Chapter 19
L
eaving his horse at the stables, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, alert even now for an attack, Simon hurried to the main house. It wasn’t until he bounded inside the mansion and the door shut behind him that the fear of attack by Nolles’s men abated. Taking the envelope out from inside his vest, in the black and white tiled foyer, he stared down at it. Should he wake Barnaby? His lips quirked. If he did and the envelope contained nothing but pieces of foolscap, he was going to feel like a damned dunce.
A yawn overtook him. Christ! It was nearly five o’clock in the morning and he was stupid from lack of sleep. Some coffee wouldn’t come amiss, and hoping that someone was stirring in the kitchen, after admitting that he was looking for an excuse to delay opening the damned envelope, he stuffed it back inside his vest and headed in that direction.
Mrs. Spalding, the cook, and a pair of sleepy-eyed scullery maids were busy preparing for the day: a couple of footmen were already seated at a long scrubbed table eating breakfast. The scent of coffee and yeasty bread filled the air, and the welcoming warmth from the massive woodstove and ovens greeted Simon as he stepped into the big kitchen. At the sight of him, as one, the inhabitants stopped what they were doing and gawked at him.
Simon smiled at Mrs. Spalding and asked, “I wonder if I could have some coffee and perhaps some toast served in the breakfast room as soon as possible?”
“Absolutely,” answered Mrs. Spalding, her plump cheeks red from the warmth of the ovens. “I have a nice fresh pot of coffee that just finished perking and some leftover bread from yesterday for toast.” Her eyes twinkling, she added, “There are some hot cross buns already in the oven, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes longer for them to finish baking.”
His mouth watering, Simon nodded. “Hot cross buns! That sounds wonderful.”
Looking at one of the footmen at the table, Mrs. Spalding said, “James, run along and make certain the fire in the breakfast room is lit. We can’t have Master Simon taking a chill.”
A young man jumped up from the table and, brushing past Simon, disappeared down the hall. Walking more slowly, biting back another yawn, Simon followed him. By the time Simon reached the breakfast room, candles had been lit and a fire roared in the fireplace.
Warming himself against the chill of the November morning, Simon stood with his back to the fire, fighting against the waves of exhaustion rolling over him. He yawned again, wishing for his bed, but the envelope and what it contained kept the seductive call of sleep at bay.
Sighing, Simon once again took the envelope from his vest and stared down at it. When he hadn’t been looking over his shoulder expecting Nolles’s henchmen to rise up out of the darkness to kill him, curiosity about the contents had bedeviled him. Now that he was safely within the walls of Windmere, there was nothing to stop him from tearing open the envelope and satisfying his curiosity, yet he hesitated. His lips twisted. He was, he admitted, reluctant to find out what Townsend had wagered, but he had a strong suspicion what might lie within the envelope. If he was right ... He swallowed. If he was right, he realized that he’d most likely gambled tonight with a dead man ... realized brutally that as he stood here looking at the envelope, Townsend was lying somewhere dead.
The arrival of a footman with a tray laden with a coffeepot and several covered dishes distracted him. After the footman deposited the tray and had been dismissed, Simon laid the envelope at the end of the table nearest the fire and, walking to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee. Sipping the coffee, he examined Mrs. Spalding’s additions to his original request. She’d not only frosted the hot cross buns, but under the other covered dishes, he discovered some slices of ham, coddled eggs and a large dish of warm cinnamon-sprinkled applesauce. Absently, his mind on Townsend, Simon served himself and wandered back to the table.
Pushing the envelope aside, he put down his cup and plate and seated himself with his back to the fire. The room was heating nicely, but from the moment he’d agreed to Townsend’s wager, he’d not been able to shake the chill that had come over him.
He ate slowly, not tasting the food, his eyes on the envelope. It represented a Pandora’s box. There were many things it could hold. A confession to taking part in Canfield’s death and/or a recitation of his dealings with Nolles were two things that came to mind. Yet Simon suspected it was neither of those things.
