Chapter Thirteen #2
A small key, of the kind used to lock valises and trunks and smaller padlocks. While she folded it into the handkerchief, Solomon moved forward a few paces and began poking with his stick once more. This time it took longer, but he found a farthing as well as another small key.
Leaving the farthing for whoever was brave enough to pick it up, Constance retrieved the second key with the handkerchief. It felt rusty. At least, she hoped it was rust.
“You can keep them,” she said generously, popping the wrapped keys into Solomon’s coat pocket.
“Thank you.”
By this time, Mrs. Harvey was out of sight. The whole act of dropping the keys had been too deliberate. It was surely no accident. But what were they keys to?
*
Before returning to Channing House, they called again at the doctor’s house, and this time were fortunate enough to find him at home.
He appeared to be willing, if not eager, to talk to them.
He ushered them into what was clearly his consulting room rather than the parlor, though whether for the sake of privacy or a distaste to have them in his home was debatable.
“We have come to you rather than to Mr. Harvey,” Constance began, “because we are actually worried about Mrs. Harvey. It hardly seems kind to worry him further at this stage if we don’t need to.
But aside from the state of her nerves—of which you must be aware—we have just seen her walking alone in one of the least salubrious areas of the town. ”
Dr. Owens frowned. “Is she still there?”
“We don’t think so. We glimpsed her again walking over the canal bridge, as though she were going home.”
“Then I’m not sure what else we can do, short of alerting Harvey himself.
My daughter encountered her earlier this afternoon in the high street, and said she seemed to feel compelled to keep moving.
It is the mixture of shock and grief, I fear, and will ease only with time.
In the meantime, you might consider removing to the Duke’s Arms until your—er… work is done.”
“Neither of them will hear of it,” Solomon said. “We really just wanted you to be aware of this odd behavior. Was she terribly close to Percy?”
Owens hesitated, perhaps wondering how much he should say, in terms of loyalty or duty. “She doted on him, certainly. They both did. But as to closeness… Percy went his own way.”
“Therein lies our difficulty,” Constance said, leaning forward confidingly. “We know Percy had some serious faults, but we have no idea how apparent these were to his parents. Were they truly ignorant of his gaming and drinking and womanizing?”
Again, Owens hesitated. “Willfully ignorant, perhaps. The signs were there.”
“And yet the only fault they will acknowledge was his partiality for Mrs. Jenkins—which, by all we can discover, was not returned.”
“I think she became something of a scapegoat, so that they didn’t need to look further. For his father, at least.”
Constance sat up. “Then his mother was more aware than his father?”
Owens shifted uncomfortably. “I would say so, though she said nothing to me. But even before he went off to London this last time, I would say she was seriously worried.”
“Do you have any idea what in particular concerned her?” Solomon asked.
Owens gave a helpless shrug. “No. Like everyone else, I just hoped Percy would grow out of it.”
Constance chose her next words with care. “Is Mrs. Harvey a devout person? Very moral in her outlook?”
“Of course,” Owens said stiffly.
“No, I mean excessively so. She is obviously a good and Christian lady, but I have occasionally seen such admirable qualities turn overly harsh and judgmental until nothing is good enough for them.”
Owens met her gaze. “You mean is it a mania?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
The doctor beat gently on the desk with the feather end of a pen. “I wouldn’t have said so, no.”
Interesting wording, Constance thought.
“I don’t suppose you were anywhere near Channing House last Thursday?” Solomon asked.
“No, and I didn’t see Percy,” said the doctor, who clearly knew what they had been asking other people.
“Did you see Mrs. Harvey?” Solomon asked more bluntly.
“I didn’t see either of them that day.”
“Did you see anyone at all on the road to Channing House?”
“I wasn’t on that road. I was visiting the sick in town on Thursday. I do so most Thursdays.”
Constance judged that it was time to go, and began to rise.
“Tell me,” Solomon said gently, “have you ever treated anyone for gunshot wounds?”
Owens stared. “No. Apart from a poor gamekeeper who got peppered with buckshot during a bizarre shooting party accident. And that was five years ago.”
“Was Percy there?”
“I really don’t recall. Possibly.”
“Whose party was it?”
For a moment it seemed the doctor would not answer. “Everett’s,” he said at last.
*
“You think someone tried to shoot Percy before?” Constance asked as they walked toward the Duke’s Arms for tea with David.
