An Unsuitable Heir Read online

  “This is absurd,” Mr. Conyers said. “Mr. Phineas was not in a public house brawl!”

  “Didn’t say he was,” Mark said calmly. “And I could be wrong about all of it. But he’s dead, fully dressed, with bloodshot eyes, so if you ask me we need to bring the police in right now, and get a doctor too. Someone go and send—”

  “Oh, heavens,” mumbled Ponsonby. “Mr. Desmond, sir.”

  Pen turned, and saw Desmond enter, leaning on his cane. Mark rose from the body. Pen stepped back, out of the way, biting back his first urge to offer sympathy. Desmond shuffled to the centre of the room and stared down at his son’s body. The silence in the room was so absolute that Pen could hear his own blood pounding in his ears, Desmond’s harsh breaths, nothing more.

  “My son,” Desmond panted. “My son. What—what—”

  “Ponsonby, please leave us, and send for the police,” Mr. Hapgood said, with a nod of dismissal to the maid Pomona. Greta gave her a hug and released her. “I believe this is a family matter.”

  The butler walked over to Desmond and put a hand over his on the head of his cane, murmuring something. Desmond pressed his lips together. Condolences, Pen assumed, the kind that Desmond would doubtless reject from his niece and nephews. The servants departed together, closing the door after them, leaving the family, Mark, the lawyer, and Mr. Conyers.

  “What happened to my son?” Desmond asked again. “How did he come to this?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Desmond,” Mr. Hapgood said. “He was found in this most tragic condition. It is my duty to suggest, sir, that the police must be called.”

  “Police,” Desmond repeated. “Why?”

  “A suspicion has been raised of foul play.”

  Desmond’s mouth worked. He looked aged, toothless, ruined. “Foul—Murder. You mean my son was murdered?”

  “Mr. Braglewicz has raised a question—”

  There was a sharp rap on the door, and Ponsonby opened it with a frozen look. “I beg your pardon. A Mr. Lazarus has arrived from London—”

  “At this hour?” said Pen incredulously.

  “—demanding to speak with Mr. Braglewicz. May I—”

  Justin Lazarus ducked under his arm. Ponsonby made an outraged noise; Mr. Hapgood shook his head and waved him out.

  Lazarus looked crumpled, worn, and very much like he hadn’t slept, which would hardly be surprising for a man who’d come down from London and reached Crowmarsh this early.

  “What are you up to?” Mark demanded.

  “Gentlemen, Miss Starling, forgive the intrusion,” Lazarus said. “Mr. Hapgood—Oh God, who’s that on the floor?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Lazarus,” Mr. Hapgood said quellingly. “You must know that the house has suffered a tragedy. Mr. Desmond has lost his son under tragic and unexplained circumstances.”

  “Murder!” Desmond said. “My son was murdered.”

  “Was he now,” Lazarus said. “Who—”

  Desmond ignored him, turning on Pen. “You did this. You.”

  “What?” Pen said blankly.

  “Mr. Desmond. Please.”

  Desmond raised a shaking hand. “My son threatened to expose you and you—”

  “No, he didn’t,” Mark said. “Don’t start that.”

  “Can Lord Moreton supply an alibi?” Mr. Conyers said.

  Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Braglewicz, you suggested that Mr. Phineas’s death resembled that from a punch in a fight,” Mr. Conyers said. “I only know one man in this house who had both compelling reason and sufficient physical strength to strike such a blow. We all heard that exchange yesterday. Lord Moreton, I think I must ask if you are able to account for your whereabouts last night.”

  Pen was momentarily voiceless, as in a nightmare. Everyone was staring at him, with eyes that seemed to him filled with hate, horror, accusation, fear. “I did not,” he managed. “I’ve barely hit anyone in my life. I never touched him.”

  “I say again, can you prove that?”

  “Of course he can’t prove a negative. And you’re wrong, anyway,” Tim said. “I had almost as much reason to want to hit Phineas as Pen did. Greta and I are getting married; of course I didn’t want Phineas prosecuting my brother-in-law on a lot of rotten spiteful trumped-up charges.”

  “How dare you,” Desmond rasped. “How dare you.”

