Chapter Seventeen
TIME HAD GNAWED at the sheet of paper. Though the edges had stayed crisp, the once-cream half-foolscap was dulled to a weathered beige.
A crease ran down the middle, and several tracked horizontally, scars from where Valentin had hurriedly folded it and folded it again.
The written words remained clear enough, though, the black ink bold and penned by a confident, tutored hand.
Three times, Mickey read through the tight script before showing it to Tommy, who immediately summoned Ashington, his brother, and then Rossingley. Their disbelief and anger swelled with each word swallowed down.
I, Samuel Valentine Roberts, second footman in the employ of His Grace, Twelfth Duke of Ashington, hereby confess to the reprehensible and unwarranted murder of Her Grace, Twelfth Duchess.
In sound mind and body, I shot her in the belly until she was dead.
I also confess to the theft of two sapphire earbobs and a necklace made up of seven diamonds and eight sapphires belonging to Her Grace and hung about her neck.
May I go to hell a sinner and be at one with the devil.
Samuel Valentine Roberts
“I have questions,” Ashington said at last, hunched over the scrap of paper, his dark eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. He turned it over in his hands as if hoping something new might emerge from the creases. “Several, in fact.”
From the puzzled expressions on the other’s faces, he was not alone.
“Why the blazes would a man confess to murder?” Fitzsimmons, ever the pragmatist, queried. “Nobody confesses to murder, not when the hangman’s noose is the inevitable outcome. Who was this Roberts, and why was his confession hiding in Talybridge’s safe all these years?”
Ashington tossed the letter back on the table. “More pertinently, what the hell has a scoundrel of a French vicomte got to do with any of it?” He rounded on Mickey. “Did he explain himself?”
“No. There was not time. But I believe that Roberts, this footman confessing to the murder of your grandmother, must be Beauregard’s father.”
Ashington’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp.
“There is no other explanation. Valentin Beauregard told me his father is English. This footman’s middle name is Valentine. He—”
“I’m all for digging to the bottom of this, but that’s a rather big leap,” interrupted Tommy. “The fellow delivering the bread to Squire’s every morning is named Valentine. It’s not that uncommon.”
“Beauregard also told me that his father had to flee England. To avoid being arrested and tried for a crime he didn’t commit.
I didn’t pay it much attention at the time—all criminals are wrongly done by, are they not?
Yet Beauregard said he’s since endured his entire life hiding in France, a country he purportedly hates, for fear of being detained on his return.
It must be the same person. Why else would Beauregard risk everything to retrieve the letter from Talybridge’s safe? ”
Tommy’s lips pulled up ever so slightly as if to say: is that really what you expect me to believe? Rossingley’s face adopted a similar expression, one you might find on someone who has heard too many exaggerated tales at the tavern.
“Assuming this Roberts is Beauregard’s father,” Tommy mused, “Beauregard stole the letter outlining his confession to murder because he believes his father innocent.”
“Yes,” Mickey insisted. “I cannot see another explanation.”
“But he didn’t confirm this,” Tommy clarified, “when you saw him at Newgate.”
“No.” Mickey shifted uncomfortably. “We had but a few minutes alone. I didn’t read the letter until I arrived back here, for fear of drawing the attention of the guards.”
Silence followed, only punctuated by Ashington’s fingers drumming in an erratic, restless rhythm against the mantel.
Fitzsimmons picked up the letter and shook it out.
“Yet, for all Beauregard swears his father is innocent of killing our grandmother, we have a signed confession.” Head tilted to the side, his hooded eyes studied Mickey.
“From another perspective—just to play devil’s advocate, you understand—one could argue if Samuel Valentine Roberts is Beauregard’s father and a murderer, then it is no wonder Beauregard was so desperate to get his hands on this letter.
We know the man lies; we know he’s an inveterate thief.
Perhaps the tale of his unfortunate, innocent papa is but another example of Beauregard’s poor character.
Rotten trees produce rotten apples and all that. ”
Mickey’s annoyance flared. “You are wary of his character, yet when he broke into a locked safe, he disregarded all the other valuables spilling from it.”
“With the greatest of respect,” Fitzsimmons retorted, “we only have his word for that.”
“The safe was full to bursting!”
“So you say,” Fitzsimmons acknowledged. “But in case it escaped your notice, our parure is still missing.”
