The Duke's Last Hunt (24 page)

“Well, Pevensey,” said Henry, abruptly. “Have you brought any new information to light?”

The red-haired Londoner fixed his eyes on him. “That I have, my lord. The question is whether any of it is pertinent to the case.”

Sir Arthur set his glass down with a clink. “Surely, it is a simple enough matter! Turold says he shot the duke—albeit in error. You must have heard of a hunting accident before now!”

“It is a possibility,” said Pevensey. “Mr. Turold’s gun certainly
was
fired. But I am not prepared to certify it was that bullet which killed the duke, and I am not prepared to swear to the fact that it was an accident.”

“Good Lord, Cecil!” said Robert. “Has this fellow actually convinced you to turn the matter into a murder investigation?”

Cecil shrugged. “If the evidence warrants it….”

Henry returned to his chair at the table and sat down. Wasn’t this what he had wanted, an investigation to determine whether Walter Turold had acted out of ill fortune or ill will? Yes, but he had not anticipated the suspicion of foul play to fall on himself as well. The Runner seemed to actually consider his ill-disguised interest in Eliza as motive for murder.

“What are your plans, my lord,” Pevensey asked, “now that you’ve inherited the title and the estate?”

“Plans?” Henry frowned, unsure whether this question was filled more with guile or bad taste. “I’ve hardly had time to make any.”

“No?” Pevensey seemed amused. “I thought you had been mulling over the idea for some time, considering the calling cards you had made while you were in London.”

Henry’s mouth fell open. He had forgotten about those blasted cards. After the events that had transpired, they were quite macabre—macabre, and maybe even damning. And where had Pevensey got a hold of one? Had he been searching his room? The only card he had given out had gone to…Eliza.

“Oh, those?” Henry waved a hand casually. “Those were simply a jest between me and my brother. I never thought there would be any truth in them.”

“God moves in mysterious ways,” said Pevensey, and the glint in his eyes hinted that he did not think the Almighty was the only one who had been moving. Henry could feel Cecil’s black eyes staring at him as well.

“What calling card, Hal?” asked Robert, his interest piqued. Sir Arthur put down his drink, ready to listen.

Henry’s jaw jutted forward. There was really no good way to explain it.

“Oh, it was all a joke,” interjected Stephen. “A jest to poke fun at Rufus’ dignity. Henry showed them to me at the club before we came down here to Harrowhaven.”

“Well, what did they say?” asked Robert.

“They merely had Henry’s name on them with the Brockenhurst title.” Stephen looked around, dismayed at the silence. “Quite amusing at the time….”

“And quite convenient considering the recent turn of events,” said Pevensey brightly. “Excellent forethought, my lord. You will not have to order new cards now.”

Henry saw Sir Arthur give him a look of confusion and disgust—there was hardly any hope now that he would reverse his opinion regarding Henry’s suit. Robert also seemed perplexed, and the two of them took themselves off a moment later for a game of cards in the billiards room.

It was just the four of them now—Henry, Stephen, Cecil, and the red-haired investigator. Henry stalked over to the sideboard and removed the lid from the decanter. “Thank you, Mr. Pevensey,” he said, as he poured himself yet another drink. “It was very kind of you to bring that up in front of my future father-in-law.”

“What?” Stephen started. “Are you engaged to Miss Malcolm?”

“No.” Henry downed the glass of spirits. “Nor am I likely to be as long as this fellow wants to see me hanged for murder.”

“I do not believe that is his intention,” said Cecil. “We are simply trying to unravel some suspicious circumstances surrounding the death.”

Henry set his glass down with more force than was necessary. “Have you even spoken to Walter Turold?”

“No.” Pevensey’s tone was unapologetic.

“And why not?”

“I have already heard the gist of Mr. Turold’s story. What I should like to hear is yours.”

“Devil take it! I already told you I had no quarrel with Rufus. Yes, he threw me out without a penny, but I have done quite well for myself in London.”

“Then what quarrel did Walter Turold have with your brother?”

Henry took in a large mouthful of air. He had promised to say nothing about Catie Ansel. And Walter had promised, in turn, that he had no blood on his hands. Should he conceal the matter from the investigator? Tell a lie, point blank, to this direct fire of questioning?