  Tim flushed. “I’m sorry, Uncle. But it’s true, and it’s not fair to turn on Pen like this.”

  “I never laid a finger on him,” Pen said. “Never.” He could feel cold sweat forming.

  “Mr. Lazarus told us of a number of deaths,” Mr. Conyers said, slowly. “The man Potter with whom you grew up—we heard of that in Norfolk. The man Lugtrout who kept evidence of your father’s secret. Even your father himself, my unfortunate employer, whose death has been considered doubtful. So many deaths, and they all benefit one man.”

  “You,” Greta said. “Shut your lying mouth.”

  “I didn’t want the earldom,” Pen said. “I never did.”

  Desmond made a noise of disgust. One of the many rows had been on the topic of Pen’s disingenuous and absurd pretence not to want the glory of a title and estate. Desmond wanted it far too much to believe that anyone would not.

  “These are the gravest possible accusations, Mr. Conyers.” Mr. Hapgood’s eyes flicked between the tall man and Pen.

  “I don’t make accusations,” Mr. Conyers said. “I simply state facts. If the statement of facts sounds like an accusation…well, perhaps it might, to a tender conscience.”

  Pen couldn’t speak. He could see this unspooling: a series of deaths that had to be explained and such an obvious explanation for them. Every death had been to his advantage if he’d wanted this bloody title, and nobody would believe he hadn’t. How could he possibly persuade a stolid jury of unimaginative Englishmen to understand what his lover and his sister had found so hard to believe?

  I have an alibi, he wanted to say. Mark was with me all night. But what kind of alibi would that be when it involved the admission of unlawful affections? It wasn’t only that he’d drag Mark down; nobody would take his word seriously anyway.

  The calculating look in Mark’s eyes suggested he was thinking along the same lines. “I’m always up for a statement of facts, mate,” he remarked to Conyers, “but you’ve left out a few. Like, Pen nearly getting killed here twice, and the evidence we found of someone concealing themselves upstairs.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Conyers demanded along with Mr. Hapgood.

  “A lot of nonsense and invention. Phineas—” Desmond’s voice cracked. “Phineas said it was lies. And now my son is dead on this floor.” His voice cracked with anguish. “My son, left there like a carcass—”

  “It’s best not to move him until the police arrive,” Tim said. “Shall I get a blanket?”

  “The police must take charge,” Mr. Hapgood said, and the way his gaze travelled over Pen said everything. “We must place the matter in their hands. It would be inappropriate to speculate as to the motive for this dreadful act—”

  “Oh, that’s obvious,” Lazarus said, the words loud and clear. “I expect he refused to pay up.”

  There was a silent, stunned second, then an explosion of voices.

  “What does he mean?” Desmond demanded over the rest.

  “Pay up for what?” Greta asked at the same time.

  “Oh, for getting rid of Lord Moreton here.” Lazarus gave Pen a little nod.

  “What?” Mr. Hapgood yelped.

  “How dare you,” Desmond rasped. “How dare you slander my son over his body?”

  “An outrage,” Mr. Conyers said, fingers curling. “Sir—”

  “You want to explain, Mystic Martha?” Mark suggested.

  “I’d love to,” Lazarus said. “You know of course that Messrs. Hapgood, Conyers, and I all came down from Norfolk together yesterday. These two came on here. I went home, where Clem got hold of me, and told me about the
attempts on Pen, Lord Moreton’s life.”

  “The so-called attempts—” Desmond began.

  “Sssh, now,” Lazarus said, kindly but firmly, and to Pen’s astonishment, Desmond shushed. “Yes, very odd. A stone dropped on his head when all the family were accounted for, someone trying to stifle him in the night but no bruises on anyone’s wrists. And then I got Mark’s letter about the possibility that someone might have come into the house on New Year’s Day and concealed themselves in here. And we made a list of events, and you see, I noticed something.”

  “What?” said at least three people.

  “Well. As I said, Mr. Hapgood and Mr. Conyers had been in Norfolk for several days, verifying the evidence of Pen’s birth. And while we were there Mr. Conyers was taken ill, with an embarrassing complaint. He stayed with a lady friend of his acquaintance—I’m sure you don’t mind me mentioning that, Mr. Conyers—communicating by notes, from New Year’s Day until the next Saturday, by when he was recovered. You look well now, Mr. Conyers.”

