Chapter 30
“Yes, that's the ring. I've seen it many evenings here in the club and heard the story behind it.”
The speaker was Sir Fletcher Melville, a middle-aged gentleman with a voice that spoke of salt air and orders roared on deck to be heard over the shriek of a gale.
“It belonged to Elias Roseton, the Viscount Branberry,” Keaton said, hands folded over the head of his cane.
Thorne sat next to him, having arranged this meeting with a member of the club who he had found that recognized the description Thorne had been circulating of the ring. A gentleman who had only recently returned to England after several years abroad.
“Aye, that was his name. A true Englishman, at home on the sea and wherever he was in the world. A true Palin.”
Keaton smiled thinly. “The question is, what became of him?”
“Well, as to that, Your Grace. I couldn't tell you. I saw it one evening on his finger. We were in the maproom looking at routes to India. He was planning on setting out the next day. I assume he did just that.”
Keaton nodded, disguising his disappointment.
“May I ask, why did it take you so long to respond to Thorne's description of the ring? It has been circulating for years.”
“I've been abroad, Your Grace,” the man said, “India, Africa, South Pacific.
This is the first I've been ashore in England for.
.. more years than I can count. As soon as I saw the leaflet Thorne had pinned up on the notice board, old and faded though it was, I said to myself, that's Roseton's ring or I'm a Dutchman.”
“I've checked with Lloyds,” Thorne put in.
“There is no record of the ship that Lord Roseton planned to sail on being wrecked. They reached the Cape in good time. Another vessel sailed from there to Zanzibar, which was part of his itinerary. A third was to sail across the Indian Ocean to Bombay. All reached their destinations.”
“Aye, well, Zanzibar. Not the safest of ports,” Melville shrugged, “a man can be lost there and no one to tell of it. That's assuming he didn't fall ill en route. Something catching, and the captain would throw him over the side even if he were the King of England. Better that than lose the crew.”
Keaton ground his teeth. He had been sure this would lead to the solution to Georgia's mystery. He had been desperate to give her the answers she wanted, to let her know that she could trust him implicitly, that his interest was seeing hers served.
“Now, the doctor on my ship, he knew something more, I think,” Melville continued. “Mr. Jacob Harrison is his name. Employed as a steward here in fact.”
“A doctor?” Thorne said in a tone of disbelief.
“Aboard, the cook is often referred to as the doctor. Because he was handy with a cleaver,” Keaton explained, “and a man who was good with a cleaver could be trusted with...” He made a chopping gesture at his wrist as though to sever it.
“Aye, many a man saved during that squabble with the French by a sharp cleaver and a steady hand,” Melville chortled. “My vessel saw its own share of action.”
“This Harrison, your ship's doctor, what is it he knows?” Keaton asked, circling back.
“Why don't you ask him yourself, Your Grace?” Melville said. “There he is now. Harrison! Over here, man!”
Keaton sat back, waiting.
“Sirs, what can I get for you this evening?” came a weathered and gruff voice.
“Information, Harrison,” Keaton indicated beside him, “please join us.”
He heard a chair scrape back against the floor, then the creak of it accepting a man's weight.
“I seek the fate of Elias Roseton. Or his whereabouts if he is still alive,” Keaton began.
“Ah, Lord Roseton. Well, that's been a mystery for long enough, Your Grace. And not many except me have much to say about it.”
Keaton furrowed his brows. “And why is that?”
“Because, the whispers at the time were that he'd fallen afoul of Major Billy Glasgow, the notorious highwayman. I spoke to him in the map room the night he went missing. I know the shipping lanes from Zanzibar, and he was looking for information. We arranged to meet the next night—he was due to sail on the morning tide after that. He never appeared.”
“And do you believe this highwayman was responsible?” Keaton questioned.
“I do not, Your Grace,” Harrison declared with absolute surety.
“How can you be so sure?” Thorne pressed.
“Because by that point, Billy Glasgow was dead,” Harrison said, “but precious few believe that particular rumor, which I know to be fact.”
“How do you know?” Keaton asked, leaning in the direction of Harrison's voice.
Harrison was silent for a long moment. “Now, as to that. A man shouldn't speak of such things with strangers. No offence meant, Your Grace. Bad luck.”
“I am prepared to pay for the information.”
“I don't think Mr. Harrison is concerned about dubloons, are you, Harrison?” Melville said.
There was a tone of knowledge in Harrison's voice.
“Don't need gold, Captain. You know that better than any,” Harrison nodded.
“I do indeed. You and I have squirreled away enough after our days as privateers for the Crown.”
Keaton frowned, feeling as though he were party to a conversation being held in code.
“Your Grace,” Melville began, pitching his voice a note or two higher, “perhaps Mr. Harrison would be willing to overcome his superstition with your word that what he has to say will not go beyond this table. Your word as a gentleman.”
“You have it, Harrison,” Keaton said automatically. “My word as Duke of Westvale. Upon my honor—and as for Thorne, he is in my employ. He is bound by my word.”
