The Scoundrel’s Deadly Deed, page 20
Damien grimaced. “We argued over my mother’s papers. Evans thought I was wealthy after my mother’s death and that I could afford to finance the shop entirely. I told him I had nothing but the land and expected him to pay his fair share. He’d been drinking, and it became apparent he didn’t have the funds he’d told me he could summon. I won’t deal with drunks. We argued. He stormed out.”
Rafe nodded. “Evans’ horse was gone Wednesday night. He didn’t attend the funeral of Mrs. Sutter on Thursday, but after the funeral, Mr. Sutter got hit on the head and had his keys stolen. Thursday night, while I was out at the camp questioning folk, the Morgan lad came riding in to say the Sutter’s farm was being robbed. Mr. Sutter rode out with the lad, and they caught Evans ransacking the property. He’s been locked up since then.”
“So, it is not impossible that Mr. Evans could have shot Mrs. Sutter and pushed the earl in the river?” Hunt asked.
“What?” Evans shot up from the witness chair. “What do you think I am? All I want to do is start a boot factory. I’m a successful businessman. Why the devil would I kill a woman and an earl I never met?”
The preacher actually beamed, an evil beam, perhaps, but definitely a different expression than his usual morose one. “You hoped Mr. Sutter’s mother would leave him the property free and clear and perhaps leave him funds to finance your factory! And you knew the earl was offering for the property, and you wanted him out of the way.”
The great hall broke out in excited chatter.
“You’re supposed to be defense, not prosecution,” Damien said in exasperation as the audience grew louder.
Rafe rolled his eyes and roared, “Enough! We’re not hanging anyone ’cause they mighta, coulda done. Anyone got proof that Evans went anywhere either of those days? Because his nag stayed right there in the stable until late Wednesday evening.”
“The river is walking distance,” Johnson helpfully pointed out, undeterred by his presumed position of defense. “Your stable houses many horses. He could have borrowed one. And you said yourself, you weren’t there most of the time. Evans could have ridden off and back and you’d not have known.”
And the rifle they’d found could only belong to someone who had funds and access to the latest weaponry. Having worked for the military, that would be Evans. Rafe still thought the notion far-fetched.
Even the earl and duke frowned, until Damien stepped into the fray. “Evans, tell them what you were doing Tuesday afternoon when my mother died and Wednesday afternoon when the Earl of Weston was shoved into the river.”
The businessman sank back into his chair and rubbed his stubbled jaw as if in pain. “I lost everything when the boot factory went under. I’m in debt to men who are bleeding me dry. My family left me. This opportunity was my only hope.”
“And you thought I was green enough to let you bleed me dry in return?” Damien asked in derision.
“I wasn’t thinking about anything except getting on my feet again.” Unable to face anyone, Evans studied his polished boots. “While you were off visiting the camp, I found your father’s deeds and some of your papers and copied your signature. I thought with the deeds in hand, I could talk someone into loaning me the funds I needed to start up again. I rode back to Stratford Wednesday night and spent Thursday going from bank to investors, looking for funds. Without numbers to prove I could be successful, I was refused. So, I risked my life riding back that same evening, in the dark, to go over the books I’d seen in the shoe shop office, hoping to put together a list of buyers and suppliers and manufacture some financial papers.”
Rafe glanced up at the captain. “We can verify that with the bank, can’t we?”
Hunt nodded and waited for Damien to take up the reins again. Johnson just slumped against the table, unable to attack a man who had few morals but no apparent connection to anyone but Damien.
Damien glanced to the audience. “Weston, did Evans at any time attempt to ask you about investing in his factory?”
The earl didn’t bother standing. He just bowed his noble head of thick dark hair in acknowledgment of the question. “I had our steward make inquiries about your property and make an offer. Evans became aware of it and wrote to him. Our financial man discouraged us from investing in a bankrupt who wanted to run a boot factory.”
