The men all nodded.
“Which brings us to the connected subject of Randall’s will.” Dalziel cocked a brow at Letitia.
She looked taken aback, then frowned, as did Christian. “Yet more oddity—the funeral was days ago and yet we haven’t heard a word of any will. What is going on?”
The three men exchanged glances.
Christian leaned forward, setting down his cup. “Do you know who Randall’s solicitor was?”
To his relief, Letitia nodded. “Griswade, Griswade, Meecham and Tappit. They’re in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“So,” Tristan said, writing, “they’re on our list to be visited, too.”
Letitia brushed crumbs from her fingers, her expression unimpressed. “I’ll inquire about Randall’s will.”
Christian made a mental note to go with her.
“Right.” Sitting back, Dalziel steepled his fingers. “We’ve avenues to pursue—facts to assemble. What about motive?”
When Letitia raised her brows, Christian elaborated, “Money, power, or passion—Randall will have been killed for one or the other.”
“Or any combination thereof,” Dalziel added.
“Power seems unlikely,” Tristan suggested. “A prime element of power, at least in our world, is influence. If he had no friends…”
“He liked to meet and be seen with powerful people,” Letitia said, “but I never sensed he had any interest in exploiting such acquaintances. In using them for anything.” She frowned. “He just didn’t seem interested in developing such connections.”
Dalziel caught Christian’s eye and shook his head. “The more we learn of George Randall, the less he seems to conform to any recognizable type. For someone who, as I understand it, presented as unremarkable, he seems to have led a highly eccentric existence.”
Christian nodded. “So if power wasn’t involved, then leaving aside the obvious—money—is there any hint this might be a crime of passion?”
Dalziel snorted. “Other than the Vaux being intricately involved?”
Christian’s lips quirked; he inclined his head “Other than that.”
Letitia narrowed her eyes at them both, but her heart wasn’t in her glare. After a moment she said, “I honestly can’t see Randall being involved in any situation that might have given rise to a grand passion in another—not enough for that other, or even someone associated with them, to kill him.”
Dalziel arched a brow. “Are you sure you’re not biased?”
She shot him another look, but shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. It’s not that…” She frowned at the biscuit plate—now empty—then sighed. “Randall wasn’t…well, like us. While I routinely gave thanks for that, he simply didn’t have the same drive.”
They all knew precisely which drive she was referring to, and given her beauty, her unquestionable desirability—her temper notwithstanding—that, too, rated as odd.
Dalziel rubbed his temple. He glanced at Christian. “You see what I mean—this
man, the bits we keep learning of him don’t mesh into any recognizable whole.”
Letitia was still frowning. “Justin might know with more certainty, but I’m almost completely certain Randall never had a mistress—at least not while we were wed. That simply wasn’t where his interests lay.”
“If there’s any long-term connection, it’s likely to be mentioned in his will,” Tristan said, still busily making notes.
“But if his interests didn’t lie in that direction”—Dalziel fixed Letitia with an interrogatory look—“what was his principal focus in life?”
She answered readily. “Business. He was always involved in this or that—even that night, he cried off from a dinner because he wanted to attend to some business.”
Dalziel sat up. “Did he have any business associates?”
Letitia dashed his hopes. “When I say ‘business,’ I mean letters, papers, documents. He was forever in his study poring over some report or proposal. He often worked late into the night, dealing with such things.” She paused, then added, “I think he acted as his own man of business. I never heard of anyone calling who might be such a person.”