They met as arranged, delighting Gasthorpe and his staff, who were feeling rather redundant with so little to do.
Tea and ginger biscuits appeared in the library where Christian, Letitia, and Tristan gathered; the “no females beyond the front parlor” rule was long dead. While Letitia poured, Christian outlined for Tristan what they’d learned from Justin and Hermione, how the events on the night of the murder now appeared, and briefly detailed their meeting with Dalziel.
He’d barely finished when a familiar heavy knock sounded on the front door. A moment later Gasthorpe entered to announce, “Mr. Dalziel.”
A misnomer if ever there was one; they may not know his name, yet of one thing they were certain—Dalziel was one of them.
He walked in, his eyes briefly meeting theirs. He exchanged nods with Letitia, accepted a cup and saucer from her, then she handed the rest of the cups around and they sat and got down to business.
Dalziel spoke first. “I contacted the Bow Street magistrate in charge of the case. He and his minions are convinced Justin did the deed. A warrant for his arrest has indeed been sworn, and a runner, Barton, has been assigned to hunt him down.”
Letitia grimaced but didn’t comment—to the relief of all three men.
Christian quickly, succinctly, listed the facts they knew, establishing the likelihood that Randall was killed by someone he knew, most likely a friend, who’d visited the study between Letitia leaving it and Justin entering.
“It sounds as if he expected his killer.” Tristan glanced at Letitia. “Just to cover the obvious, have you checked his diary?”
Letitia shook her head. “He didn’t keep one.”
Christian frowned. “Not at all? No address book even?”
“Nothing. I don’t know how he managed, but he kept all that sort of thing in his head.”
Dalziel raised his brows. “Not so hard if you don’t have many friends.”
“He must have had some,” Christian said. “We need to learn who.”
“We need to make a list.” Tristan rose and, taking his cup, went to sit at the library desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper, checked the pen, then dipped it in the ink pot. “Friends.” He wrote. “Need to identify.” He looked down at his handiwork. “I’ll ask around the clubs. Given I’m in no way connected with the Vaux, I might learn more than you.” He looked at Christian.
“I’ll see what I can learn via other avenues,” Dalziel put in.
Tristan and Christian exchanged a glance, but forebore to ask what other avenues their ex-commander had in mind.
“With any luck,” Letitia said, “once he’s had time to think of it, Justin might, by the time he reaches here, have remembered something more.”
“That covers the direct approach,” Dalziel said. “For the indirect, what do we know of Randall himself—his background, family?” He looked at Letitia.
She met his gaze. A long moment passed, then she pulled a face. “You’re not going to believe it—in hindsight it seems quite amazing—but I know of no family. None. As for his background…” She raised a helpless hand. “I know our man of business looked into his financial state before our marriage, but other than that…he was educated, well-presented, was established in our circles, was wealthy and personable enough.” She paused, sipped. “I suppose we saw no reason to look further.”
“So…” Dalziel’s voice had grown softer—more intent. “No family known, no school, no university, no connections known.” He raised his brows, met Christian’s gaze. “Our man becomes more and more of a mystery.”
Tristan had been frowning. “Place of birth?”
Letitia shook her head. “Not even that.” She paused, then added, “I can’t even tell you which county he hailed from—he never said, never even dropped a clue that I recall.”
Dalziel looked at Tristan, who obediently dipped the pen and started writing. “So we’ve lots more to learn about Randall’s personal background.” He switched his gaze to Letitia. “What about his financial background? He was wealthy, so where did his money come from? Was he involved in any schemes—investments, developments? You mentioned your family’s man of business had checked earlier.”
She nodded. “I’m sure he’ll have some of those answers, at least as things were eight years ago.”
Christian caught Dalziel’s eye. “If we want to investigate Randall’s finances we should use Montague.”
Dalziel nodded.
“Heathcote Montague,” Letitia stated, “and his father before him, have always handled the Vaux family affairs—it was he who looked into Randall’s financial state.”