Damien winced but didn’t question further. Rafe was beginning to see that owning property and possessing funds meant toying with the lives of others, whether or not one intended the consequences. The path to riches required one to develop a thick skin and a hard heart. He was almost glad he had nothing.
Damien paced up and down, obviously unhappy. “At his own admission, we have Mr. Evans for drunkenness, theft, forgery, assault, and potential fraud, but he had no motive for murder. I’d advise holding him until all matters are resolved, but you’re the magistrate.”
“Would pummeling Evans for hitting you over the head suffice as punishment?” Hunt asked in amusement.
Damien eagerly looked up, then glanced back at the women in the audience, and shook his head. “As much as I’d like to plant him a facer, laying him flat won’t teach him anything. He did no more than muddy waters.”
“Just displayed his selfish wickedness,” Johnson said bitterly. “This is how rich people advance, not any noble use of their brilliant abilities.”
Deciding if everyone was allowed to speak, he could, Rafe took Evans’s arm to lead him away. “I’ve seen half the world,” he told the preacher. “The rich don’t have a corner on selfishness and evildoing. People are people, no matter what clothes they wear. They come in good and bad and everything in between.”
What mattered most to Rafe was his wife’s eyes gleaming proudly as he led the prisoner away. Verity was a learned lady who had suffered at the hands of a real villain. She knew right from wrong. If she approved of what he said, then he wasn’t doing too badly.
Evans yanked his arm free and eyed the door—but the captain’s large cousins blocked the exit. The prisoner wilted into the corner Rafe shoved him into. Rafe left Fletch, his brawny silent partner, guarding him. The war had left his friend with wounds no one could see. Fletch’s massive fists would floor Evans without compunction.
The skinny preying mantis of a financier was next. Maybe they ought to let Brydie interrogate the insect. Obviously realizing who came next, she glowered as if she’d eat the man alive.
Thirty-two
Brydie
Lady Elsa, the manor’s cook, arrived with servants to deliver trays of crumpets and tea, offering a break to the tense morning. To Brydie’s surprise, Kate and Lynly entered, followed by Jacques. Eyes wide at the spectacle of the great hall, the valet positioned himself in the draperies where he wouldn’t easily be noticed. Kate and Lynly took a sofa and Brydie joined them.
“Why are you here?” she whispered, ignoring the tea to take her niece on her lap and hug her. “It’s Saturday. I thought you’d be at home with the boys.”
“Arthur is helping the curate finish the coffin, and Rob is in the schoolroom, working on some project with Mr. Birdwhistle. Lynly is feeling much better, and we wanted to see what happens with Mr. Terwilliger. Jacques didn’t know if he’d have to testify, and he was wearing himself out pacing, so we asked him to come along as our escort. Can Terwilliger be sent to assizes for a failed kidnapping?” Kate anxiously watched the gentlemen gathering around Hunt.
“He didn’t exactly fail. He stole the trunk with Lynly in it and knew it.” Brydie handed her niece a biscuit from one of the trays being passed around. “And he stole valuable certificates. Hunt will have to send him to assizes and let the judges decide. The problem is that we don’t have any evidence to tie any of the prisoners to murder. Damien is vexed.”
“He’s looking a little worn. This has to be hard on him. You mean Mr. Butler didn’t kill Mrs. Sutter?” Kate asked.
Kate had always been fond of the Sutter brothers. Did her comment indicate she was seeing Damien anew? Now that they all understood about Arthur, perhaps there was hope Damien might stay? Kate was sturdy and stubborn enough to survive on her own, but she had children. She really needed a man’s support to keep a roof over her family’s heads, and the children needed a father.
Brydie would simply have to move to the inn if they married.
She redirected her thoughts to the front. “Unless Damien can prove everyone is lying about Butler’s eyesight, and maybe come up with witnesses saying he carried a fancy rifle, I’m afraid we’ll never know what happened to Mrs. Sutter.”
Brydie feared a tired Damien would eventually give in to his temper, but she was thoroughly impressed by his ability to winkle information out of the culprits in an orderly fashion. “And they really haven’t even started on who would want to push the earl into the river. This could be a long day.”
