Melissa sipped her tea and looked around the table. Everyone appeared reasonably well rested, yet all seemed to harbor an underlying tension. She glanced at Julian, who was finishing a plate of kedgeree alongside her, and inwardly admitted that despite the catharsis of their past hours, she, too, shared that same wariness, and she knew he did, too. She doubted any of them would feel completely safe, secure enough to drop their guard and truly relax, until this entire saga was over and Findlay-Wright and his machinations were no longer a threat in any way, shape, or form.
Formally charging Findlay-Wright and binding him over to face the next assizes, while undoubtedly the correct thing to do, still carried an element of risk.
What if he did have some real evidence—evidence no one else realized existed—that plunged the family into scandal?
She glanced around the table again and decided she wasn’t going to borrow trouble. They would go forward, all of them united, and together, to the best of their abilities, they would deal with whatever came.
When all was said and done, their combined abilities weren’t anything to sneeze at.
Reassured and recommitted, she looked up as the door opened, and Phelps—a plainly agitated Phelps—quickly came in.
“My lord.” When Julian and everyone else looked at him in surprise, Phelps made a visible effort to pull himself together, hauled in a breath, and raised his head. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that the captain is dead.”
“What?” Along with everyone else, Julian stared. “Dead?” He set down his fork and started to push back his chair. “How?”
As if he’d got the worst out, Phelps seemed to calm. “He hanged himself, my lord.”
Julian stood, and the others around the table followed suit.
Felix frowned. “I can’t recall there being any rope in that storeroom.”
“He fashioned one from his own clothes.” Having regained his composure, Phelps faced Julian. “We checked all the doors, my lord. None of the cells were unlocked. It does not appear that those in the other cells could have had anything to do with the captain’s death. We also found no unexpected marks on the body, and there was nothing in the cell to suggest that anyone else had been inside.”
Damian was shaking his head. “This doesn’t make any sense—he was so damned arrogantly sure of himself when we left him yesterday.”
“He seemed in excellent spirits when we took him his dinner tray,” Phelps confirmed. “And when Thornley and Carmichael fetched the trays later, they mentioned that the captain was making himself comfortable and seemed very confident he would be riding off tomorrow, meaning today. He—the captain—asked Thornley to check on his horse.”
“That doesn’t sound like a man contemplating taking his own life,” Frederick remarked.
“No, indeed.” Feeling blindsided again, Julian asked, “So what changed?”
“As to that, my lord,” Phelps said, “the other prisoners have asked to speak with you. They claim they had nothing to do with the captain being hanged. They are adamant about that, and it’s difficult to see how they might have managed it. However, they say they have something to tell you, and that they believe they know or at least can suggest why the captain killed himself.”
“Is that so?” Julian glanced around at his family and saw the same interest that he felt reflected in every face. “I find I’m keen to hear what they have to say.” He met Melissa’s eyes, then looked at the others. “Should we go down there? Or…?”
“The library,” Melissa stated. “We want their cooperation in solving this riddle, so let’s make them comfortable rather than intimidate them.” She met Julian’s eyes and faintly smiled. “They’ll be intimidated enough as it is.”
Everyone agreed.
Julian looked at Phelps. “Give us ten minutes to get settled in the library, then bring all four up together. Use Thornley and two other footmen as guards.” Recalling that the household knew of the attacks and would have a very real interest in the outcome, he added, “We’ll set chairs for our prisoners in the library. Knock and bring them in, see them to the chairs, then I want you and the footmen to remain, standing against the bookcases.”
“Yes, my lord.” With his master taking charge and clear orders to follow, Phelps had regained his butlerish demeanor. He bowed and silently left the room.
Julian glanced around at the assembled Delameres, then waved to the door. “Shall we?”
En masse, they repaired to the library and, between them, set their stage. Under Julian and Melissa’s joint direction, they rearranged the armchairs and sofa in a curve with their backs to the fireplace and set four upright chairs, placed an arm’s length apart, in a line five yards away, facing the armchairs and sofa.
After some discussion, Julian and Melissa sat on the sofa, in the center of the curve and directly opposite the line of chairs. Felix sat in the armchair on Melissa’s left, with Damian in the next chair along, while Veronica was ensconced in the chair on Julian’s right, with Frederick in the next armchair and Gordon in the chair at that end of the curve.
They’d just settled in their appointed seats when a tap fell on the door. Julian took in everyone’s now-eager expressions and called, “Come.”
Phelps opened the door and led the prisoners in. Phelps paused to bow, and the four ex-staff did the same, then Phelps directed them to the chairs. After a momentary hesitation—they’d clearly not expected to be offered seats—they sorted themselves out and sat, with Mitchell at one end, then Manning and Richards, with Benton sinking onto the final chair.
Once they were settled, Phelps shut the door and with the three footmen, who had followed the prisoners into the room, retreated to stand before the bookcases as instructed.
Mitchell, Manning, Richards, and Benton all took note of the arrangements, then all four looked at Julian.
Mildly, he said, “I understand you have something to tell us regarding Findlay-Wright’s suicide.”
