Mellon fixed his gaze above Christian’s head. “Yes, my lord.”
Christian leaned forward. “Tell me, Mellon, in your opinion is it possible that someone entered the house, or left the house, through the front door without your knowledge?”
Mellon opened his mouth, but then shut it. Christian was pleased to see he took time to think before answering. Nevertheless…“I can’t say absolutely not, my lord-there were a few minutes between when I left Lord Vaux in the library and reached my room-but that was the only time anyone could have come in or out through the front door, or else I would have known, given as my room is directly above it.”
Christian nodded. “And if they’d come in then, when did they leave, and if they left then, then when did they arrive-quite.” He paused, then asked, “Is there any other door, or French door-any other way into the house other than through the servants’ hall?”
“No, my lord. None at all.”
Christian remembered. “There’s a lane down the side. No entry from there?”
“Not to the front of the house, my lord. There’s a gate at the side of the backyard, and as you will have seen, there’s only a very narrow area behind the front railings. The drawing room and front parlor windows look onto that, but they aren’t doors, and they’re locked anyway.”
Christian waved the windows aside. “There’s clearly no other way anyone else could have got into the house.” He caught Hermione’s eye as she opened her mouth-breathed easier when she shut it. Looking at Mellon, he smiled. “Thank you, Mellon. You may go.”
Mellon bowed, then cast a glance at Letitia. She waved a dismissal and he went.
Hermione managed to contain herself until the door shut. She even managed to keep her voice down. “But there
“We know you’re not.” Letitia looked at Christian. “What now?”
Carefully, he took Hermione step by step through her story again. She was unshakable in her certainty that she’d heard Randall speaking with some other man. “And it definitely
Christian raised his brows. “And the other man’s wasn’t?”
Hermione shook her head. “His was…lighter. Not light, but a medium man’s voice. Nothing one would notice either way.”
She remembered things far too clearly, in too much detail, for Christian to doubt her.
He sat back. “Very well. So what we’re faced with is this. On that night some man, a friend of Randall’s, gained entry into the house, how we don’t know, spoke with Randall, and then hit him with the poker, killing him. How did that man get into and out of the house?”
They all sat back and thought.
“Not the house,” Letitia eventually said. She caught Christian’s eye. “Just the study-we don’t know that he went anywhere else in the house. We have no reason to suppose he did.”
Christian nodded. “Good point. So how did he get into the study?”
Letitia sat forward, leaning her elbows on the table. “If this was Nunchance, I’d say he’d got in through the secret passage. But this is a London town house-no secret ways.”
Christian stared at her, at her face, for a long moment, then looked up-at the cornices-ornate-and the heavy rough plaster of the ceiling. Recalled similar plasterwork in the library and front parlor, and the wood half paneling that ran through most of the house… “But this
He turned back to the table, caught Letitia’s gaze. “This
Something else struck him. “Why did Randall buy this house-this particular house? Did he ever mention it?”
She thought, shook her head.
“He was a secretive man-if we’ve learned anything about him, it’s that. He liked to hide things.” He was already moving toward the door.
Behind him, chairs scraped. His hand on the doorknob, he turned back to see all three ladies on their feet.
Letitia’s eyes were wide. “You think there’s a secret passage leading to the study?”
He smiled intently. “I wouldn’t be the least surprised.”
They trooped into the study and started their search. Agnes, unable to easily bend or stretch, excused herself and retired, leaving the three of them tapping panels and poking at the ornately carved mantelpiece and the thick, lushly carved picture rail.
Letitia was working her way along one wall, pressing every knob in the intricately figured rail that ran along the top of the half paneling, when a knock fell on the front door. They all stopped searching, waited, listening to the low murmur of voices in the hall.
A second later the door opened to reveal Mellon. He announced, “A Mr. Dalziel has called, my lady. I’ve shown him into the drawing room.”
Letitia straightened. “Please show him in here, Mellon.”
Mellon looked disapproving, but retreated, restricting himself to a glance at the spot where his master’s body had lain.
Two heartbeats later, Dalziel walked in. He turned and rather pointedly shut the door in Mellon’s face.
Holding up one finger to enjoin their silence, Dalziel waited for half a minute, his hand on the doorknob, then he opened the door again.
They couldn’t see past his shoulders, but heard him utter two words. “Leave. Now.”
His tone suggested that whoever was there-presumably Mellon-risked fatal injury if he didn’t immediately comply.
He must have left-at speed-because Dalziel smoothly shut the door and turned back into the room.
It wasn’t good news making Dalziel so edgy; leaving the wall, Letitia moved to the center of the room, stopped and waited for him to join her.
Which he did, halting directly before her.
She was conscious of Christian drawing nearer, stopping by her shoulder. She searched Dalziel’s uninformative face. “What is it? Justin?”
Dalziel answered with a sharp shake of his head. “He’s safely hidden where no one will think, or dare, to look for him.” He held her gaze. “I’ve heard from Hexham.” His voice low, he went on, “There’s only one family called Randall in the area, or was-a farmer who had a decent spread outside the town. He and his wife are both dead, but he was warm enough to spare his only son from the farm when the boy was awarded a governors’ scholarship to Hexham Grammar School. There, the lad did well enough, apparently, but the school lost track of him after he left.”
Letitia held his dark gaze; she knew what he was telling her, but she couldn’t-simply could not-take it in. After a blank moment, she said, “You’re saying…” Then she shook her head, briskly dismissing the impossible. “That couldn’t have been Randall. I couldn’t have been married to a farmer’s son.”
Dalziel’s lips compressed, then he murmured, “George Martin Randall. According to the school and parish records he would have turned thirty-four in April this year.”
She stared, jaw slackening. “Good
“Sit down.” Christian grasped her arm and eased her back and down into the chair he’d set behind her.
Once she was seated, still stunned and shocked, he glanced at Dalziel. “That explains a few things.”
“Indeed.” Dalziel nodded curtly. “It also poses a host of new questions.”
“But…how could…?” Letitia gestured at nothing in particular, but they knew what she meant.
“Precisely.” Dalziel glanced around the study-at the polished wood, the heavy desk, the books and curios on the shelves, the elegant chairs. “The ‘how coulds’ are endless. How could a farmer’s son have achieved all this? More, although he was only thirty-four, he’d been wealthy enough, for long enough, to have simply become accepted by the ton.”