The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“I suppose that is possible,” Helen said from the doorway. “However, why would he kill anyone, Lord Crowley? He already has the scroll in his possession. You are a half-wit, sir. You are making no sense.”

“Ah, Miss Mayberry. A pleasure, ma’am.” Lord Crowley managed an elegant bow. “You are looking well, I see. Beyond well, really.”

“Naturally,” she said. “Lord Beecham, Flock tells me that there is a very nice man outside by the name of Ezra Cave. He is our Bow Street Runner, I believe, here, keeping an eye on Lord Crowley.”

“I was mad to come here,” Lord Crowley said, stomping tow

ard the door of the drawing room. “You will not believe me, no matter what I say.”

“Give us one good reason to believe you, Crowley,” Lord Beecham called after him. “Just one.”

Crowley looked back and forth between them, then blurted out, “Just perhaps Reverend Mathers wasn’t murdered because of the scroll.”

“Ah, now that is a rather unique way of looking at the business,” Lord Beecham said.

“I don’t know, not for certain, but I heard that his brother, Old Clothhead, as Reverend Older calls him, was fighting with him constantly. Perhaps he wanted the scroll, perhaps not. Perhaps he was jealous of his brother, perhaps he was finally pushed over the edge and stabbed him in a rage. He stole the scroll as an afterthought. Maybe he already knew it was valuable. That fellow also needs money. You’ll not believe this, but he is married to a very young girl, and she is always encouraging him to buy her baubles and jewels. Yes, Old Clothhead sounds desperate. Surely he is an excellent suspect.”

“Why don’t you tell Mr. Ezra Cave what you just told us?”

“I done ’eard it all, milord. Sounds ’avey-cavey to me, but I’ll pass it on, to ’is lordship, see wot ’e thinks about Old Clothhead wit’ the sticker.”

“Damn all of you, I did not murder Reverend Mathers. I did not even know that you met him in the British Museum!”

“Now, sir, ye’ll burst yer liver if ye squawk like that.”

Lord Crowley looked ready to commit murder now. He grabbed his cloak and cane from a stolid Flock and slammed out of the front door of Shugborough Hall.

“The strange thing,” Lord Beecham said thoughtfully, stroking his long fingers over his jaw, “is that I believe the fellow. He’s afraid. He’s really afraid.”

“But Reverend Mathers’s brother, Spenser? Old Clothhead?”

“I don’t think that’s right either, but who knows? Now, Helen, let us all have some tea and have Mr. Cave tell us what he has discovered.”

It amounted to nothing much at all. Mr. Ezra Cave prepared to take his leave to return to London an hour later. “I got my fivers in all sorts of pockets, milord, and me ears plastered against all sorts of walls wot got blokes on the other side speaking in whispers amongst themselves. Something will pop out, ye’ll see.”

After Ezra Cave had left, Spenser and Helen looked at each other, each feeling the instant pull, the drugging desire. They both held to their places. It was a close thing. They would have leapt on each other if Lord Prith hadn’t chosen that particular moment to stroll into the drawing room.

“Something I never told my little Nell here,” he said to Lord Beecham, “but if I had to describe Gerard Yorke, it would be that he was a fraud. Oh, yes, I know, he was a hero then, and everybody believed him to be Lord Nelson’s right hand. And perhaps it was true at one time. But by the time I met him in ’01, it was clear to me that he was a deceitful creature, all decked out with ribbons and braid. This letter you got from him, Helen, it is what I would call a preliminary exploration. He wants something, don’t doubt it. What he wants, I just can’t figure out. I’m sorry, Spenser, but Gerard is alive. I can smell him.

“Look to your back. If you need help slitting his bloody throat, call me. Where is Flock? Flock! Oh, there you are. I want you to rub my shoulders. All this excitement has left me stiff.”

And Lord Prith walked out of the drawing room, Flock on his heels. They heard him say, “I wonder if one could mix champagne with some sort of sweet cream and perhaps have a perfect concoction to rub into one’s shoulders?”

“Oh, dear,” Helen said. She turned bewildered eyes to Lord Beecham. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“I don’t either, but I believe it is time you and I returned to London. We need Douglas Sherbrooke. He knows everybody in the Admiralty. We have got to get to Gerard’s father, Sir John Yorke. I’ll send a message to Douglas, make sure he and Alexandra are still in London.”

Lord Beecham walked to Helen, automatically raised his hands to touch her, then immediately lowered them, and took a quick step back. “No,” he said, “no. Now, I believe that you and I should discuss what I have added to the translation on the leather scroll.”

Rather than translating word for word, Lord Beecham pulled out several sheets of foolscap from Helen’s desk drawer. “I have put together a narrative. There are still many concepts, ideas, words missing that Reverend Mathers scratched his head over. But what we have here, Helen, is the good beginnings of a story.

“No, please sit over there.” He pointed to the settee, a good eight feet distant.

She sat on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped together, all her attention focused on him. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Helen.”

26

“ ‘THERE WAS A POWERFUL magician in Africa who divined that he needed a particular boy to gain something he wanted in Persia. He used guile and deceit and managed to lure the unsuspecting boy to a hidden place in the mountains, telling him that if he did exactly as he was told he would gain riches beyond belief. He sent the boy underground to fetch him a very old lamp that was protected by powerful gods who knew the magician and wouldn’t allow him to come near, but the boy, the magician had divined, they would allow.’