“Perfect.” Dalziel set down his empty cup. “We can rely on Montague to ferret out whatever there is to find in Randall’s financial dealings.”
Tristan was busily scribbling. Christian said, “I’ll go and see Montague.”
“I’ll come, too.” Letitia reached for a ginger biscuit. “He’ll want my permission before he speaks of Vaux family business.”
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.”
“I’ll check with the butler,” Christian said. “He should know.”
Dalziel nodded. “So as far as we can see at present, motive appears to be the most usual, and most obvious—money. In some way or form.”
He glanced around, but no one disagreed.
“So we need to learn who stands to profit from Randall’s death.”
“Even better,” Christian said, “who profits from Randall’s death now.”
“True.” Dalziel nodded. “If money’s the motive, there’s likely some reason he was killed at that time.”
“At that meeting between associates.” Tristan looked up from scanning his list. “So when will we meet again?”
They discussed who would do what, when, and decided to reconvene in two days’ time.
Letitia rose, pulling on her gloves. “Justin should be in London by then, so we’ll be able to see if anything we learn means something more to him.”
“Meanwhile”—Dalziel straightened his long legs and got to his feet—“while we all have our avenues to pursue, the most pertinent aspect is—”
“Who stood to benefit from Randall’s sudden death.” Letitia nodded regally to Dalziel and Tristan. “Gentlemen—I’ll see you in two days.”
She turned to the door and Christian, who struggled to hide a grin; if Dalziel had thought he would be in charge, he was fast learning otherwise. She arched a brow at him. “I thought to go and see Montague tomorrow morning.”
He nodded. “I’ll call for you at ten.”
Airily she replied, “I’ll see you then. My aunts and their families are dining in South Audley Street tonight—I must oversee the preparations.”
With a graceful inclination of her head that included them all, she swept to the door.
Christian inwardly debated, but in the end let her go. Given the upheaval of the last days, a little time apart might be wise.
They met again the next morning, and journeyed into the city, to Heathcote Montague’s office within a stone’s throw of the Bank of England.
Christian had sent a note the previous afternoon. Montague was waiting, ready to greet them—to express his condolences to Letitia and bow to Christian.
He ushered them into his office, waited until they’d settled in the chairs before his massive desk, then he sat in the chair behind it and opened the file box that waited on his blotter. “Dreadful business, but I understand there’s some question about your late husband’s finances.”
“Indeed.” Letitia set her reticule in her lap and waved at Christian beside her. “You may speak freely before Lord Dearne.”
“Excellent. Well, I looked up the research I did on Mr. Randall at the time of your marriage, my lady. Eight years ago, I admit I was still in my father’s shadow somewhat, but all the relevant issues”—he studied a document he extracted from the box—“appear to have been covered. Since then, of course, I haven’t had reason to inquire into Mr. Randall’s finances—he wasn’t a client of mine.” He glanced at them. “What is it you wanted to know?”
Letitia glanced at Christian, a clear invitation to lead the questioning.
“I understand,” he said, looking at Montague, “that Randall was very wealthy at the time of his marriage. From where did that wealth derive?”
Montague briefly glanced at the contents of his box. “Ah, yes, here it is—a very sound fortune consisting primarily of conservative financial instruments of one sort or another, holdings in the funds, and some very solid investments.”
Christian nodded. “But where did Randall’s money initially come from? The seed capital, as it were? By your account, at the time of his marriage he had large sums of money sitting in various deposits—but where did he get that money in the first place?”
Montague blinked. For the first time in all the years Christian had known him, he appeared at a loss—momentarily. Then he frowned and delved back into his box. “That’s a very good question….” He eventually unearthed a sheet of paper. Straightening his glasses, he read it. His frown deepened. “I understood—well, assumed in the face of nothing speaking to the contrary—that it came from his family?” He directed a questioning look at Christian.
