If her supposition was correct, and the burglaries were connected with Stolemore’s client’s wish to buy her uncle’s house…
His eyes narrowed. The full picture of why she’d come out to beard him formed in his mind. He didn’t, definitely didn’t, approve. Face set, he strolled on.
To the green-painted frontage of Stolemore’s enterprise. Tristan’s lips curved; no one viewing the gesture would have labeled it a smile. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the door as he reached for the handle, as he turned it, substituted a more comforting face. Stolemore, no doubt, would satisfy his curiosity.
The bell over the door jangled.
Tristan entered. The rotund figure of Stolemore was not behind his desk. The small office was empty. A doorway opposite the front door was masked by a curtain; it led into the tiny house of which the office was the front room.
Shutting the door, Tristan waited, but there was no sound of shuffling feet, of the lumbering gait of the heavily built agent.
“Stolemore?” Tristan’s voice echoed, far stronger than the tinkling bell. Again he waited. A minute ticked by and still there was no sound.
None.
He had an appointment, one Stolemore would not have missed. He had the bank draft for the final payment for the house in his pocket; the way the sale had been arranged, Stolemore’s commission came from this last payment.
Hands in his greatcoat pockets, Tristan stood perfectly still, his back to the door, his gaze fixed on the thin curtain before him.
Something was definitely not right.
He drew in his attention, focused it, then walked forward, slowly, absolutely silently, to the curtain. Reaching up, he abruptly drew the folds aside, simultaneously stepping to the side of the doorway.
The jingle of the curtain rings died.
A narrow, dimly lit corridor led on. He entered, keeping his shoulders angled, his back toward the wall. A few steps along he came to a stairway so narrow he wondered how Stolemore got up it; he debated but, hearing no sound from upstairs, sensing no presence, he continued along the corridor.
It ended in a tiny lean-to kitchen built onto the back of the house.
A figure lay slumped on the flags on the other side of the rickety table that took up most of the space.
Otherwise, the room was uninhabited.
The figure was Stolemore; he’d been savagely beaten.
There was no one else in the house; Tristan was certain enough to dispense with caution. From the look of the bruises on Stolemore’s face, he’d been attacked some hours ago.
One chair had tipped over. Tristan righted it as he edged around the table, then went down on one knee by the agent’s side. The briefest examination confirmed Stolemore was alive, but unconscious. It appeared he’d been staggering to reach the pump handle set in the bench at the end of the small kitchen. Rising, Tristan found a bowl, placed it under the spout, and wielded the handle.
A large handkerchief was protruding from the nattily dressed agent’s coat pocket; Tristan took it and used it to bathe Stolemore’s face.
The agent stirred, then opened his eyes.
Tension stabbed through the large frame. Panic flared in Stolemore’s eyes, then he focused, and recognized Tristan.
“Oh.
Tristan grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Don’t try to talk yet.” He hoisted Stolemore onto the chair. “Do you have any brandy?”
Stolemore pointed to a cupboard. Tristan opened it, found the bottle and a glass, and poured a generous amount. He pushed the glass to Stolemore, recorked the bottle and placed it on the table before the agent.
Slipping his hands into his greatcoat pockets, he leaned back against the narrow counter. Gave Stolemore a minute to regain his wits.
But only a minute.
“Who did it?”
Stolemore squinted up at him through one half-closed eye. The other remained completely closed. He took another sip of brandy, dropped his gaze to the glass, then murmured, “Fell down the stairs.”
“Fell down the stairs, walked into a door, hit your head on the table…I see.”
Stolemore glanced up at him fleetingly, then lowered his gaze to the glass and kept it there. “Was an accident.”
Tristan let a moment slip by, then quietly said, “If you say so.”
At the note in his voice, one of menace that chilled the spine, Stolemore looked up, lips parting. His eye now wide, he rushed into speech. “I can’t tell you anything—bound by confidentiality, I am. And it don’t affect you gentlemen, not at all. I swear.”
Tristan read what he could from the agent’s face, difficult given the swelling and bruising. “I see.” Whoever had punished Stolemore had been an amateur; he or indeed any of his ex-colleagues could have inflicted much greater damage yet left far less evidence.
But there was no point, given Stolemore’s present condition, in going further down that road. He would simply lose consciousness again.
Reaching into his pocket, Tristan withdrew the banker’s draft. “I’ve brought the final payment as agreed.” Stolemore’s eyes fastened on the slip of paper as he drew it back and forth between his fingers. “You have the title deed, I take it?”
Stolemore grunted. “In a safe place.” Slowly, he pushed up from the table. “If you’ll stay here for a minute, I’ll fetch it.”
Tristan nodded. He watched Stolemore hobble to the door. “No need to rush.”
A small part of his mind tracked the lumbering agent as he moved through the house, identified the location of his “safe place” as under the third stair. For the most part, however, he stayed leaning against the counter, quietly adding two and two.
And not liking the number he came up with.
When Stolemore limped back, a title deed tied with ribbon in one hand, Tristan straightened. He held out a commanding hand; Stolemore gave him the deed. Unraveling the ribbon, he unrolled the deed, swiftly checked it, then rerolled it and slipped it into his pocket.
Stolemore, wheezing, had slumped back into the chair.
Tristan met his eyes. Raised the draft, held between two fingers. “One question, and then I’ll leave you.”
Stolemore, his gaze all but blank, waited.
“If I was to guess that whoever did this to you was the same person or persons who late last year hired you to negotiate the purchase of Number
The agent didn’t need to answer; the truth was there in his bloated face as he followed the carefully spaced words. Only when he had to decide how to reply did he stop to think.
He blinked, painfully, then met Tristan’s gaze. His own remained dull. “I’m bound by confidentiality.”
Tristan let a half minute slide by, then inclined his head. He flicked his fingers; the bank draft sailed down to the table, sliding toward Stolemore. He put out a large hand and trapped it.
Tristan pushed away from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your business.”
Half an hour after returning to the house, Leonora escaped the demands of the household and took refuge in the conservatory. The glass-walled and -roofed room was her own special place within the large house, her retreat.
Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked to the wrought-iron table and chairs set in the bow window. Henrietta’s claws clicked in soft counterpoint as she followed.
Presently heated against the cold outside, the room was filled with rioting plants—ferns, exotic creepers, and strange-smelling herbs. Combining with the scents, the faint yet pervasive smell of earth and growing things soothed and reassured.
