the deceptive world of spying.
Keegan pressed Bryce further. “Tell me it is not the countess who brings that look to your face. Why do you allow her and that scurvy cousin of hers to remain at Paddock Green?”
His grin broadening into a smile, Bryce shook his head. “You certainly harbor little love for Isabella. Actually, I consider it my duty to the king to keep them under my roof. I do not trust Sansouche, and he can be easily followed from here on his midnight jaunts through the countryside. We almost caught him and his cohorts in Little Shepherd’s Cemetery a few nights past. The next time, we will succeed. The problem is holding the countess at bay. If I send her to London, her cousin would go with her.”
Keegan blew a low whistle after Bryce’s explanation. “So that is your game. You think Sansouche is the French spy.”
“Actually, I think Sansouche is in league with the spy, but he’s not their leader. I had Red Tattoo on his trail, but lately my valet has been working on another matter.”
With raised brows, Keegan asked, “Yes?”
It was not until both men slowed their mounts to cross the narrow, rambling brook which adjoined Londringham’s and Carstairs’s estates that Bryce replied, “Red has been looking for a young woman that I met at the fair as well as the young Rupert Mandeley. He may know something about his cousin’s murder, but unfortunately, the boy seems to have disappeared without a trace.”
Keegan mused, “A girl, a murder, and French spies. Must keep Red busy. Where is he now?”
“He traveled to Storrington to visit the young man’s family. I expect his return any day, hopefully with good news.” Conversation was postponed as they hied their horses up the circular driveway.
Carstairs’s butler greeted the men at the door and ushered them into the front parlor where the local constable, Lyle Cavendish, awaited them. Bright sunlight from the windows that aligned the east wall lit the dark-wainscoted room.
Cavendish’s small eyes blinked behind his thick spectacles as he squirmed his pudgy body further into the small chair. His bushy black moustache seemed to cover most of his countenance except for the thick brows that framed his small, pale face.
Bryce nodded to his friend. “Mr. Cavendish, this is my associate, Captain Keegan Kilkennen. I asked him to accompany me today. Your note indicated that you have suspicions that Carstairs may have been selling secrets to the French. What accounts for this?”
Cavendish rubbed his hands together and replied in his earnest Yorkshire accent, “Yes, I believe the viscount was working with our enemy. Connecting the pieces to the puzzle, I recently learned that Carstairs had lost funds at a rather rapid pace for several months. Then suddenly, his situation changes, and he has money to spare. Even his lawyer cannot explain the viscount’s recent wealth. Apparently, the man trusted no one and was extremely secretive.”
Keegan leaned against a nearby desk. “And who might you think killed him? His French benefactors would have wanted to keep him alive for his information. Do you think his cousin, this young Mandeley fellow, had anything to do with his murder?”
Drumming his fat fingers on the arm of his chair, Cavendish intoned, “Too soon to say. The maid declares she saw the young man standing over the body. That’s all we have. No motive, no murder weapon, nothing. But it certainly does look serious for the young man. His disappearance has only increased the opinion of guilt most have about him.”
“It is not Mandeley.”
Cavendish and Keegan glanced over at Bryce upon hearing his surprising conviction.
The captain frowned and confronted his friend. “How did you come to this conclusion?”
Bryce slowly progressed around the large study, studying the objects and furniture as if seeking answers and seemingly uninterested in the conversation when he looked up and said thoughtfully, “It is my job to know people and where their loyalties lie. I have been thinking about the night I met Rupert Mandeley at a local family’s soiree. We spoke only briefly, but he seemed like an eager, jovial chap and very wet behind the ears.”
He held up his hand to halt any encroaching argument. “Not in Carstairs’s league. If we find the motive behind the murder, we shall find our assassin. However, I certainly would like to find the Mandeley boy. I think he could tell us something.”
The constable’s eyes squeezed tight, listening to Londringham’s pronouncement. He moved his jaw from side to side, then decided, “Londringham. You could be right. However, we may indeed find that behind the innocence of youth lies a deceitful heart.”
Bryce’s only response was a lift of an arched brow.
They spent the better part of the morning interviewing the house staff and searching for answers in the shambles of the study. But they found no motive for the murder or clues to the murderer’s identity. Reviewing documents left on Carstairs’s desk, Bryce noticed Cavendish absentmindedly spinning the large globe on its stand near the windows.
Remembering something Carstairs had once said, Bryce hurried over to the stand and stopped its movement. His hands expertly skimmed over the smooth circumference as the other men watched in amazement. At the bottom of the globe, his forefinger felt a tiny metal hook. He pulled the hook and a document fell to the floor.
Bryce bent down and scooped the rolled paper into his hand. A quick glance at the unfurled scroll was all he needed. “This is what he wanted.”
“Who?” Keegan asked, peering over Bryce’s shoulder.
“The murderer. It is a map marked with weak joints of our battlements along the coast. I saw a similar document in Hobart’s offices. This map could help the French determine where best to land their troops in an invasion.” He paused thoughtfully. “Carstairs’s death must have something to do with the French spies in our midst. If Carstairs was feeding information to the French, that would account for his sudden wealth, but not his murder.”
All three men stared at the document in the earl’s hands, wondering what vital information Carstairs might have passed on to the French. Although Cavendish wanted to claim the paper as evidence, Bryce persuaded the constable to allow him to keep it for awhile. It might prove useful in catching a spy or two, he jested.
Later, after dinner, Bryce relaxed in the library on the settee near the fireplace, wincing unconsciously at the pain in his right thigh. He thought very little about his injury and too much of a deeper wound he allowed no one to see. Just one of the many casualties of last November. Revenge held him tighter than a spiderweb holds a fly. He was a captive of that night and would never be free until he had caught Edward’s murderer.
Soon. Soon, he’d find the French spies. Then he could return to France and search for the Frenchwoman spy.
He turned his mind to Carstairs’s murder. Although he and the constable were convinced that the viscount had been in league with the French spies, they were not entirely sure what other Englishmen might be enjoying heavier pockets in exchange for military information. And then there was the matter of the countess’s cousin, Alain Sansouche.
In the past month, the Frenchman had acted extremely respectable, with not one whiff of any peculiar or suspicious actions.
Further contemplation was interrupted when, under half-closed lids, he watched Keegan, Isabella, and Sansouche stroll into the library. Isabella