He recalled that it was the little lies and foolish deceptions of a week ago that had put him under scrutiny now….

Henry looked Pevensey squarely in the eyes. “I know nothing that I am at liberty to share.”

Pevensey rose from his chair. “Then I think it is time for Cecil and me to pay your friend Walter Turold a visit.”

24

W
hen Pevensey and Cecil knocked on Turold’s bedroom door, there was a slight delay. Then Walter Turold opened it, dressed in his shirtsleeves and a pair of buckskins. He had not bothered to dress for dinner, and Pevensey suspected he had not bothered to dress at all for the past day and a half. His breath smelled strongly of spirits, and his long hair was lank and greasy.

“Hello, Turold,” said Cecil. “This is Jacob Pevensey, the inspector from London. We’d like to ask you some questions if we may.”

Turold grunted and let them come in. It was a small room, and there were not enough chairs for them all. Turold sat down on the side of the bed while Cecil took the wingback armchair and Pevensey stood before the empty fireplace. The only other piece of furniture was a desk, on which a large book lay open. Apparently, Turold had been spending his time of solitude in reading.

“I already gave the constable my statement,” said Turold. His tone was not exactly belligerent, but it was not friendly either.

“Yes, but we should like to have it again,” said Pevensey. He extracted his notebook from his pocket and began to sketch that wild, unkempt face—the wary eyes and sharp nose reminding him of a rat in a trap.

“As you wish,” said Turold. “I was separated from the others while chasing the stag. I thought I saw him in the bushes. I fired. When I rode up into the clearing to see if I had hit the beast, I saw Rufus lying on the ground, with his horse nearby. And that’s when Cecil here came upon me.”

Cecil nodded in confirmation of that last detail.

Pevensey had finished the face and was moving on to the shoulders. The man was a wiry, muscular build, much less broad in the shoulders than the Rowland brothers, but still certainly a sporting enthusiast. “Are you an experienced hunter, Mr. Turold?”

“Yes.”

Of course he was. The man had grown up in these woods. He had probably hunted the deer near Harrowhaven every summer of his life.

“Then why would you make the error of shooting at movement in the bushes, knowing full well it could be a fellow hunter?”

Turold shrugged. “I thought I saw the stag. I was mistaken.”

“Did you hear a shot a few minutes prior to yours?”

“No, I don’t remember another shot.”

Cecil coughed into his hand, concealing his astonishment at this denial. “Several other witnesses have mentioned a second shot,” said Pevensey, eyebrows raised.

Turold offered no further information, and so Pevensey pressed on. “What was your relationship to Rufus Rowland?”

“He was my friend.”

“But you were not equals.” It was a calculated jibe.

Turold’s brow turned ugly. “Equals? Of course we were. We were both gentlemen.”

“Yes, but he had a title, and you did not. He had an estate, and you…?”

Turold looked away. “I sold the land my father left me.”

Pevensey did not know the man from Adam, and yet he felt a twinge of sympathy. To be born without land was no disgrace, but to be forced to sell away one’s patrimony—it humbled one.

“Was there any quarrel between you and the duke?”

“No.”

The answer came almost too quickly. Pevensey saw Cecil’s knees tense and could tell that he felt the dissonance as well.

“Yet you owed him money? From card-playing perhaps?”

“Some. He did not care when I paid it.”

His voice had fallen back into its normal speech pattern, and Pevensey was almost certain that this was truth.

“And yet he had called in Robert Curtis’ debt the day before the hunt…why not yours too?”

Turold sighed exasperatedly. “Rufus did not
need
money. If he called in Curtis’ debit, it was for other reasons than needing ready cash.”

“Do you know what reason that might be?”

“No.”

There was something peculiar about this fellow. Whether the death had been accidental or not, he expressed no remorse about the passing of his friend. What had bound him to Rufus in the first place? And what had sundered those bonds? Pevensey finished his sketch and shut the notebook.

“Were you often in Rufus Rowland’s company?”

“Yes.”

“Both in London and at Harrowhaven?”

“Yes.”

“And besides cards and hunting, what sort of interests did you share?”

“I don’t see how that’s pertinent, inspector.” Turold’s eyes narrowed.

Pevensey could see that he would get no further with this line of questioning. “Perhaps it isn’t.” He left his position at the fireplace and walked to the door. “I think that’s all I have to ask you tonight. Good night, Mr. Turold.”