Nolles had been worried, but Simon knew if Nolles had thought for a moment Townsend had put either of those things in the envelope, he’d never gotten out of The Ram’s Head with it. Recalling the sound of hoofbeats behind him as he’d ridden home, he was certain that Nolles had sent someone after him. Whether to simply rob him of the envelope or murder him he didn’t care to contemplate.
Mrs. Spalding’s fine cooking sitting like a bag of sand in his belly, Simon gave up eating and, pushing aside his half-empty plate, picked up the envelope. Oh, stop being such a namby-pamby coward, he chided himself, and open the bloody thing!
Simon took a deep breath and did so. He scanned the two pages and his expression bleak, guilt churning through him, he set down the document. It had been drawn up by an attorney in Brighton and signed by Townsend on Friday morning, just over twenty-four hours after Canfield’s death.
The document was simple. The entailment that had seen Townsend inherit his uncle’s fortune and estate ended with Townsend, and in his Last Will and Testament, Townsend bequeathed all of his belongings, his entire estate, to Simon Joslyn.
Simon slumped in his chair. He’d suspected it had to have been something like this. The Birches, his lands, even encumbered with debt, were the only things of value that Townsend possessed. He shook his head. Why not simply deliver the document to him at Windmere? Why go to these elaborate lengths? Knowing what he did of the man, Simon concluded that Townsend, a gambler to the end, had simply chosen to stake his life on the turn of a card.
In hindsight it was easy to see how Townsend had manipulated the situation. With the Will drawn and safely in his vest, Townsend must have guessed that time was running out for him and had engineered the sequence of events tonight. St. John’s absence had been a stroke of luck. Once Padgett and Stanton had grown tired of losing, which wouldn’t have happened if Townsend had been drunk as usual, they’d left—exactly, Simon guessed, what Townsend had been angling and hoping for all night.
With the others gone, it had been simple to lure him into remaining and playing piquet, Simon thought bitterly. All Townsend had to do then was lose until there was nothing but the contents of the envelope to lay on the table. Blast him! Simon swore explosively under his breath, one hand clenching into a fist. I knew there was something odd about the way he was playing. The suspicion even crossed my mind that he was losing deliberately, but the bastard was cleverer than I realized and won just enough to allay that idea.
Simon had no trouble guessing the “why” behind Townsend’s actions. Canfield was dead, whether accidentally or not, and the inquest was over, Townsend’s testimony no longer needed. At present the cellars at The Birches were empty of smuggled goods, and while the arrival of a new shipment from France was expected, Simon surmised that Nolles, in anticipation of getting rid of Townsend, had found a new place to hide the contraband. The inquest behind them, The Birches no longer needed, Townsend became superfluous to Nolles and the others. Knowing the men he was associated with, Townsend knew, or suspected, that before a great deal of time passed that the odds were in favor of him suffering an “accident” much like Canfield’s. The moment the inquest ended and the coroner gave his verdict on Monday, Townsend had known that time was running out for him. It wasn’t a question of if, but
when
Nolles had him killed.
Simon shook his head. Poor bastard. He looked at the Will. Christ! Why the hell hadn’t Townsend come to Barnaby for help? Why did he believe that his death was the only solution?
Barnaby would have to know, he thought heavily, and was conscious of a sneaking feeling of relief that he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Emily. Not that Emily and her cousin had been close, but Townsend
had
been her cousin and they’d known each other since childhood. He wondered if he could turn over Townsend’s estate to her. The Birches had been her home. Perhaps, one of her children?
The opening of the door startled him, and he looked up to see Barnaby entering the room. Barnaby was surprised to see him sitting there, but knowing Barnaby rose early, Simon didn’t find it strange to see the viscount booted and garbed for the day at this hour of the morning.
Recovering, Barnaby flashed a smile. “Just get in?” he asked, crossing to the sideboard and, taking one of the cups kept there, poured himself some coffee.
“No,” Simon answered. “I’ve been here awhile. Mrs. Spalding was kind enough to cook me something, but I find my appetite is gone.”