“It crossed my mind suddenly.”
“But it doesn’t seem to have been Percy who was hit at Everett’s shooting party,” she objected.
“That doesn’t mean the shooter wasn’t aiming for him. I think we should inquire further.”
And five years ago certainly exonerated Adelaide from that crime, if there was one.
“Owens didn’t seem very sure,” Solomon said, “about Mrs. Harvey’s possible mania.”
“Because he really isn’t sure or because he doesn’t want to tell us?”
“I don’t know. But I think we have to also investigate a little closer to Percy’s home than we have been.”
*
Just as on their return to the house yesterday, Harvey met them in the front hall. “Ah, there you are! You missed tea.”
“Our apologies to Mrs. Harvey,” Constance said. In fact, they’d had tea at the inn with David. “We didn’t realize she expected us.”
“Oh, she didn’t,” Harvey admitted. “I persuaded her to go for an afternoon nap and she slept through teatime. I expect she will come down for supper. No, I’m afraid it’s my own impatience that speaks. Have you learned anything new? Discovered the weapon?”
“Not yet,” Solomon replied. They obliged their host by preceding him into the study away from prying ears. “Not yet. I don’t believe Wills found it in the canal, either. Did Percy own a pistol, by any chance?”
“Percy?” Harvey repeated blankly. He gazed at Solomon, his lips parting. “You think he might have been shot with his own pistol?”
“Is he likely to have been carrying one?” Solomon asked, evading the question.
“Probably, for his own safety when he was traveling alone…”
“Would you mind if we looked around his bedchamber?”
Harvey swallowed. “Not if you think it will help. Only…”
“Only?” Constance prompted him when he trailed off.
He gave a weary smile. “Try not to let my wife see what you are about. She is distressed enough.”
“Of course,” Constance said.
Solomon delved into his coat pocket and fished out his folded, extremely dirty handkerchief, from which he unwrapped the two little keys Mrs. Harvey had dropped. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what these are for?”
“They look like keys for travel bags,” Harvey replied without noticeable interest. “Why, where did you find them?”
“I suppose they’re small enough to have fallen out of anyone’s pocket,” Constance said, as though dismissing them from their collective thoughts. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have a quick look at Percy’s room just now, while your wife is resting.” If she is even home yet.
“Could you direct us to his room?” Solomon asked.
“The third one to the left of the staircase,” Harvey said. “No one has felt able to approach it yet, though there are things which will have to be done…”
“We’ll be discreet,” Constance promised, leading the way to the door.
For a moment, she feared Harvey would accompany them, but he stayed in the study, brooding out of the window, hands behind his straight, stiff back.
There was something terribly vulnerable about that very uprightness, as though it could collapse momentarily, now that the center of his life had gone.
Percy’s room was rather as she expected it to be.
It was a large, well-appointed apartment with two looking glasses and several silver-backed brushes on his dressing table for hair and clothes.
His clothing was all hung up neatly, no doubt because the servants did such things for him, but his desk was an untidy mess of letters and bills, ink bottles—one of which had clearly spilled—and pens.
There were no books, even by his bedside.
“We should have looked at his rooms in London,” Solomon said.
“We can get Janey to go. I’m sure Harvey will give us a letter of permission for her and Lenny.” Constance began to look through the papers while Solomon went to the closet and started going through the dead man’s pockets.
They worked quietly and efficiently, examining the remnants of a young man’s life. Constance found unpaid bills, a few cards of invitation to parties in London, and a couple of scrawled notes from friends, including those they had already spoken to.
Buried in a drawer, she found a half-composed letter to Lady Phoebe Styles.
It was dated the previous week, and began with stilted formality before lapsing into what sounded like genuine friendliness.
As if he had been pressured into writing the letter in the first place, but actually rather liked the intended recipient.
Had Percy wanted to marry Lady Phoebe? Was he courting her for money, love, or the beginnings of a desire to settle down?
Or had he just begun the letter under the parental eye, then stuffed it in a drawer and bolted to London and back to his own life? He certainly hadn’t taken it with him.
Had Phoebe and her mother been honest during the interview in London?
Constance could think of no reason for them to lie, and yet she was conscious of an urge to speak to them again.
Surely this could not be so important? She could hardly imagine Lady Phoebe or the earl, her father, sending assassins after Percy.