Cecil rose as well and offered his hand to the disheveled Turold. The long-haired man held back for a second, then rose from the bedside and shook Cecil’s hand briefly.

* * *

Pevensey and Cecil exchanged a
look filled with meaning as the door closed behind them.

“What do you make of that?” whispered Cecil, as they headed down the corridor to the staircase. “I know I didn’t imagine the first shot. The ladies and Sir Arthur heard it too. But Turold says he didn’t hear one, and Reverend Ansel showed us that Rufus’ pistol had not been discharged.”

Pevensey waited until they had crossed the saloon and entrance hall and were standing near the front door. “I think it’s clear that Turold is either lying or mistaken. There
were
two shots. But who fired the first one, I do not know.”

Cecil located his beaver and put a hand on the doorknob. “It’s getting late. I’m for home, Pevensey. Home, and a very late supper. Shall I meet you back here tomorrow? I think I’m more perplexed about this case at the end of the day than I was at the beginning. And the inquest must be tomorrow so the body can get below ground. I will call it for tomorrow afternoon.”

Pevensey clucked his tongue against his teeth. “I think I shall go into the village tomorrow morning. I may find more information from the local folk about the relationship between Walter Turold and the late duke. It seems clear from Henry Rowland’s evasions that there was some rift there. But until we know what it was, it is hard to judge Turold’s motives.”

“Very well then,” said Cecil. “I’ll meet you at the Blue Boar at nine o’clock.” He looked around the entrance hall to where two footmen were standing at attention. “We can eat breakfast and perhaps talk more discreetly about our next plan of action.”

“Very good,” said Pevensey, bidding the young magistrate goodnight and heading towards his own chamber. As of this evening, he had no information to present at the inquest besides the likelihood of accidental death. The case would probably go no further, and Turold would never have to stand trial at the county assizes.

And yet, something about that verdict niggled him. There were too many loose ends that kept fraying further the more he questioned. Why was the carriage waiting there on the road? Who had fired the first shot? And why had Turold denied hearing it? Why had they not found Rufus’ pistol the first time they searched when Reverend Ansel came across it so easily on the outskirts of the clearing? If Rufus’ gun had not been discharged, then which gun had been? He toyed briefly with the idea of Walter Turold firing two shots and reloading his pistol in between.

And besides the questions surrounding the scene of the death, there were also all the questions surrounding the motives of the main players in the drama. Why had Rufus Rowland decided so suddenly to call in Robert Curtis’ loan and evict him from his estate? Why had Henry Rowland refused to tell him about the disagreement between Turold and Rufus? And why had Henry Rowland created those calling cards and tried to obfuscate his relationship with Miss Malcolm?

Pevensey opened up his notebook and flipped through the sketches he had made. The last page on the left showed the tense, guarded face of Walter Turold. The man had been less than forthcoming with his answers, and Pevensey remembered the other thing that bothered him. Next to Walter Turold he quickly sketched a desk and an open book. The man had been reading when Pevensey and Cecil had entered. And Pevensey was willing to wager that that large volume open on the desk was nothing other than a copy of the Holy Bible.

Walter Turold was not given to personal piety—that he would also wager. Pevensey remembered the butler’s comment that Turold and Rufus Rowland had shared “certain proclivities.” Wenching was one of them, Pevensey imagined. The visit from that cast-off mistress confirmed it, on Rufus’ part at least. And the pretty housemaid’s aversion to the duke—that might well be due to improper advances.

Had the two men fought over a woman? That would be a quarrel as old as the world. But was it over the duke’s new fiancée? It would be remarkable if Miss Malcolm had attracted the attention of three men all in the same house party. But then, perhaps interest breeds interest—another time-tested trope.

The pages of the book looked fresh and new, as if the Bible was in its virgin reading. Pevensey recalled that Reverend Ansel had visited Turold earlier that day. Had Turold confessed his crime to the man of the cloth and received the Bible to find the path to salvation in its pages?

Pevensey sighed and removed his boots. The soles had been brushed off on the carpet at the front door, but the upper parts of the leather were caked with dust. He ran a curious finger over them. It was the same red dirt that had covered Rufus Rowland’s clothing.