Keaton heard Harrison swallow and then the sound of a glass being gently set back on the table.
“Very well. I know he did not fall foul of Major Billy Glasgow because that gentleman is at this table. I am him.”
Keaton laughed after a moment of stunned silence. Harrison joined in, and someone, presumably the jocular Melville, slapped the tabletop.
“You said he was dead?” Keaton questioned.
“I laid the highwayman to rest when I agreed to sail with Sir Fletcher once more, as we did during the war.
But, I was curious as to who might be hiding their deeds under Major Billy's cloak. So, when Lord Roseton did not appear as agreed, I decided to retrace his steps, assuming he was going from here to his house that night. All I found was the wreck of a carriage.”
Keaton's ears pricked up immediately. “On the route to Roseton Hall?”
“On the route to a lot of places, Your Grace. Including Westvale,” Harrison remarked.
“Did the carriage bear any livery?” Keaton asked, breathless with anticipation.
“It was being set ablaze by two ruffians when I came upon it.
So, I could not tell. I did enquire what they were about.
They were reluctant to talk until they recognized me.
You see, as much as the Runners never knew Major Billy's identity, those who plied the same trade did.
I knew them and they, eventually, knew me.
“They told me of the handsome payment they'd received to hold up this carriage and how they were now about the business of removing the evidence of their actions. They also told me how the night they did the deed, they were almost foiled by a heroic young man who came galloping out of the night.”
“Roseton…” Keaton filled in the blanks.
“By the description. He must have realized someone was in need of aid and charged in where angels would fear to tread. He was unarmed, whereas these men were certainly not.”
Harrison's words had the sound of a shrug.
“So, Roseton is dead,” Thorne said.
“I'm afraid so.”
Keaton felt sorrowful for Georgia.
After all this time, she must have been preparing herself for the worst. But to know for certain that she will never look upon him again will be difficult for her to bear…
“What did they do with the body?” Keaton asked.
“They were instructed to take it somewhere, the estate of some Lord or another, and bury it.”
“Which Lord?”
“I can’t say for certain, but they were to bury the body in woods behind a hunting lodge in Paddington,” Harrison replied.
Keaton's world rocked on its foundations. He sat in stunned silence for a long moment, reeling.
Uncle Edric’s courtesy title was Baron of Paddington. He owns a hunting lodge there.
Had he been standing, he had no doubt his balance would have deserted him and left him on his backside on the ground. Something cracked, and he realized that he had been gripping the armrest of his chair so hard that it had snapped. He dropped the wood, gritting his teeth.
“You believe the owner of this land is implicated?” he asked.
“I assume so, else why instruct the body to be buried on his land? I presumed it was so that he could ensure that no one would come upon the ruffians burying the body,” Harrison almost sounded confused. “Do you know this Lord?”
“I used to,” Keaton replied grimly.
“Rutherford! Where are you, man!” Keaton roared as he strode into Westvale.
“Here, Your Grace,” Rutherford said, diffidently from beside the door that Keaton had just stormed through.
“I wish to speak to the Duchess,” Keaton muttered, “I will be in the drawing room.”
There was a silence where Keaton expected an immediate affirmative. He paused, frowning.
“What is it, Rutherford?” he asked.
“Her Grace is not at home, Your Grace. Nor is Miss Vexley. Her Grace left a note.”
“Saying?” he demanded.
“Saying that, in view of the recent appearance at this house by Lords Emsworth and Silverton, in connection with the presence of their daughter under this roof, Her Grace had deemed it appropriate to seek sanctuary somewhere they would not be found. I believe the concern was that Lords Emsworth and Silverton would seek a very public, legal route to obtain the person of Miss Vexley.”
“Sanctuary? This is a sanctuary...” Keaton stopped himself.
But if those brigands threatened legal action to recover Amelia, then Georgia would want to distance herself from Westvale. Damn those bastards!
“Did she mention where they were going?” Keaton asked.
“Erm, Swinthorpe, Your Grace,” Rutherford replied.
“By your tone, there is more to tell, and you do not like it.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. I must apologize. I fear that I have been hoodwinked. Lady Georgia said that Swinthorpe had been suggested as a sanctuary by... Lord Swinthorpe himself.”
“What!” Keaton roared, sensing that he was yelling in the butler's face but not caring.
Anger and concern warred for dominance within him.
“Lord Swinthorpe was here. I do not know how he obtained access after he had very publicly left, but I can assure you it was not through the front door. All servants were instructed to deny him entry and send for me if he appeared.”
“So, he sneaked in like a spy. And a man who needs to sneak into his own nephew's house is up to no good,” Keaton muttered.
“My thoughts exactly, Your Grace,” Rutherford echoed.
Keaton could smell Thorne's tobacco, and knew the man was just behind him, waiting for orders.
He spun around. “Thorne, do you carry pistols?” he asked.
“I do, Your Grace.”
“We are to leave for Swinthorpe to confront my uncle. We may need them.”