The Edge of Desire

Then the light from outside was cut off. Swithin had shut the door. The carriage lurched sickeningly, then rumbled off.

Swithin was inside the carriage with her. She could sense him moving around, but couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t focus her swooning senses well enough to guess what he was doing.

Then he muttered from quite close, “I’d hoped this wouldn’t prove necessary, but clearly you’re a Vaux to your toes and therefore totally untrustworthy when it comes to scenes.”

A waft of sweetness reached her, then got closer, intensifying to a horrible cloying smell-a cloth clamped over her nose and mouth.

She struggled, tried desperately to shift her head away from the smell, but Swithin held the cloth in place so she had to breathe through it.

Blackness closed in.

Her last thought before darkness engulfed her was that she was alone. At the last, at the end, all alone. Christian wasn’t there, he hadn’t come for her, and even Barton hadn’t been there.

Everyone had deserted her.

And left her in the hands of a murderer.

Chapter 19

Why can’t we just go to his house and put it to him?” Justin looked from Christian to Dalziel.

Christian reined in his own impatience. “Because it might not be him. And if it is, we need an approach that’s going to advance our position, gain us some ground, not simply serve to advise him of our suspicions.”

“You heard Roscoe.” From his corner of the carriage, Dalziel gazed out at the familiar streets. “Swithin didn’t need to kill Randall-it’s difficult to see why he would.”

“Swithin is quiet, cautious. Of the three of them, he’s the last one you’d imagine had the intestinal fortitude to commit murder.” Christian added, “Far easier to imagine Roscoe was our man, except he’s far too clever.”

Dalziel humphed in agreement.

The carriage drew up outside Allardyce House. They couldn’t go to Randall’s house because of Barton’s dogged watch, so Christian had suggested they call in there to take stock and plan their next move-almost certainly a call on Swithin, but exactly how…

They’d alighted and were climbing his front steps when a messenger-one of those Gasthorpe used-came pounding up the pavement.

They all halted, turning to face him.

“My lord!” The youth offered Christian a folded note, then caught the railing, almost doubling over as he worked to catch his breath.

Christian unfolded the missive; the others watched his face as he read. “Trowbridge has been attacked at his home and left for dead.”

“Randall’s murderer strikes again.” His face hardening, Dalziel stepped down to the pavement, reclaiming the hackney that hadn’t yet moved off. He glanced back at Christian. “Chelsea?”

Christian nodded. “Cheyne Walk.” He went down the steps, but then halted. “I promised I’d go and see Letitia and let her know what Roscoe said.” He held up the note. “She’ll want to come.”

Dalziel looked at him, a species of disbelief in his eyes.

Christian hesitated; he glanced at Justin as he joined them. “And if Randall’s murderer is attacking the owners of the Orient Trading Company, she’s now on his list.”

Justin humphed. “She’s sitting in a house full of servants, and you told me she said she’d wait there. She usually does what she says she will, and Barton’s there, too, keeping watch over her and the house-she couldn’t be anywhere safer.”

“Exactly.” Dalziel opened the door of the hackney. “And while we debate the issue, the murderer’s trail is growing cold.”

Christian hesitated. Why, he didn’t know, yet reluctance dragged at him as he forced himself to nod. “All right. When we’ve finished in Chelsea, we’ll come back to South Audley Street.”

Following the others into the carriage, he shut the door.

The scene that met their eyes when they walked into the house in Cheyne Walk-through the wide open, unmanned front door-could only be described as chaotic. Christian caught a rushing footman, relieved him of the fruit bowl he was ferrying and directed him to announce their arrival. After staring at Christian, then at Dalziel and Justin, the footman turned tail and went.

Christian walked into the drawing room and set down the bowl. The three of them stood in the middle of the fabulous room with its wonderful light and white-and-lemon decor, and waited.

Eventually they heard heavy footsteps raggedly descending the stairs.

Rupert Honeywell came in. He looked haggard and distraught even though he was making a herculean effort to bear up. Any doubt of the depth of his regard for Trowbridge would have been banished by one look into his tortured eyes.

“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to send for.” He looked at Christian. “I remembered the card you gave Russell-he still had it in his pocket.”

Christian nodded. “What happened?”

Honeywell dragged in a huge breath, held it for a moment, then said, “He went out for his morning walk as he always did, along the bottom of the garden-there’s a path that follows the boundary wall along the river.” He hauled in another breath. “When he didn’t come back for breakfast, I sent a footman to look for him, then decided to go myself. Sometimes he sat on a bench looking out over the river and forgot the time.”

He paused, then, gaze distant, continued, “I got to the bench, but he wasn’t there. Then I heard the footman call out and strode over. Russell was sprawled on the path-from a distance I thought he’d swooned, but then I got closer and saw the blood on the footman’s hand…and on Russell’s head.”

Honeywell’s voice broke, but he swallowed and went on, “He’d been hit-bashed-with a rock. It was lying nearby. The footman thought he was dead-he kept saying he was-but I found a weak pulse. We got him back to the house and summoned the doctor-he’s with him now.”

“He’s alive?” Christian asked.

Honeywell nodded. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “The doctor says he thinks he’ll live. He’s regained consciousness.” Honeywell paused, then added, “It was he who insisted I send for you, and as I couldn’t think of anyone else, I did.”

“We’ll go and see him in a moment, but first, did the staff see anyone they didn’t expect to see this morning?”

Honeywell shook his head. “I asked. No one saw anything, and they’re all devoted to us, so they would say if they had.”

Christian nodded. “This walk Trowbridge took-you said he walked every morning. Always the same route?”

“Yes. It was his way of clearing his head for the day. That’s why I didn’t walk with him.”

“What about the walls?” Dalziel asked. “Are they high, glass on top-or low? Could someone have climbed over without coming through or past the house?”

Thrusting his handkerchief back into his pocket, Honeywell nodded. “Easily. The wall at the back is the boundary of the river walk-it’s chest height for a man, easy to look over. Not difficult to climb over. It’s the same for the properties on either side, so anyone could have gone down through any of the gardens along this stretch-and early morning, who would see them?-or someone could have walked up along the river path.”

“So every morning Trowbridge walked alone along a path that anyone could reach.” Dalziel grimaced.

“Anyone who knew about his habit.” Christian considered Honeywell, but elected to go to the source. “We need to speak with Trowbridge.”

Honeywell was clearly not happy in a purely protective way. However, he equally clearly knew Trowbridge