Morris had to be aware of Henley’s reputation with women. “His reasons aside, Miss O’Rourke recognized him. He wore a leper’s costume to mask his identity. What of Stanley Metcalfe?”
“Er, yes. I believe Metcalfe was invited.”
“He, too, wore a leper’s costume. Miss O’Rourke danced with him. When Henley approached her in the garden, she thought it was Metcalfe.”
“But what has that to do with anything?”
“I chased Henley to the stables where he stole Grenleigh’s stallion and got away.”
“Grenleigh? Hell and damnation! He’ll have my hide.”
Charlie gave a grim laugh. “He is not too pleased, but I lent him mine. I warrant the horse will turn up in a day or two. Henley will not keep anything that would give his identity or location away.”
Morris drank the entire contents of his glass in a single gulp. “So this is it, then? Henley assaulted a girl who is safely home and took Grenleigh’s prize stallion which will turn up in a day or two?”
“Alas, there’s more to it than that. When I came back through the garden after chasing Henley, I stumbled across Mr. Metcalfe. He’d been stabbed in the chest and hidden in the bushes behind the arbor.”
“Is he all right?”
“Afraid not, Morris. He’s dead. The question is, how shall we handle this unfortunate event?”
Morris’s mouth moved but did not form any intelligible words.
Wycliffe finished his brandy and slammed his glass down on the sideboard with a resounding thud. “Metcalfe. Damnation! Another lead silenced.”
“So my question is this,” Jamie continued, determined to get to the bottom of the matter. “Where did you send Henley’s invitation, and when did you last talk to him?”
“I…I…He came to me. Here. He’d heard about the masquerade and wanted to attend. ‘Twas he who asked me to put Stanley Metcalfe on the guest list. I did not see him tonight.”
So Henley had devised this plan to get at Metcalfe. Poor bastard. He’d never had a chance. But there was still another question. “Why would you oblige a man like Henley? Surely you’ve heard the rumors.”
If Morris had looked uncomfortable before, he now looked as if he were about to flee. “He was blackmailing me. I…I was present at Daschel’s passion play. Or that’s what I thought it was. It was actually a—”
“We know what it was,” Wycliffe interrupted. “So he was threatening to expose you if you did not do as he asked?”
Morris acknowledged with a curt nod.
“There’s more,” Jamie guessed.
“I’ve been paying him. Large sums of money.”
“How?”
“He waits outside my club. Demands cash.”
Cash. Large sums of it. Why would Henley need large sums of money when he was living in Whitefriars? And was Morris the only one from whom he was extorting funds?
Morris was a member of Brooks’s, an elegant establishment in St. James Street. Henley would have to lurk in the shadows to avoid being recognized, but it could be useful to set a watch on the place. A glance at Wycliffe and Charlie told him that they were thinking the same thing.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Morris asked Wycliffe.
“If you were no more involved with the Brotherhood than you say, Morris, you needn’t worry. If you were…we’ll be back. At the moment we need to deal with the damage done tonight.
“The guests are beginning to leave. We will keep this quiet until tomorrow. Charlie, go to the arbor and make certain no one stumbles across Metcalfe meanwhile. Morris, encourage the guests not to linger. Remove the punch bowl and cork the wine bottles.”
“They will think I am penurious!” Morris blustered.
“Would you rather they panic when they learn there’s a dead body in your garden or sneer when they learn that you’ve been paying blackmail, and why? “
The man sank heavily into his chair.
“We have use for you, Morris. Keep your mouth shut and your head down and you may yet get out of this untainted.”
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