  “Thank you, I am.”

  “As well as though you were never sick at all.”

  “Mr. Lazarus, are you implying something?” Mr. Hapgood asked.

  “I don’t need implication; I’ve got telegrams.” Lazarus smiled, not pleasantly. “I sent to a legal friend of mine up in Diss yesterday, Mr. Conyers, and he went and asked your lady friend a few questions about your stay there and do you know what, she fell apart like a house of cards. Not right away, of course. She made an effort. But once he started using words like accomplice and accessory, well, it turned out she wasn’t as devoted as you imagined. Or maybe you should have paid her more.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Conyers said. “What do you mean?”

  “She sent notes for you, from you, and pretended you were still in Norfolk unable to leave your chamber pot, and meanwhile you came down here to kill,” Lazarus said, with terrible calm. “You came here to get rid of Pen Starling and failed twice. You went back to Norfolk to establish you’d been there all along. And then you came here again with Mr. Hapgood and, what, argued with Phineas about how much another go would cost him? Lost your temper when he told you no?”

  “This is arrant nonsense,” Mr. Conyers said. “This man is a habitual fraud.”

  “And how would you know that, except that you broke into my house?” Lazarus said. “Broke in, nearly caught me—I’d have placed your voice in a heartbeat if it hadn’t been for the fog—and then you came back, and the second time you caught Frankie there. He didn’t know a fucking thing and he was seventeen years old. You murdering cunt.”

  “And Conyers knows this house well, and did Edmund’s business,” Mark said. “Nice work, Justin. How about we have a look at your wrists, mate?”

  Conyers moved with staggering speed. He looped his arm around Greta’s neck, dragging her backward down the room, and drawing a revolver from his coat with his other hand. Pen and Tim cried out. Greta snarled, struggled, stopped abruptly as the muzzle touched her skin.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Lazarus said.

  “Shut your damned mouth or I’ll shut it for you, you thieving swine,” Conyers said through his teeth.

  “Like you shut Frankie up?” Lazarus asked. “I’ll see you dead for that, Mr. Conyers. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Let Greta go,” Pen said. “Let her go now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Conyers said savagely. “This family owes me and I will have my due.”

  “Pretty sure you got your due,” Mark said, with a calm Pen couldn’t even imagine achieving. He moved, so casually it was almost a saunter, as he spoke. Conyers bared his teeth and dug the gun into Greta’s temple; Mark stopped. “So, what, Edmund paid you to shut up the clergyman and it all ran out of control. Edmund started to crack, and you thought you’d blackmail him while the going was good. Was it you killed him? He was losing his mind with guilt and fear. Were you afraid he’d talk?”

  Conyers gave a vicious smile. “You can stop your attempts at distraction. I am leaving with the trollop. I’ll give her back when you pay me the five thousand pounds I’m owed. If you try to stop me, or set the police on me, I’m afraid Lady Regret will suffer the consequences.”

  “You can have it now.” Pen came forward, hands up. “I’ll write you a banker’s draft, Mr. Hapgood will make it watertight, but let her go now.”

  “I’m not such a fool,” Conyers said. “She’ll come with me. I’m sure the thought of the pleasant time we’ll have will keep you up to the mark.”

  Tim made an animal noise. Greta said, “Oh God. Pen, don’t let him hurt me, please. Pen!” Her voice throbbed with panic and she pulled weakly against Conyers’s cruel grip. He jerked her back to him and she let out a high cry.

  “All right, stop that,” Mark said. “Conyers, you need to—”

  Pen roared, the loudest bellow he could manage, hurling himself at Conyers, and in that same split second Greta twisted with supple violence, meaning it this time. Pen collided hard with Conyers, sending him staggering, bounced off, and rolled round in time to see Conyers and Greta struggling. She’d wrenched his gun hand around in the moment of shock; he was forcing her arm back again, but he couldn’t do it quite fast or hard enough.

  “Fucker,” Greta said, and there was a deafening bang.

  Conyers crumpled to the floor, the gun thudding down a few seconds later as Greta leapt away. The room was utterly silent. Pen couldn’t move.