Who shook his head. “For various reasons—including that we know of no family—that doesn’t seem likely. Ton or gentry, a family with that level of wealth would have been more widely known. Do you have any information on his family and background?”
Montague now looked troubled. He went back into the box and came up with another document. “Randall attended Hexham Grammar School. I didn’t do the search for his birth certificate myself, but I have it recorded that he hailed from Hexham.” Lowering the sheet, he looked at Christian. “Given he went to the grammar school—I believe it has an excellent reputation—I assume that means the family has, or had, a certain social and financial standing.”
“Normally that’s true, but there are exceptions.” Christian glanced at Letitia, who was as puzzled as Montague. “Randall may have attended the school on a scholarship. Many larger grammar schools have such things.”
He looked at Montague. “Clearly we need to dig much deeper into Randall’s background, but at least you’ve given us a place to start—Hexham Grammar School. We’ll follow that up, but we have an even more urgent need to learn of his current financial state. We need to know of any recent activities, where his money was at the time of his death, where his income derived from, if he was involved in any scheme, any development, whether he’d gone into business in any way whatever, whether he’d made any unusual transactions in recent days—in short, every possible detail of his recent life that had anything to do with money.”
Montague looked at them, then beamed. “You’ve come to the right place.”
“Well,” Christian said as the hackney they’d hailed rumbled out of the city, “that certainly confirms Dalziel’s observation—the more we learn of your late husband, the more a man of mystery he becomes.”
Letitia frowned. “I’m not at all thrilled to discover how very little I knew of him. It seems rather bizarre in hindsight, but…well, I suppose we all took him at face value.”
“I’m surprised your father—if not your aunts—didn’t demand to know all about his family.”
Letitia grimaced. “They probably did, but that would have been after we were married, and Papa would just have scowled, growled and told them to go away. He asked Montague to check Randall’s finances—that, after all, was the point of the marriage—but as for family…as I said, Randall was perfectly presentable, and in the prevailing circumstances, not to say panic, his ancestors were a great deal less relevant.”
After a moment of trying to imagine it, Christian asked, “What about the wedding? He must have had family or friends there—a groomsman at least.”
But Letitia shook her head. “We were married very priva
tely, here in town. Justin was his groomsman.” She grimaced. “That was mostly my doing. It was a travesty of a marriage—it seemed appropriate it commence with a travesty of a wedding. Randall wasn’t concerned. The story we put about was that it was an out-and-out love match and we were so urgent to tie the knot we wouldn’t wait for a big wedding to be organized.”
“That must have gone down well with your aunts.”
“Not to mention all our many connections. But by the time they learned of it, all was done and finished. They grumbled a bit, but…” She shrugged.
Christian studied her expression, serene now, but he could imagine what she must have felt—a lady of her nature, and a Vaux besides—to make do with such, as she’d termed it, a travesty of a wedding. It would have been the antithesis of her dreams.
He made a mental note—a vow—for later. If he got the chance. If she gave him the chance.
The hackney swayed as it turned into Trafalgar Square, reminding him of their unexpected destination. He frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re so keen to share this with Dalziel immediately.”
She was peering out of the window. “Because he might well have contacts in Hexham who can make inquiries at the grammar school.”
He frowned. “Do you know that he does?”
“No. I suspect that he might.” She turned her head and met his gaze. “Let’s just go and tell him and see.”
Dalziel’s clerk looked up as they entered. He didn’t wait to be asked but immediately rose and went to tap on Dalziel’s door. He was back in seconds to bow them into his master’s presence.
Immersed in paperwork, Dalziel signed a sheet, then rose. Once Letitia sat, he subsided again and fixed her with a patently false mild look. “Yes?”
Without embellishment, she related what they’d learned from Montague. “So, you see, the place we need to start asking questions about Randall’s family is in Hexham.” She fixed Dalziel with a pointed look. “I thought you might know how to make inquiries there without Christian having to travel all that way.”