He sat thinking, his feet planted apart, his hands on his knees. ‘Did you have any knowledge of an argument Silas Norwhich had at the theatre shortly before he died?’
‘Yes.’ Pemboldt flinched. He seemed to steel himself to be able to tell this part of the story to them. ‘Silas came here, raving mad. Just stormed into my office, while I was speaking with another client, demanded that the client leave, and I talked to him at once. I saw he was too angry to listen to reason, so I did what he asked without protest. As soon as we were alone, he told me that people claiming to be heirs to his fortune now pursued him and that the only way they could have found out about the tie with Cunningham was via me. I denied most strongly that I had ever shared anything with anyone that could have led people with such claims to his door, but he left, still convinced it was all my fault.’
Jake asked sharply, ‘Someone came to see him claiming to be his heir, specifically mentioning Cunningham?’
‘Yes. I can assure you I never told anybody about the unhappy history. It must have been Walker again. I should never have involved him. I believed I could trust him completely, but I was so wrong.’ Pemboldt buried his head in his hands again.
‘Perhaps it was not your fault as much as you believe,’ Jake said. ‘We are very grateful for your honesty. And no word of this will ever be known to the public, unless it has to be revealed in a court of law to bring Silas Norwhich’s killer to justice.’
‘In that case,’ Pemboldt said in a stronger voice, ‘I would be the first to demand it would be revealed.’
Jake rose. ‘We understand each other.’ He reached out and carefully shook the old man’s hand. ‘Take care and be wary of Fitzroy Walker until we know for sure he was not the killer. If he can push a big man and kill him, he can certainly kill you.’
‘So what do we have now?’ Alkmene said as they walked down the street away from Pemboldt’s offices. ‘The conversation I overheard was Walker asking Evelyn Steinbeck to marry him, but she refused. He knew that upon her marriage she would come into part of the fortune and he wanted it, right away, for if he knew that there was a man about claiming that he was the heir, Steinbeck’s deception might not last. So he had to marry her, fast. He said something about the major not being able to intervene after the marriage. Therefore he mentioned Gretna Green, because he knew he’d never get permission from either the major or the uncle to let the wedding go ahead and he wanted her anyway, or better, her money. The marriage had to be absolutely valid and he knew Gretna Green would make it so. Now…Evelyn Steinbeck didn’t want to marry him, and she was in no hurry to get the money, so we can rule her out. Besides, she wasn’t the person calling on Silas Norwhich that night.’
‘And whatever was taken from his dead hand was a birth certificate,’ Jake reminded her. ‘Someone was desperate to keep the fantasy alive that Evelyn Steinbeck was the real heir. It must have been Walker.’
‘But we can’t rule out the real heir either, or rather the person who appeared at the theatre to claim he was. What if he got so mad that he pushed Silas Norwhich to his death? Never meaning to kill him maybe… What if he came to prove he was the heir and gave Norwhich some sort of document to prove it, then Norwhich denied it was real and he pushed him in anger and killed him, then pulled the paper from his dead hand, not noticing a snippet stayed behind?’
Jake nodded. ‘So it is a tie between Walker and this man who appeared at the theatre.’
‘The man returned from the dead,’ Alkmene said satisfied. ‘The countess was so right. He did appear like he had risen from those marshes in which the woman and her baby were supposed to have drowned.’
‘We have no idea if he even knew about Cunningham.’
‘Yes, he said so. Why else would Silas Norwhich have been so mad at his attorney? He believed Pemboldt had spread the word and provoked these fake claims.’
‘So if the man at the theatre knew about Cunningham, but not from the lawyer, his claim could have been real.’
‘That depends.’ Alkmene touched his arm. ‘Consider. Norwhich was obsessed with Cunningham, asking around for information. That must have led to talk. Maybe somebody there thought up the same plan as the lawyers had. Produce a fake heir and cash in.’
Jake nodded. ‘So we have to go and visit Cunningham to find out who was in the know about this summer romance of old and the baby that was supposed to have been born of it. How soon can you pack for a trip?’
Alkmene stared at him. ‘Soon enough. Why?’
‘I will rent a car, and we are going to Dartmoor.’
‘Not again!’ Jake Dubois hit the brake as a whole herd of sheep poured into the narrow road. A sleek black and white dog followed, yapping at them. Then a shepherd, with a green felt hat with a feather on his curly hair and a long stick in his hand.
He lifted his free hand at them, as he watched the sheep squeeze themselves one by one through a narrow opening in the stone wall on the other side of the road. This kind of natural wall – stones held together by their own weight – had run along their road for miles now, closing in meadows and fields, or orchards with gnarled trees, their trunks covered with moss.
Jake drummed on the wheel. ‘At this pace we will never get to Cunningham.’
‘Don’t be so negative,’ Alkmene said. ‘The last sign said five more miles. We must have done four already. Look around you. Sweet little cottages with chimneys that are about to collapse, authentic characters like this shepherd.’
Alkmene waved at him with her gloved hand as he crossed, whistling to his dog that had strayed a few yards to sniff against the wall. It came running with its tail up, making a weird leap like a lamb outdoors for the first time in spring.
Alkmene sighed in satisfaction. ‘It is so peaceful here. No people in a hurry, bustling about, shouting at each other. I’d love to spend summers in the countryside like they did in the old days.’
‘You’d die of boredom,’ Jake said cynically as he hit the gas and let the engine rev.
Alkmene rolled her eyes at him.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘No shops to go to, to spend money on costumes and hats, no countesses to meet up with at fancy tea parlours.’
‘I’d go out into the fields to paint.’ Alkmene nodded firmly. ‘I’d sit down by a brook and try to capture the essence of the flowing water or I’d do a view of the moor with threatening storm clouds over it. Then just before the weather broke, I’d carry my easel to some rustic inn and order their stew.’
She could just see herself leaning back in a nice leather chair at the fire, rubbing her chilly hands and breathing the delicious scents from the kitchen.
‘You do know they put sheep’s eyes into it?’
‘In Scotland maybe. Not here.’ Alkmene settled better in the car seat and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I would have the innkeeper’s wife make me a lunch to carry along as I took my car for a spin to visit some old ruin of a castle or a settlement on the moor. I am fascinated by excavations. You?’
‘Not particularly,’ Jake said in a sour tone.
‘Oh,
