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 is an old house.” Swinging around, he stood and stalked to the window to get a better sense of the thickness of the walls. Thick. Head rising, he pictured the front facade—of this house, and the one that abutted it, and the one beyond that.
He turned back to the table, caught Letitia’s gaze. “This isn’t a new London town house. It’s a very old house that’s been divided into three. It is of the vintage where secret passages and entrances were de rigueur.”
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 God!” Her voice was weak; she literally felt the blood drain from her face.
“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.”