A note in Simon’s voice had Barnaby taking a closer look at him. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
Silently, Simon pushed the Will across the table in Barnaby’s direction. Picking it up, Barnaby read the document quickly. Laying it down, Barnaby took a chair and said, “Tell me.”
As succinctly as possible, Simon did so. When he finished speaking, Barnaby shook his head and echoed Simon’s earlier assessment. “Poor bastard.”
The two men sat in silence a moment before Simon asked, “Do you think he’s already dead?”
Barnaby shrugged. “Most likely. If Nolles let him leave The Ram’s Head alive, he probably killed himself once he arrived home.”
Simon nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.” He sighed. “I guess we’d better ride over there and find out for ourselves.”
In the faint light of dawn, The Birches appeared still and deserted. There was no sign of Townsend’s horse and they assumed the animal was in the stables, unless Townsend had not returned home... . Opening the door, Barnaby and Simon stepped into the house, silence and cold greeting them.
They found Townsend in a small room at the rear of the house. A decanter of brandy sat on the table before him, an empty snifter nearby. Townsend was seated at the table, slumped back in the chair, one hand hanging down by his side, a pistol lying on the floor directly beneath his fingers.
Examining the neat round wound in the temple, Barnaby said, “So did he do it himself, or did Nolles arrange this tidy little scene for us?”
Thinking back over the night, the look in Townsend’s eyes, Simon muttered, “My money’s on Townsend having done it himself. He knew he didn’t have much time before Nolles killed him or had him killed. I’ll wager, though, that he had more time than he gave himself. Canfield’s death occurred a week ago almost to the day—Nolles would have waited awhile before dispatching him.”
“I agree. Nolles may be a snake, but he’s a clever snake.” Barnaby’s jaw clenched, a muscle bunching in his cheek. “I never liked Emily’s cousin and I’m not sorry he’s dead,” he admitted. Sighing, he added, “This is probably for the best, but I wish the coward had helped us catch Nolles before he decided to kill himself.”
“Perhaps he was trying to spare the family embarrassment,” offered Simon. “If he helped expose Nolles, during any trial his part in Canfield’s death and the smuggling would be bound to come out. And if they did murder Canfield, he would have hung right alongside Nolles.”
Barnaby shrugged. “It’s possible, and if that’s the case, it’s the only decent thing he ever did.” Turning away from the body, Barnaby said, “We’d best notify the constable.” His expression bleak, he muttered, “And I have to tell Emily and Cornelia.”
Four hours later, the constable notified and their statements taken, the two men rode to Windmere in a misting rain. The day was gray and depressing and Simon thought it appropriate.
Once they were inside and closeted in Barnaby’s study, Simon cleared his throat and asked, “Uh, what about the Will? Do you think I should give everything to Emily?”
“No,” Barnaby said flatly. “She needs nothing from that bastard.”
Looking bewildered, Simon demanded, “What am I to do with it?”
Barnaby thought a moment. “Keep it,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he admitted, “It’s possible that Townsend was trying to make amends.” He studied Simon. “Yes, I think maybe he was. You’ll make a fine squire, cousin. And you have the fortune and the ability to turn The Birches into the place it was before Townsend got his hands on it.” He frowned. “That may even have been what he had in mind when he drew up that Will.”
“Me !”
yelped Simon. “What about his brother, Hugh? If not to Emily, shouldn’t the estate go to him?”
“Hugh has his own estate, his own fortune, and he’s quite happy where he is.”
“But there have been Townsends living at The Birches for ages, and a Townsend has been squire for generations,” argued Simon, feeling as if he were being swept into a whirlpool.
“And now there won’t be,” said Barnaby, amused. “There’ll be a Joslyn.” He grinned. “Squire Joslyn has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Simon eyed Barnaby with dislike. “You’re happy about all of this.”
“If you think about it, it settles several things,” Barnaby replied, ticking off the items on his fingers. “Emily’s contemptible cousin is dead. There will be no scandal—other than the manner of his death. An honorable man will now be squire. Emily’s home will be restored to its former state and I’ll have a genial neighbor. Why shouldn’t I be happy?”