“We’ll just stay to see about Terwilliger,” Kate assured her.
“I want the quilt back,” Lynly protested. “Can’t Mr. Sutter let me have the quilt?”
Brydie hid a smile as her sister tried to hush her. Kate didn’t understand why her daughter was so insistent on the quilts. They’d have to rescue them from Damien after Jacques opened all the blocks. The quilts contained finer fabric than any in their basket. They just needed washing.
The audience settled down after Lady Elsa and the servants swept out with the trays and Rafe returned with the last prisoner.
Lynly cowered in Brydie’s arms as Rafe and the Comte Arnaud Lavigne, Hunt’s artist cousin, marched the financier to the front of the great hall. Graying hair, gray coat, unshaven gray stubble, too scrawny to fight, Terwilliger didn’t appear dangerous. That Rafe had found it necessary to ask the count, instead of a servant, to help with an old man must mean the prisoner had tried to escape. Running away did seem to be his habit.
“Since you are familiar with the suspect, perhaps you would like to question Mr. Terwilliger first, Mr. Johnson?” Damien suggested courteously, leaning against the table as the preacher had done earlier.
“About what?” Johnson didn’t appear to be happy with his place in the court. “I have no notion of his misdeeds. He dealt with Mrs. Butler. She understood filthy lucre better than I ever did.”
Brydie really thought the preacher made the best suspect. Was Damien trying to lead him into admitting guilt—at least in the attempt on the earl’s life?
Damien shrugged and straightened up. “Mr. Harlan Terwilliger of Birmingham?”
“Aye,” the older man answered in suspicion.
“And you make your living doing what?”
“Helping gentlefolk to invest their earnings for a better future,” he said promptly.
“And in what ways do you help them to invest?” Damien asked in boredom.
A deceptively bored Damien was a dangerous one, Brydie knew. She hugged Lynly and set her back on the cushions between them as a precaution. Kate would protect her youngest. Brydie was as large as half the men in here, and with her hands free, she could guard her family.
“I help people buy into prosperous companies that pay them dividends while the value of their investment increases. What does it matter what I do?” Terwilliger’s gnarled fingers rubbed at the arm of the chair he’d been placed in.
“I’m asking the questions, sir. You are saying that you’ll take money from the likes of Johnson here, or Mrs. Sutter Butler, and give them pieces of paper in return?”
“Those certificates are receipts. All their shares are properly recorded with the company, their bank, and in my broker’s books. There isn’t anyone can say I’ve ever turned a dishonest dime!”
The preacher frowned but obviously had no more understanding than Brydie. Why wasn’t Damien questioning the insect about Lynly’s kidnapping and the theft of the quilts? Jacques was right over there. Shouldn’t Damien be calling witnesses to name Terwilliger as the guilty party? She waited for enlightenment.
Damien paced a few steps back and forth as he formed his questions. “No one is questioning your honesty. I simply wish the court to understand your business. Let us say Mrs. Sutter came to you with those receipts, as you call them, and asked you to sell them. Could you do that?”
“Of course, it’s a commonplace transaction. I write to the company and the bank holding their books, and we consult the brokerage for the current market rate, and the bank issues a note for the value, all proper and aboveboard, I assure you.”
The ladies in the audience rustled restlessly, leaning over to whisper among themselves. They’d all thought this case would be a quick one. Everyone knew he’d kidnapped Lynly and stolen the certificates, after all.
“And you earn your money by taking a percentage of those sales and purchases, correct?” Damien returned to leaning against the table, arms crossed, staring absently over the audience.
Where was he going with this? Was attempted kidnapping and attempted theft not enough to convict the prisoner? Brydie gnawed at a fingernail, knowing Damien must have something in mind.
“People pay for my knowledge, otherwise they wouldn’t have no idea how these things work. Noblemen and bankers are my clients. I’m well respected in the business. Mrs. Sutter was right to come to me to sell off some of her investments when she needed funds.”
