Chapter 16 #2
Adrian dropped to the now-vacant spot beside Samantha and took her hand. Their eyes met when she turned, alerting him to how difficult this evening’s events had been for her.
“You look tired,” he said.
She answered with a soft smile. “It has been a very long day.”
Her body leaned closer to where he sat, until she was able to rest her head on his shoulder. “I’m sending you home so you can sleep,” he said.
“You’re not coming with me?” Her question preceded a loud yawn.
Adrian swallowed his chuckle and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, moving so he could drop a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m staying to find out everything Kendrick has learned, if I’m able. In return, I’ll offer whatever help I can.”
“A new case, a new deal.” Her words were a sleepy slur.
Not answering, he stroked her shoulder. There was no sense in pointing out that the deal was struck half a year before when Adrian had been indebted to Kendrick. A thought that made him wonder when he’d be done repaying the man.
Maybe after you’ve saved his life in return.
He gave Samantha a gentle nudge. “Come on. I’ll see you off.”
They collected her cloak which was wrapped around her to ward off the frigid air. Adrian escorted her down the front steps of Moorland House to where the carriage waited. Murry, whom Adrian had sent for earlier, opened the door and Adrian handed Samantha into the cabin.
“I’ll be home as soon as I’m able,” Adrian told his valet. “No need for you or anyone else to await my arrival.”
They parted ways and the carriage drove off, leaving Adrian on the pavement beneath an inky-black, star-speckled sky. He blew out a breath, watched the mist it produced, then climbed the steps and returned indoors.
There was work to be done.
His long strides ate up the distance between the foyer and the crime scene. By the time he pushed through the ferns to where Kendrick stood, the man was holding a long length of linen in his hand.
Hearing Adrian’s steps, he glanced in his direction. “You’ve not missed much. I just removed the cravat that was in Mr. Orwell’s mouth.”
Adrian slowed his steps and halted completely when he came within a yard of the chief constable. “What’s your theory regarding its presence?”
Kendrick arched a brow. “What’s yours?”
When Adrian merely held his gaze without blinking, Kendrick relented. “Perhaps it was used to suffocate Mr. Orwell.”
Adrian narrowed his gaze. “I thought you wanted transparency, Kendrick. If you expect me to share my observations and theories, you’ll have to do the same. I know you don’t think he was suffocated.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t die on account of his throat getting slashed.”
“Agreed.”
Kendrick tilted his head, the beginnings of a smug smile creeping over his lips.
“To suffocate him this way, our killer would have required superior size and strength in order to overpower him, force the cravat into his mouth, and hold his nose at the same time. Since this case shares the same details as Mr. Warren’s, who I suspect was killed by a woman, I don’t see how Mr. Orwell could have been suffocated. ”
“My wife has suggested he may have been poisoned,” Adrian said, deciding it was time for him to provide whatever help he was able. He gestured toward the shards on the floor. “A glass was dropped and Mr. Orwell’s awkward sprawl suggests he may have fallen backward.”
“After which the killer could have slit his throat and stuffed the cravat in his mouth without resistance.” Kendrick set the cravat he’d been holding aside on the end of the chaise lounge, then reached inside Keith Orwell’s jacket pocket.
He retrieved a scrap of paper, read it, and handed it to Adrian.
A coward’s death for the coward you are.
Adrian frowned. “Did the previous victim possess a similar note?”
“Not similar but identical.” Kendrick leaned over Orwell’s body. He clasped the jaw and used his gloved fingers to pry the lips farther apart.
“What are you doing?”
Instead of answering Adrian’s question, Kendrick said, “Bring one of the lanterns closer so I can see.”
Adrian snatched up the nearest one and held it so the light shone most powerfully on Orwell’s mouth, and the teeth brightened in response. Adrian watched Kendrick lift the tongue and curled it backward.
Adrian’s pulse leapt. “What is that?”