“And Beauregard swears he doesn’t have it! And it was not found on his person!”
Fitzsimmons’s eyebrows raised warningly at Mickey’s tone. “You have been exceedingly helpful and loyal during this whole escapade, Mr Maurice, but—”
“Hush now. Hush.” Rossingley cut Fitzsimmons a quelling look. “Falling out amongst ourselves is unhelpful. And Talybridge hasn’t reported any other jewellery or money belonging to him missing. Though I hear Lady Chalfont has mislaid a pearl brooch and some chap reported a missing tiepin.”
Mickey schooled his features into what he prayed was a blank look.
Ashington scratched his head, pacing the floor.
“Too bad, but given neither item was presumably in Talybridge’s safe, they aren’t our current concern.
And time spent arguing will not further our understanding of why this confession was in Talybridge’s safe in the first place.
Yet, as Lyndon has already observed, why would anybody confess to murdering a duchess? ”
Leaning back in his chair, Rossingley steepled his fingers. “Let us put Beauregard’s role in the whole thing aside for a moment and consider it logically. To start, why does anybody confess to a murder?”
Mickey answered this one. His own anxious tiptoe across the rug in Talybridge’s study and then his panicked hobble through the foliage, with his pursuers hot on his heels, was all too fresh in his mind. “Being caught red-handed would do it. There would be little point in lying.”
“Possibly,” Rossingley accepted with a nod. “And the most likely reason, I’d wager.”
Though concurring with the general principle, Mickey wasn’t so sure.
They were overlooking something. He’d been a footman himself when he’d first come to work for Tommy; thus, he’d made the acquaintance of several.
None of them boasted handwriting as fine as that letter, if they could write at all.
Nor would they waste precious coin on such decent quality paper—even less so, thirty years earlier, when one sheet of foolscap cost as much as a week’s wage.
He supposed Samuel Roberts could have stolen the half-foolscap from his employer, given that he was allegedly capable of much grander larceny and murder.
But…no. Something was off. Valentin was telling the truth about his father’s innocence; Mickey felt it in his bones.
“How about a burning desire to assuage one’s own guilty conscience of a moral or spiritual burden?” offered Ashington. “That brings men to confession.”
“Highly unlikely if Roberts is related to Beauregard,” his brother huffed, ratcheting Mickey’s annoyance up a notch higher.
“I suppose there’s always a grim resignation to one’s fate,” Tommy suggested. “Knowing that the inevitable has finally occurred.”
“Hmm…” Rossingley regarded them all in turn, his glittery gaze briefly softening as it landed on Mickey.
“There is, of course, a fourth option to consider. That poor Samuel Roberts was the unfortunate witness to a murder committed by somebody else. Somebody powerful enough to put the fear of God in him.”
“Someone as powerful as Talybridge or his father,” butted in Mickey keenly. He very much approved the look of this scenario. “Someone capable of pointing the finger of guilt at a lowly footman, knowing his word would be taken as the gospel truth.”
“Precisely.” Rossingley was warming to his theme. “But why would Talybridge bother keeping the letter once Roberts has scarpered?”
“For insurance?” Mickey suggested. “To prevent Roberts returning to England and spreading the truth?”
Rossingley’s fine brows pinched together. “Yes. That works. If he did return, Talybridge would produce the letter and have Roberts arrested.”
“He could have done that thirty years ago,” Tommy interjected. “Had him arrested and settled the matter once and for all.”
It was an excellent observation. Why didn’t Talybridge simply claim he’d witnessed poor Roberts committing the murder, see the chap hung, and be done with the whole thing? A marquess’s word against a lowly footman?
“He didn’t do it because he knew that the Ashington’s hate scandal,” said Ashington himself.
“What if my grandfather had an inkling that he was being cuckolded by Talybridge? There’s talk of a duel, after all.
” He held up a finger. “Picture this— If Grandpapa suspected Talybridge of telling an untruth regarding the murderer, he was powerful enough—as a duke—to call the marquess out in a lie. Angry enough too. Talybridge would not have dared risk that. Better that he went along with a servant disappearing and the duke wishing to hush the whole matter up.”
He paced towards the window, deep in thought, then spun on his heel.