Having never had money to invest, Brydie had little comprehension, but it seemed to her it would be easier to go to the bank or company directly. She was obviously naïve.
Of course. . . Banks didn’t like to do business with women. But Terwilliger would? Now Brydie caught a glimpse of where this was headed—Damien wasn’t just seeking Lynly’s kidnapper.
“But Mrs. Sutter didn’t just sell old investments, did she? We’ve heard testimony that she bought new ones as well. Were they doing well?” Damien feigned interest in the reply. Brydie could see his knuckles whitening. He couldn’t beat up an old man physically, but the university had apparently taught him verbal means.
“They were, they were,” Terwilliger said nervously. “She had a sharp mind about her. Always a pleasure working with her.”
“And she kept those certificates, didn’t place them in bank boxes or anything?”
The brooding preacher narrowed his black eyes at this question but stayed silent.
The financier nervously bobbed his balding head. “I had no notion what she did with the paper. Most people leave them with us or a solicitor or the bank and just collect their dividends, but she always had the certificates for the ones she wanted to sell on hand, and I gave her the ones she bought, plus banknotes for her dividends, all legal. She didn’t much trust anyone, including banks.”
“If I take those certificates to a bank or brokerage, will they give me full value?”
Brydie bit back a gasp. He thought his inheritance was fraudulent?
“If they’re the ones I gave her, most certainly. What are you insinuating, lad? I am an honest man.” The financier attempted to look indignant.
“An honest man does not steal certificates and kidnap little girls,” Damien replied scornfully. “At what point did my mother decide you weren’t as honest as she believed?”
Terwilliger pushed out of his chair, red-faced. “That’s not true! She never said a word against me, never!”
The audience gasped. Brydie clenched her fists in preparation for anything.
Despite his red hair, Rafe had no temper. At twice the old man’s size, he easily returned the prisoner to his chair. “One more outburst, and I’ll tie you down.”
An audible sigh of relief swept the room.
“Perhaps Mrs. Butler asked you to sell some of her investments so she could move back home?” Damien suggested, taking a new line of questioning, although Brydie couldn’t see where this one led.
Miss Butler, however, made a muffled noise. The half-blind spinster heard things. Brydie leaned over her chair back and whispered, “Is there something you should tell them?”
Bespectacled, faded, and wrinkled with hardship, the prim maid wrung her hands and shook her head. “It’s not mine to say. I don’t know if I should. . .”
Wanting Terwilliger locked up, Brydie didn’t hesitate. She rose and instantly drew Damien’s attention. Another time, she’d be flattered that he noticed. For now, she wanted justice. “Miss Butler heard almost everything that happened in that caravan. Perhaps you should call on her again?”
Damien’s eyes had darkened to angry green, but he turned to the older woman and bowed respectfully. “If you would be more comfortable remaining where you are, Miss Butler, could you add anything to our knowledge?”
She rubbed her gloved hands in her skirt, wrinkling it, then hesitantly stood. “Meg cried a lot after she heard of her son’s death. She wanted to go home, so Tom brought her here, told her there wasn’t nothin’ here. But when we got here, she still insisted she wanted to go home, to see her younger son. She and Tom had a row. She wasn’t always reasonable when in a snit. Mr. Terwilliger was there, and she brangled with him, too, ordering him to sell some stocks. He told her prices were down, that she shouldn’t sell any, that she didn’t need funds if she owned the land. She said it was her money, and she wanted to fix things right with her only son, that he’d handle her investments if Mr. Terwilliger wouldn’t.”
Brydie bit back a gasp. A whisper of speculation floated around the room. Damien looked pained. She wished she could hug him, help him understand that just because his mother suddenly felt guilty about abandoning him, none of this was his fault. . .
Meg had a temper—as did Damien. Brydie watched him almost visibly close up. He’d learned to control his anger, not necessarily for the good if it created a powder keg. She studied him warily for signs of explosion.