Kendrick removed a small flat object, holding it between his fingers so close to the light it gleamed. His expression became one of pure satisfaction.
To Adrian he said, “A silver shilling.”
* * *
“I can stop by your office later today if you’d like to review all the evidence,” Adrian said as they exited the conservatory. Kendrick had told him of the shilling’s significance, and they’d agreed it was probably more than a calling card left by the killer.
Both coins were minted in 1815, which surely mattered.
“If you come after four o’clock, I should know whether or not these men served together and whether or not they were both deployed that year.”
They strode through the hallway, intent on stopping by Moorland’s study before they departed. The duke had been a tremendous help, offering up his home and servants — whatever Kendrick needed — in order to help find the answer to what had occurred.
He knocked on the door and entered. Adrian followed him into the dimly lit space.
“Thank you for aiding my efforts tonight,” Kendrick said to Moorland. The duke remained seated behind his desk, his appearance despondent. “My Runners and I have gathered all the information we need.”
“And the body?” Moorland asked.
“I sent for a Bow Street hearse earlier,” Kendrick told him. “Rest assured, Your Grace, the body will be removed from your home before I depart.”
“Thank you, Kendrick.” Moorland slid his gaze to Adrian. “You too, Croft.”
Adrian dipped his chin and prepared to bid the duke farewell when a disturbance in the hallway made him pause. Moorland frowned and started to rise. Kendrick, too, appeared ready to go discover the cause of the ruckus.
Turning, Adrian glanced toward the open door as the sound of footfalls landing hard against each polished tile rushed toward them.
He heard the heavy pants that accompanied them one second before Jennings appeared, red-faced and sweaty.
His clothes were askew, his hair a disorderly mess as he gripped the doorframe, wheezing while trying to catch his breath.
Moorland’s butler materialized at his back. Whether the man spoke or not, Adrian had no idea. All he could do was stare at Jennings.
What was the coachman doing here when he was supposed to be seeing Samantha home?
For the first time since he’d learned of his sister’s murder, time stood still. His body became immobile. His mind ceased all thought as it froze, caught between not knowing and possibly learning the worst truth imaginable. He dared not speak, could barely muster the courage to breathe.
His heart became a dull thud in his chest; his lungs, shredded tissue; and the blood in his veins replaced by pure dread.
“What is it?” Kendrick asked the question Adrian failed to form. “What has happened?”
Tears flooded Jennings’ eyes and whatever tether had held Adrian in a suspended state of inaction snapped. He crossed the floor, grabbed his coachman by the front of his shirt, and yanked him upward.
A strangled sound came from Jennings’s throat. His cheeks puffed out and his face turned scarlet. Someone spoke. Moorland perhaps?
Adrian had no idea and he did not care as he let fury trample the fear that would otherwise incapacitate him. “Where is she, Jennings? Where’s my wife?”
Trembling beneath the promise of violence, Jennings continued to rasp while tears flowed over his ruddy cheeks. Adrian shook him. “Speak, man.”
Hands curled over Adrian’s shoulders, gripping him hard. Kendrick entered Adrian’s peripheral vision and now attempted to free Jennings from Adrian’s grasp.
“Stop.” Moorland’s commanding voice infiltrated the haze.
Kendrick’s fingers pried Adrian’s grip open, releasing Jennings. The coachman coughed.
“Get him something to drink,” Moorland told his butler while dragging Adrian back.
Kendrick stepped into the space that opened up between Adrian and Jennings. “You’ll get no answers from him if he’s dead, Croft.”
A biting remark that sliced through Adrian’s rage.
He took a breath and gave a curt nod, waited for Jennings to gulp down the brandy the butler gave him, before he repeated, “Where is she, Jennings?”
The haunted look he received from his coachman nearly slayed him. It was a look that promised to give him nightmares for decades to come.
When Jennings finally managed to speak, his words were like the hollow chime of Charon’s bell.
“She was taken. Murry too. O’Leary has them.”