his pale face.

His inheritance had been held in trust for
him by his uncle Mortimer, and he had not received it until he had
reached his majority, and even then, that had been at his uncle's
discretion. He would have had no decision making ability, even if,
at the tender age of ten, he had been inclined to make a decision.
Any worry that he would 'dump' East India Company stock was
ridiculous. And if the 'enemy' mayhaps feared that his father had
confided in his mother, they would not likely think that he had
been irresponsible enough to also confide in his ten year old
son.

Just maybe, the fact that he had not been in
the coach that night had been insignificant. Perhaps, even the fact
that his mother had been in the coach was insignificant. Perhaps,
after all, his father had been the only target, and Dante had lived
because he had an unexpected case of the croup, and his mother had
died because she had been too bored to remain the few days until
his grandmother had been returning to London.

But if this were true, why, again, the recent
attempt on his life?

Why did it now matter to someone that he
should die?

No. If it mattered now, it had to have
mattered then also.

But if he had been an intended target those
twenty-three years

ago, why had he been allowed to live
undisturbed until now?

Nothing seemed to make sense, and he could
not discount the fact that Miss Murdock's arrival on the scene
seemed to be the defining factor that had induced someone to take
action against him. To believe it were coincidental seemed to go
contrary to what was quite obvious. For some unknown reason, he was
not a threat as long as he were not married. Whether it was as
Tyler had always claimed, and no one expected him to live to a ripe
old age with his wild ways in any event, and now his sudden
apparent interest indicated that he would settle down and perhaps
live beyond what someone desired, or whether it were some other
factor, he did not know.

He had acted on nothing but a hunch when he
had orchestrated an interest in Miss Murdock, and his gut feeling
told him that he had to dog that hunch to the end.

He started a new page.

My interest in Miss Murdock is disturbing to
someone. Know from Steven's father that same assassins were hired,
and confirmed again by Steven's mother, hence, logical they have
been hired by same 'enemy' that hired them to kill father
(parents?)

Why should my planned marriage be a
threat?

Motive One:

Most logical, most oft thought and most oft
discarded notion: matters of inheritance.

List of why this motive does not withstand
scrutiny in the briefest, starkest terms: Only one standing to
profit at time of my father's death (presuming I was meant to be in
carriage and would also be killed): uncle Morty. Who is now dead,
and hence could not be now reinstigating assassins to 'finish
t'job' as Steven's mother so succinctly put it.

Only one standing to profit today upon my
death is Andrew, who was not even born upon night of my parents'
deaths.

Motive of inheritance thus discarded.

Motive Two:

Investor in East India Company fearing
ruination.

Now bent on murdering me because he is afraid
that I am digging about in that nasty old graveyard and that he
will be discovered. Question: Why not act sooner? Possible Reason
One: I was able to move about with enough subtlety that he did not
realize what I was truly up to. Or Possible Reason Two: He was
aware of what I was doing, but I was not close enough to make him
nervous and now I have in some indefinable way gotten closer. Or
Possible Reason Three: He was aware that Queen was considering me
for my father's vacant post, and was intimate enough with her to
understand that if I should marry, she would take it as a sign that
I had left my evil ways behind and was ready to accept the
responsibility of that post. With taking of said post, information
will be made available to me that will point to him.

If third possible reason: I was not meant to
be in coach, my mother's murder was pure circumstance, and threat
to my life now is only a result of what I may discover through my
own investigating and promised access to Queen's files. If I had
not appeared to take a notion to marrying, I would not have been a
threat, for I would not have access to Crown records.

Conclusion: A member of the Queen's own inner
circle.

He set down his pen and sat back in his
chair. There was still a swallow of brandy left in his glass, and
he finished it before murmuring to himself, “And I am fairly
certain she suspects the same. She must think I am being
exceedingly slow.” And he smiled. “But I am getting there, Your
Highness, so I hope I am not disappointing you too mightily.”