herself for it. Tomorrow, when she returned to the house, she would have herself better in hand.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she turned to see the footman coming back to them.
“Mr. Barchester will receive you,” he said, looking faintly surprised, and led them up the stairs and into a spacious drawing room.
A man was standing by the windows, looking out, and he turned at their arrival and came toward them.
“Mr. Mulcahey,” he said, reaching out to shake Frank’s hand. “I am Andrew Barchester. I am so pleased to meet Dennis’s father.”
Mr. Barchester was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a high, wide forehead and even features. His eyes were a pale gray, and his hair was blond, and he was handsome in a nondescript sort of way.
“Mr. Barchester,” Megan’s father replied, and introduced Megan and Deirdre to him.
Barchester smiled at Megan and murmured a greeting, but when he turned to Deirdre, Megan noticed that his hand lingered on hers a trifle longer and his eyes took on an appreciative gleam. It seemed that Deirdre’s fragile beauty was once again having its usual effect.
“What brings you to London, Mr. Mulcahey?” Barchester asked, showing them to a blue sofa and chair, and taking his own seat across from them.
“We’re here to find out whatever we can about my son’s murder, Mr. Barchester,” Frank replied.
They had had much discussion the night before over exactly what they should tell Barchester. Frank, not one to trust any Englishman completely, had been concerned that the man might balk at their intent of bringing a fellow Englishman to justice, and it was always Megan’s policy in researching her stories to tell everyone as little as she had to in order to get them to talk. That way, she felt, there was less chance of their stories being influenced by her considerations. Deirdre, however, had been of the opinion that if Barchester did not realize the extent and gravity of their interest, he might very well smooth over details or even conceal some matters in order not to cause them distress. It was, she added with a significant look at her sister and father, something with which she had had a good deal of experience. Megan and her father had had to agree with the logic of Deirdre’s argument, and they had agreed to be candid with Barchester.
Now Barchester stared at Frank Mulcahey for a long moment. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know, of course.” He paused. “But I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean—are you hoping to do something about it? I mean, um…”
“I’m not going to take vengeance myself, if that’s what ye mean,” Mulcahey assured him. “Sure, and I’d like nothing better, you understand. But I’ve promised the girls I’ll not harm the scoundrel. Still, we mean to bring Moreland to justice.”
“Mr. Mulcahey…believe me, if there were any possibility of that, we would have done it ten years ago, when Dennis was killed.” He frowned. “But it happened in the wilds. I’m not sure even what country we were in—Peru, perhaps. We had followed the Amazon River all the way up into the mountains. Where we were was uninhabited. And even when we returned to civilization, it was a foreign country, and we could not prove—I mean, we could not even speak the language, and it would have been just our word against his. Lord Raine’s family is very old and wealthy. His father is a duke. And they are related to scores of influential people in one way or another. The government would have put such pressure on the local police that I am sure they would have let him go. And what government could we have gone to, anyway? We went back down the Amazon into Brazil before we reached a city of any size.”
“Mr. Barchester, we are implying no wrong on your part, I assure you,” Megan put in quickly. “Pray do not think we feel anything but gratitude to you for letting us know what happened to my brother.”
“Aye. It’s no slight to you, lad,” Frank agreed. “It is just that we need to know. We need to do everything we possibly can for Dennis.”
Megan stiffened, afraid that her father would launch into the story of Deirdre’s visitation from Dennis. That, she was sure, would result in Barchester’s being certain that they were quite insane. However, her father said nothing further and she relaxed.
“Thank you,” Barchester said. “I am glad you feel that way. But it was not concern for myself that prompted me to speak. I was merely trying to explain how unlikely it is that you will receive any satisfaction out of this inquiry. We are in England. The crime did not even occur here. And it has been ten years since it happened. Besides, there is still the matter of lack of proof. It is one man’s word against another’s. And when one of those men is the eldest son of a duke…well, I can envision no way that you can receive satisfaction.”
“He doesn’t have to be tried in court,” Frank replied. “It’s impossible, I know. It will be enough for me if we can make people aware of what he has done.”
“Newspapers have a powerful impact, Mr. Barchester,” Megan told him. “I know. I work for one.”
Barchester’s jaw dropped. “You? You’re a—”
“I’m a reporter. I have written stories that revealed terrible working conditions in factories, political corruption, the plight of slum-dwellers. I didn’t have to go to court. Exposing their practices to the general public set demands for reform in motion.”
“I—I see.” Barchester still looked faintly shocked—more, Megan suspected, at the revelation of her job than at their plan to expose a member of the British aristocracy.
“I will dig into it, just as I do with any other story, and when I have found enough evidence, I can write a story. My newspaper will publish it, and I suspect there will be British papers that are eager to put out the story, as well. Nothing sells like scandal among the wealthy—I would imagine it is even truer when that person is not only wealthy but also titled.”
“No doubt you are right.” He hesitated for another moment, then said, “Well…um…let’s see…where shall I start?”
“Why don’t you begin by explaining to us how you and Mr. Moreland—I mean, Lord Raine—joined up with Dennis and his group?”
“Of course.” Barchester nodded. “I had not known Lord Raine before we went to Brazil together. Though we were of an age, we did not exactly move in the same circles. My grandfather made his money in trade, you see.”
Megan nodded. She had started out on the Society Desk, where she had learned enough to be aware that old money did not regard the nouveau riche with respect. She could well imagine that in England the lines were much more distinctly drawn, and that money, new or old, could not cast one into the rarified class of the aristocracy.
“I was in my early twenties at the time. I had gone to university, as my grandfather had insisted. He wanted very much for me to be a ‘gentleman.’ So I did not go into the family business, as my father had. I was, quite frankly, a trifle bored with my life, so when my grandfather suggested that I go on the Cavendish expedition, I was more than happy to oblige the old chap. It sounded like quite an adventure.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it turned out to be far more of one than I would have liked.”
“The Cavendish expedition?” Megan inquired, jotting the name down in her notebook.
“Yes. Old Lord Cavendish was quite interested in the cultures of other times and places. He turned his ancestral