“What’s more, if Roberts stood in front of Grandpapa and denied the crime, I have a feeling Grandpapa would have believed him over Talybridge.
Our servants pride themselves on their fidelity.
Most stem from generations of families who’ve served us well.
One suddenly taking it upon himself to murder the duchess would be almost as unpalatable as the murder itself.
Much easier that the servant simply vanished. ”
“Couldn’t Talybridge have paid the footman off? Far simpler than making him disappear.”
“Hmm.” Ashington considered it. “Possibly, except that servants talk. Rumours would soon abound. Remember, they weren’t Talybridge servants at the shooting party, loyal to the Talybridge. They were ours. Loyal to Ashington.” He nodded, allowing himself a small moment of satisfaction.
“I agree.” Fitzsimmons leaned forward. “Assuming—and it is only a theory at this point—that Beauregard’s father was innocent.
Publicly blaming the footman for the murder was a risk Talybridge couldn’t take.
Even though our grandfather preferred the matter to be brushed under the carpet, sooner or later, the Talybridge name would have been tainted with suspicion.
And even a wealthy marquess would be reluctant to have tittle-tattle as dreadful as murdering a duchess hanging over him for all of time. ”
“Paying someone off also exposes one to future bribery,” Rossingley pointed out, his voice level. “People become greedy. One payment is never enough.” He pinched his lip, considering. “I suppose it’s feasible that Talybridge could have killed Samuel Roberts, as well as the duchess.”
“And create more problems?” Tommy shook his head. “More possible witnesses to a second murder? More suspicion? And, according to Beauregard, he’s alive and well and living in France.”
“And, lest we forget,” Ashington added, “they dragged the lake twice. How does one swiftly dispose of a dead body during an afternoon shooting party on somebody else’s estate?”
“With lashings of fretfulness and several stiff brandies, I would wager,” Rossingley concluded.
“Agreed,” said Fitzsimmons. “The whole thing sounds far too Machiavellian. I’ve heard all the arguments, but I still don’t think we can rule out Beauregard’s father, Roberts, as the culprit.”
Mickey felt he might scream. Either Fitzsimmons was deliberately overlooking the obvious or found it too extraordinary to contemplate. That Ashington himself believed otherwise was vital.
“Your Grace,” Mickey began, addressing a befuddled Ashington.
“If you would, for one minute, consider accepting that Beauregard is telling the truth and that Samuel Roberts is his father, then the footman is not buried under the Ashington sod at all. He survived, escaped to France, and begat a son.”
Mickey didn’t quite glare at Fitzsimmons but came rather close.
He’d persuade these gentlemen of Beauregard’s constancy if it was the last thing he did.
“Talybridge could have threatened Roberts with a pistol to his head whilst he signed a confession and then given him enough money to disappear. That would fit with the evidence, wouldn’t it? ”
The question hung in the air as the men contemplated all they had discussed. Mickey didn’t have answers to any of it, not really, and especially not to the most important question of all: how to release his lover from prison and return him to Mickey’s arms.
“But if Roberts is Beauregard’s father, why has Beauregard waited until now to act?
” Rossingley queried, throwing up yet another unsolved riddle.
“He’s been practising the deceptive arts for over a decade if the story of him pinching the Devil’s Diamonds at Versailles is true.
If he knew Talybridge had this document in his possession all along, why not steal it and expose him years ago so his father could return to England? ”
“His father is now quite old,” replied Mickey, “and desperate to return to his homeland.”
“All the more reason to have done it sooner.”
“Maybe Beauregard didn’t know it was in Talybridge’s possession until recently.”
Ashington huffed out a frustrated breath.
“Maybe we’re on a wild goose chase with all this speculation, going around in circles and getting nowhere.
” Hands on hips, he stared at his brother, a muscle in his jaw ticking and his mouth a determined grim line.
“Nonetheless, my ire has been well and truly provoked. Several pressing courses of action present themselves.”
“Let me hazard a guess at one of them.” Fitzsimmons’s smile was equally resolute. “You’d like to bloody Talybridge’s nose. Allow me to pin him down for you.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Ashington’s fists clenched. “And I want my parure too. But most of all, more than anything, I want to see justice served for my grandmother.” He wheeled round to face Mickey. “Where are they holding your vicomte? I believe it’s time I paid him a visit.”