He stripped off his clothes, and reaching into the nearby wardrobe, extracted a nightshirt and pulled it over his white shoulders. He blew out his candle and lay down on the bed, already aware that the wheels of his mind were turning too quickly to allow him any rest. A few minutes later he sat up. There was something he needed to do before he slept.

Retrieving his notebook from the pocket in his jacket, he found the empty page facing the likeness of Walter Turold and began to pencil in the picture he had missed drawing that day. Slowly, carefully, the ethereal features of Catherine Ansel began to take shape on the page. There was something about the girl—that poor, simple creature—that intrigued him. He drew her hair, her lips, her nose. He finished the curve of her eyes—trusting, biddable, without the capacity to contravene any instruction she was given.

And then, with the portrait of Catherine Ansel completed, a weight seemed to slip away from Pevensey’s mind. He sank back against the bedclothes and rolled over onto his side, certain that tomorrow’s events would provide some clarity to today’s.

* * *

“Up early, Mr. Pevensey?” said
Gormley.

“Yes,” said Pevensey with a smile, as he threw one leg over the saddle of his mount. He looked around the stable yard for Gormley’s subordinate. “Any more communication from our friend, Martin?”

“No!” Gormley scowled and made a fist, implying a desire to beat an explanation out of his surly undergroom. That action might not be prudent, considering their respective ages.

“Ah, well,” said Pevensey with a shrug. He leaned down conspiratorially. “If he’s not about today, you might check where he keeps his gear.”

“An’ what should I be looking for, Mr. Pevensey?”

“Anything unusual,” said Pevensey. He could see from the light in the groom’s eyes that the suggestion was not a wasted one.

Pevensey gave his horse some rein and headed down the road toward the village. The Blue Boar provided a favorable impression as he rode into sight. It was not a large inn, but the outside looked well-kept, and the sign—with its porcine mascot—had been recently painted.

The proprietor was a smiling fellow with a large brown beard, and he cheerfully served Pevensey a tankard of ale while the sausages he had ordered were cooking.

“Ah, you’re ahead of me,” said a cheerful voice. Cecil’s curly black head came in the door.

Pevensey raised his tankard in salute. “Have you breakfasted?”

“Yes, but it would not hurt to do it again,” said Cecil. He took a seat next to Pevensey and asked the innkeeper for a full plate of whatever was available. “Well then, where are we at?”

“We have all the pieces,” said Pevensey, “but somehow we must fit them together.”

“Let me see if I have the same pieces you do,” said Cecil. He pulled out his notebook and squinted as he tried to make out his own handwriting. “Item 1: the quarrel between Rufus and his half-brother Robert Curtis over the expired loan and the forfeiture of the estate.”

Pevensey crossed his arms over his chest and wrinkled his nose. “Rufus Rowland wanted that estate for some reason. Either that or he wanted to spite his older brother. He didn’t need the money.”

“What does one want an estate for?”

“Presumably to live in. Although, given that he already had Harrowhaven and a house in Grosvenor Square, it seems superfluous.”

Cecil thought hard. “He was about to be married. Perhaps it was to be a gift to his new wife.”

“Perhaps,” said Pevensey, “although he hardly strikes me as the gift-giving kind.” He pursed his lips. “How far away was Curtis’ estate?”

“Several hours’ ride. Why?”

“Just the distance a man would want to separate his wife from his mistress.”

“Lud, I think you might be onto something there! The need was pressing since he’d just become engaged. And did we not see his light skirt in the neighborhood just yesterday?”

“His
former
light skirt, according to Henry Rowland.”

“Oh, pish, these dalliances with high-flyers are always on-again, off-again affairs,” said Cecil, waving a hand dismissively. He stopped himself and grinned. “Not that I would know from personal experience.”

Pevensey laughed. “Of course not. Next item?”

“Item 2: the carriage on the road.”

“Come now,” said Pevensey, “given our previous conjecture about Curtis’ estate, you should be able to solve the mystery of the carriage easily enough.”

It only took Cecil a moment to fathom out what Pevensey meant. “It was for the mistress! To take her out of the way to the new location.”

“Exactly,” said Pevensey, pleased to see his pupil so apt.

“Item 3: the second shot?”

“Why is that a question?” asked Pevensey. “You are certain yourself that there were two shots, yes?”