Charles Lenox Mysteries 06 A Death in the Small Hours by Charles Finch

Author:Charles Finch [Finch, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781405522151
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2012-11-29T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Dallington had still not returned by five that evening. According to Frederick, who presided over the cakes and the sandwiches—in addition to Lenox and Lady Jane an old and unmarried woman of the parish, Miss Wilson, was in attendance, as apparently she was each Thursday—that morning the duke’s son had asked the kitchens for roast beef on a roll, tucked it into his pocket without so much as the benefit of a napkin to wrap around it, and been off before seven.

When they heard a footstep in the hall, then, all of them looked expectantly toward the door for him.

It was Oates, however. Lenox and his cousin went out to greet the constable, who had taken off his helmet and stood, rather drenched, in the hall. “It’s Musgrave, sir,” he said. “Sirs.”

“What of him?” asked Freddie.

“He’s done a scarper.”

Lenox raised his eyebrows. “He’s left town?”

Oates, who again looked and spoke as if he had taken a few drinks in the King’s Arms that afternoon—not quite enough for full impairment, but hardly a professional quantity either—pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Reported by Mrs. Flora Criscombe, Musgrave and his household in three coaches, with equipage, headed on the road to London.”

Lenox turned to Frederick. “Does he often travel?”

“Oates?”

“Not since he moved into Church Lane, in my memory, and what it is, I reckon he’s done poor Weston and—and now—and knows we’re getting close to him,” said Oates, slurringly.

Lenox felt badly for the man; at the same time he wished for a more professional ally. “To so incriminate himself would be exceedingly stupid, and Musgrave did not strike me as a stupid gentleman.”

“No,” said Freddie. “Has his wife gone with him?”

“Only a footman was left behind,” said Oates. “He was covering the furniture when I knocked on the door.”

“Where did he say Musgrave had gone?”

“He didn’t know. He—”

“I say it would be foolish of Musgrave to leave,” Lenox interjected, his chin in his hand, arms folded, eyes cast down with concentration, “but if there is some devastating piece of evidence soon to arise it would, perhaps, be wise in him to go to the continent.”

“And he took poor Catherine Scales, too,” Frederick murmured. “I dread to think of the life he’s leading her.”

Lenox turned to a servant. “Fetch me my hat and coat, please, would you?”

“Charles?” Frederick asked.

“We must look over the house. If he left in haste perhaps there is some evidence to parse. Oates, will you come with me?”

“Of course.”

Frederick was looking rather askance at Lenox, who smiled, reading his thoughts. “We cannot stand upon much refinement in this business,” he said “Certainly Musgrave has not.”

They directed the carriage to Church Lane, and were there only a few minutes later—luckily the horses had been warmed already, from their evening exercise. The house was dim.

“Does the footman you met live in?” asked Lenox.

“I don’t know,” said Oates, and thumped the door with his nightstick. “That should rouse him if he does.”

There were no footsteps inside, and the doors were locked.

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