“I would not rule him out.”
“There is one thing…one thing that arouses my suspicions, but not regarding the younger brother,” Jennie Colton spoke up. “These crimes have demonstrated an element that does not appear to be motivated by pure greed. What reason might Raymond Stockwell have to murder his father’s associates? None of those men stood between him and an inheritance. Neither did you. Nor Alex. Rooney’s remarks referred to an effort to incriminate you. It’s all rather personal, as if someone possesses considerable hatred…of you. Have you interacted with the younger Stockwell in the past?”
“I’ve made his acquaintance on a few occasions. We have seldom entered into a conversation beyond the exchange of the normal pleasantries.”
Jennie let out a low breath, like a sigh. “We are grasping at straws. One brother has displayed no visible emotion at the death of his father—if anything, Raymond Stockwell has appeared entirely unmoved by the loss. On the other hand, the elder brother has put on a quite a show. What is your impression of his sincerity?”
“It’s difficult for me to judge. Harold Stockwell may have been genuinely torn by his grief,” Benedict said. “Or he may have wanted everyone to view a display of his sadness. I cannot be sure it was not playacting. I’d never known the man to be so carried away by emotion.”
Jennie’s eyes narrowed. “You are well acquainted?”
“Early on, while we were students at the university, there were times when we worked side by side under his father’s tutelage. After a time, Harold’s interests veered away from Egypt. We ceased our collaboration. But before then, Harold had often been a part of our endeavors.”
“Did you detect a rivalry…between the two of you?” Tense lines marked her slender oval face.
“I suppose it’s possible. We were both young. And fiercely competitive.”
Jennie Colton stared down at the pattern on the plush rug, lost in thought, as if seeking to retrieve a memory long buried. “As I recall, Alex spoke of the professor’s high regard for your abilities and your determination. As she saw it, you were the one he viewed as most like himself.” She paused, lifting her gaze to lock with his. “In Professor Stockwell’s eyes, even his sons did not compare with you.”
Her words conjured a pain Benedict had never been able to bury. “We were very much alike, the professor and I. We had an appreciation for Egyptian culture his son did not appear to share. Eventually, Harold’s interests shifted to western Africa. Are you suggesting I might have had something to do with that?”
“Not directly,” she said. “Every man on that list was someone Professor Stockwell held in high regard. Esteemed colleagues. Old friends. A guide who’d once saved his life. This may not be a matter of pure avarice. The person who orchestrated those deaths may have wanted to bring him pain.”
“That possibility has occurred to me,” Benedict said.
Jennie twisted her hands together, suddenly a bit nervous. “Was there ever a rivalry between the two of you for Alex’s affections?”
Her question caught him by surprise. A flood of memories cascaded through his thoughts. He’d loved Alex so desperately in those early days. They’d been young and excited by their mutual passion for Egypt. And most of all, by their own discovery of one another.
His connection with Alex had been electric from the first. He’d first met her while visiting his best friend, Jeremy Quinn, and his family on holiday. She’d been a long-limbed colt of a girl with eyes that were impossibly large and an impish smile. Over time, their friendship had become more, a young, tentative exploration of love. But the summer after she’d turned eighteen, she’d ventured to Egypt with her family. Under the desert sun, he’d seen her through fresh eyes, a beautiful girl who’d grown into a quick-witted, desirable woman. It wasn’t long before their love had grown into a mutual passion years apart had not extinguished.
There’d been one complication—Alex’s relationship with Harold Stockwell. He’d been taken with her. Any fool could’ve seen that. Innocently, she’d kindled a friendship with the professor’s oldest son. He’d wanted more. But Alex’s heart had already been claimed.
“God above,” he said as understanding crashed into him.
Jennie nodded. “I see you take my meaning.”
Colton cocked his head. “Are you suggesting Stockwell’s son is the killer?”
“That is precisely what I am suggesting,” she said. “I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Donahue to research Harold and Raymond Stockwell’s dates of birth.”
“Did you now?” Colton said, obviously intrigued.
“Would you like to know what I discovered?”
“I predict a birthdate in January,” Colton said drily.
“Not January,” Jennie said. “Harold Stockwell was born in late December, a few days after Christmas. His brother was also born in December, but early in the month.”
“So, the eldest was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn,” Colton concluded.
A slight smile formed on her lips. “Precisely. I suspect we’ve identified the culprit.”
Colton leaned against the desk. “What do you suggest we do?”
“We have agents trained in a variety of scenarios,” she said. “A covert rescue is feasible.”
Benedict rejected the thought outright. If Harold was responsible, he would take his anger out on Alexandra if his demands were not met.
