Grey had assumed that Miss Wolfe was at the hall only for the funeral, but apparently she was a fixture hereabouts. Odd that he hadn’t met her on his two previous visits.
“Where exactly is this dower house?” Grey asked.
“A few miles away, at the other end of the estate. Grandmother and Bea lived there for most of the period when Joshua was serving in the Royal Marines. He’s a major, you know. After he was wounded and consequently discharged, Uncle Armie proposed that Joshua reside there and serve as head gamekeeper for the estate. Which he’s done for a few years now, since before Grandmother’s death.”
Grey frowned. “Gamekeeper? A duke’s grandson? For God’s sake, that is hardly a gentleman’s profession.”
“I agree, but I gather that his choices were few after his return. It took him some time to recover from his wounds, which left him lame. As a result, he walks with a cane. He has trouble in crowds, and some fear his mind is . . . well . . . disordered. For one thing, he has a vile temper. Indeed, he’s prone to violent outbursts.”
“War can do that to a man.” Then the entirety of Sheridan’s remarks registered. “You’re not saying you suspectJoshua Wolfeof—”
“Yes, I am. I fear that my cousin may have murdered my father.”
Chapter Four
The stark words hung in the air, as if the spirit of Maurice himself lingered in the study. Grey shivered before he caught himself. There was no such thing as ghosts, damn it. He set down his brandy glass. “Yourlamecousin, you mean.”
“Hear me out.” Grim-faced, Sheridan took the chair next to his. “Father was only on the bridge the night he died because Joshua had summoned him to the dower house. And Father didn’t just fall off the bridge; he fell through the railing and into the river. We know this because a large portion of the railing was broken away.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me, Grey, what made him fall? It’s not as if Father was ever clumsy.”
“Well, no, but hewasgetting older, and if it was dark—”
“He was armed with a lantern. And it was a full moon. No reason for him to fall. What’s more, the bridge is sturdy, so even if he did somehow stumble into the railing, it should have held under his weight. I believe someone set him up to drown—damaged the bridge before he crossed it and then pushed him through the railing to make it look like an accident. Bad leg or no, Joshua has the muscular arms of a field hand—strong enough to shove an old man into a railing, believe me. Especially if he took that man off guard.”
Grey sighed. Clearly, Sheridan’s grief had disordered the man’s brain. “And why the hell would you suspect Wolfe of such a thing?”
“You’re not listening! I told you, Uncle Armie treated Joshua very shabbily—”
“So why didn’t Wolfe kill your uncle Armie instead?” Grey pointed out.
With a grimace, Sheridan set down his glass. “That’s just it. I think he did that, too.”
“For God’s sake—”
“Let me finish, blast it!”
Jumping to his feet, Sheridan went to stand behind the desk, its scarred mahogany surface reminding Grey that his half brother had inherited a huge estate with what sounded like a mountain of debt.That’swhat they should be discussing, not this mad idea that Maurice had been murdered.
But Sheridan didn’t seem to care about anything else. “Uncle Armie died in an accident that also took place late at night. He was found with a broken neck early in the morning near his precious ‘ruins.’ Those at the tavern in town said he’d been drinking there the night before and had headed home late. It was the same route he always took and his horse stood grazing nearby. So we assume he somehow tumbled from his horse. It was only a few months ago. Don’t you think those two ‘accidents’ occurred awfully close together?”
Thatwasa bit odd, Grey had to admit. Still . . . “Coincidences do happen.” After draining the rest of his brandy, he stood and walked over to pour himself more. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you once tell me that whenever he rode into town he got foxed?”
Just as Grey would have to do to endure this exercise in daft theories. He downed some brandy.
Sheridan shot him a black look. “Yes, Uncle Armie was often drunker than an Etonian after matriculation. But he’d been drinking and riding that road—at night, alone—for twenty years or more. Yet he’d never before fallen off his horse. And even you must admit it wouldn’t take much to unseat a drunk man and break his neck.”
“So what are you saying?” Grey roamed the study restlessly. “According to you, Wolfe killed your uncle out of resentment for how the family had treated him. Did Maurice also treat him badly?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then your suspicions make no sense. Why now? Your uncle Armie treated Wolfe badly for years, so what brought this on?”
“Perhaps Joshua got tired of serving the family like, well, a bloody servant. Perhaps he’d had enough of Uncle Armie’s excesses, which were driving the estate into the ground. He figured he could gain the dukedom for himself.”
God, but the manhadlost his mind. “To do that, he’d also have to kill you and Heywood.”
“Exactly.” Sheridan crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what worries me.”
Grey gestured to him with his brandy glass. “What worriesmeis the possibility that you’ve gone mad.”