  “My God,” Lazarus said. “As you struggled over the gun, he must have tightened his finger on the trigger. What an appalling accident. Someone get her a cup of tea for the shock.”

  That seemed to break the spell. Tim hurled himself into Greta’s arms, clutching her. Mark came over and knelt for a look at Conyers’s body; Pen scrabbled away, not wanting to see. The pool of blood was spreading.

  “Dead,” Mark said. “Right through the skull. That was a—”

  “Terrible accident,” Lazarus agreed over him. “A divine reckoning, one might even say. An act of Providence.”

  “All right, don’t overdo it,” Mark muttered. “Has someone sent for the police or what?”

  Chapter 14

  It would take the police an hour or so to arrive. The family clustered in the Large Drawing Room to wait. Desmond looked utterly sunken, corpselike; Mr. Hapgood couldn’t stop shaking his head. Greta and Tim held each other’s hands. Pen would have liked it if he could do that too; instead he sat on a chair with Mark standing behind him, hand on his shoulder, warm and steady and right there. Pen put his hand up to touch it briefly, and felt Mark’s fingers flex toward his own.

  “It began with Edmund,” Mark was saying. “Edmund set Clem up in the lodging house to keep an eye on the clergyman Lugtrout; Conyers did the dealing with him. I don’t know how much Edmund told Conyers, but it hardly matters: Lugtrout was too much of a lushington to keep his mouth shut. Lugtrout increased his demands too much, so Edmund gave the order to get the marriage papers off him—”

  “To torture him for them,” Greta said. “Our father ordered a man tortured.”

  “The Earl of Moreton,” Mr. Hapgood said. “Dear heaven, what have we come to?”

  “We don’t know what he thought he ordered,” Mark said. “Might have been just ‘get this dealt with.’ Edmund didn’t seem ready for what came after, and we know Conyers liked hurting people. In any case, he went after Lugtrout, then a chap called Rowley Green, who had the papers by accident. And then, when it all turned bad, I’d guess Conyers realised that Edmund wasn’t to be relied on to keep his mouth shut. I think he killed Edmund, although we’ll never prove it.”

  “Agreed.” Lazarus was wrapped round a cup of coffee as though he was planning to propose to it. “It was in his face when you said it.”

  “But he didn’t disappear,” Mark went on. “He could have slithered off, unsuspected, and instead he came after Erasmus Potter.”

  “Why?” Pen demanded. “Why didn’t he go away?”

 
; “Five thousand pounds,” Mark said. “That was what he’d tried to blackmail Edmund for, and didn’t get; it’s what he demanded for Greta. He thought he was due it and he was going to have it, one way or the other.”

  “But you aren’t due money from a failed attempt at crime,” Pen said.

  “He thought he was going to get it, therefore it was already his, therefore when he didn’t get it, he’d been cheated,” Lazarus said. “A lot of people think like that.”

  There was a slightly awkward silence in which everyone carefully didn’t look at Desmond, then Mark cleared his throat. “In any case, Conyers kept his nose stuck in, I assume with the intention of controlling the evidence of Pen’s birth and making someone pay, somehow. He killed Erasmus to get hold of the doctor’s letter, except Justin had already, uh, obtained it from him, so he went after Justin to get it back—”

  “And caught Frankie, and hurt him, and killed him,” Lazarus said. “He was a useless backstabbing shyster, but he didn’t know anything about this, and Conyers gave him hell’s own death because he was in my house. If my girls had been there—well.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pen said. “I’m so sorry. If I’d done things differently—”

  “The story of my life,” Lazarus said. “It wasn’t your fault. Go on, Mark.”

  “Well, Conyers failed,” Mark said. “He didn’t get the evidence he needed, for all his efforts; we had that. And then Pen was found. And the next thing we know, Phineas had taken Conyers into service.”

  Desmond looked up. His face was dreadful. “Do you—do you say—”

  “I don’t believe Phineas knew anything about this,” Pen said loudly and, he hoped, convincingly. “I don’t. Mr. Lazarus talked about the murders when I first met you all, and Phineas looked as shocked as anyone. I know he wanted you to be earl, Uncle Desmond, and I know he didn’t like me, but I don’t think he’d ever have stooped to crime. Never.”