Thirty-six #2
Arnaud weighed one coat against the other, then flung the smaller one on the bed and began pawing it. “Old women do this. Are you certain this is a man?” He used his knife to tear open a hem.
Tarnished gold coins tumbled out before Rafe could consider the question.
They felt along the seams of all the clothes, finding more weight. The lining of his waistcoats held banknotes. Perser was a walking bank.
“Counterfeit?” Arnaud suggested, scraping at a gold piece.
Rafe emptied a money purse on the desk and weighed one of those coins against the hidden ones. “Fakes are in the purse. I’ll have Verity examine his ledgers. I imagine he has two sets, maybe even more.” There were more than two ledgers, anyway.
The small notebook in his pocket suddenly weighed heavier.
Featherstone had been demanding the architect’s notebook.
The notebook Fort had found on Calendar had been worthless.
If Perser possessed the real notebook. .
. Rafe needed to show this one to someone knowledgeable and trustworthy. “Question is, whose coins are these?”
“Excellent question, that. Do we search the other rooms?” Arnaud stepped into the hall while Rafe threw clothing back into the trunk, then carried out ledgers.
Finding the right key on his jangling ring, Rafe locked the door.
They met Lord Greybourne escorting Dr. Walker from Humphries’ room.
She shook her head at Rafe’s questioning look.
“This happens sometimes. A blood vessel in the brain bursts. We do not understand why, only the results, which are not promising. He has some movement on his right side. With practice, he may regain more. It is best if he consults his own physician. This is beyond my expertise, perhaps beyond anyone’s.
He will need to be carried downstairs when it is time to leave. ”
Arnaud handed her a coin they’d pilfered from the bookkeeper. “This should be a proper coin. We’re none too certain of the rest.”
Meera laughed a little. “Lord Fortescue paid me from the American’s purse. Shall I hope that one is real?”
“Fort knows the difference.” Rafe thought. “I’m not entirely certain who among the guests does. Professor, will you be escorting the lady home?”
Greybourne eyed the ledgers in Rafe’s arms. “Do you need help with those?”
“My wife is an excellent bookkeeper. We may, however, need you when we interrogate the scoundrels.” Rafe knew his limitations. The captain always handled the questioning, but he wasn’t here. “The problem is, we have no charges to hold them on.” Yet.
Did wire and a notebook count as sufficient evidence? Rafe still wanted to lock them up and knew he couldn’t.
“The intent was to simply drive them away if we couldn’t find evidence.” Arnaud looked longingly at the stairs and escape. “Me, I am not so good at asking the questions. Perhaps Lord Fortescue, when he is done searching?”
“I’ll see what he’s found.” Expecting the artist wished to return to his no-doubt worried betrothed in the kitchen, Rafe took pity on the groom-to-be.
“Arnaud, if you’ll escort Lavender and Thea home, along with Dr. Walker, I’d appreciate it.
This is likely to be a long night.” Rafe handed the ledgers to him.
“Leave these with Verity, please.” Rafe had little respect for titles, but the French comte had more than earned his appreciation. “Greybourne, you must do as you like.”
“I’ll send Andrew home to his sister. I don’t expect trouble, but there’s no harm in preparing.”
The baron and Arnaud departed with the good doctor, leaving Rafe to return to what was now officially a sick room.
He tried to believe an apoplexy was better than poison, but seeing the big American bully sprawled helplessly in his bed, he couldn’t convince himself.
At least the patient’s eyes were shut. Whether he slept or not was hard to say.
Fort pointed at the open wooden box, evidently full of correspondence and not more fake money. “He owes a lot of people. A lot of people owe him. His business appears to be a house of cards. He’s not a very good loan shark. I wonder if he uses Featherstone as his enforcer.”
Humphries moaned. If he was awake, that was probably a protest. They ignored him.
Thinking of the gambler’s soft, white, card-playing hands, Rafe doubted Featherstone got them dirty with fisticuffs. “His minions, perhaps. Has Humphries said anything?”
“He’s trying to protest my ransacking, but his tongue does not work any better than his limbs.
Or his upper story, apparently. We need to send Jones up.
” Nodding at the patient, who could presumably hear and might have another apoplexy from frustration, Fort led the way back to the corridor.
He properly left the correspondence behind.
“Shall we go down and announce the leader of their evil plot must be carried home and will henceforth be unable to finance their depredations?”
“I rather gather they’ve surmised that by now, if the drink has worn off.
But we still have two dead bodies to account for and a counterfeiting master of disguise, with a garrote in his trunk, who owes a few explanations.
” Rafe stomped down the stairs and to the pub, where his silent—in more ways than one—partner looked exasperated.
Of course, with Fletch, that was a permanent state of being.
“Is Humphries alive or has he been strangled too?” Gladstone demanded the instant they entered. The drink had definitely begun to dissipate.
Greybourne slipped in from the kitchen and took a seat in a dark corner. Rafe assumed the professor missed the excitement of town, but the duke’s son, his usual polish tarnished by dust and day-old beard scruff, simply looked disgusted by his audience.
“Humphries is alive,” Fort announced, standing at the bar to face their seated guests. “The physician says he’s had an apoplexy and may never walk again. She recommends he be taken to his own physician immediately.”
“Where’s that doc what was with him earlier?” Jones asked in suspicion. “I ain’t takin’ the word of no female.”
From his seat, the baron tossed Fort the wig he must have retrieved from Lavender. Looking grim, Fort pulled it on. “That was me. You want my opinion, he needs to be taken to a hospital.”
Jones spluttered.
Featherstone studied the obviously annoyed tutor. “How do we know you didn’t poison him?”
“You don’t know, not any more than we know who strangled two men.” Fort held up a purse of coins and jingled it. “But we are a little closer to learning the counterfeiter. Mr. Perser, would you care to explain the treasure trove hidden in your clothing?”
“Well, I never.” The night-shirted clerk stood and burped. “You had no right to search my private belongings!” He tried to leave.
“Sit down, shut up, Perser,” Gladstone hissed from between clenched teeth. “Let the man speak.”
“That’s no shop clerk! He’s a lying, thieving pustule of arrogant nobility!” Perser screamed, flinging himself at Fort and wrapping his remarkably large hands around the tutor’s throat.
Before Rafe could recover from shock and react, the young lord had gripped his attacker’s elbows, applied pressure to the crook until Perser’s hold weakened, kneed him in the crotch, then flung him across the floor, into a solid oak trestle table, where he slid to the floor, groaning.
“Well done, my lord,” Rafe murmured admiringly.
Apparently too mad or enraged to be stopped, Perser scrambled shakily to his feet and stupidly tried to shove past Rafe, ignoring reality.
After a night like this, Rafe was in no humor for being attacked by a runt.
Generally, he did not use his greater size for harm, but tonight, he felt justified.
He grabbed Perser’s shoulders and shook him, giving Fletch time to emerge from the bar to pin his arms behind his back.
Once Fort had his wrists tied, Rafe released him to slump to the floor.
“Well, that was fun.” Rafe looked around. “Anyone else care to test us?”