The Dead Duke Page 6

  “Appalling,” Harriette murmured and took another small bite from her sandwich.

  “I feel more strongly than ever that she is our main suspect,” Ishbel said.

  “What of the actress?” Harriette asked. “Have you found out anything to firmly establish that she is not the murderess?”

  “Well, no,” Ishbel admitted.

  “I had an idea about that,” Mr MacPherson said. “I suspect you will not like it and, indeed, I am not entirely comfortable suggesting it, but we may be able to determine whether or not Miss McNeil is the guilty person by looking through her belongings. She and the duke might have exchanged letters; there could be any number of items that might show that she either had, or did not have, a motive to kill him.”

  Ishbel explained to Harriette how Mr MacPherson came to be in possession of Miss McNeil’s personal effects and her cousin immediately said, “Then Mr MacPherson must examine them and bring anything pertinent to show you. The two of you cannot be squeamish about such things now. You either wish to do anything necessary to find the killer, or you do not.”

  Ishbel quashed her uneasiness of such a breach of Miss McNeil’s privacy, telling herself that if her possessions proved her innocence, Miss McNeil could not object to it. “We do,” she said firmly.

  * * *

  It was mid-afternoon before Mr MacPherson returned from his search. Ishbel had written up their findings so far, which had largely consisted of several character studies and a number of names that had question marks beside them. She had then lost herself in the pages of a medical textbook in the library, which was how Mr MacPherson found her, when Gallach announced him.

  She got up and returned his bow with an automatic curtsy and looked with interest at the items he carried. “What did you learn?”

  Mr MacPherson placed his small armful on a table and then hastily grabbed a tall pile of books that was nearly overturned. He took the first item from his collection and held out a bundle of letters to her. “They are only from an old friend of Miss McNeil’s in England but they provide some useful information. It would be more helpful if we had Miss McNeil’s side of the correspondence, but some of her comments can be inferred from the replies. I will gladly summarise them but I felt you would want to read them yourself. You might see something I overlooked.”

  She took the letters and they both sat down on upholstered wooden chairs.

  “The writer seems to be another actress by the name of Mrs Philips who left the troupe when she got married. Mrs Philips often mentions the other actors, some of whom seem to have been worried about Miss McNeil’s relationship with Duke Raden, fearing he would one day cast her aside and break her heart. Her love for him certainly sounds sincere, from the comments made.”

  “Is there any mention of a possible marriage between them?”

  “No. There are joking comments about what Miss McNeil would do in such a situation, but she seems to be highlighting her unsuitability for such a position, rather than suggesting it as anything likely. She seems to have been very content in her relationship with the duke and says nothing against him.”

  “Then she had no motive at all to kill him,” Ishbel said as she thought it over. She could not imagine how a woman could feel any security in such an arrangement, but perhaps it had suited Miss MacNeil, giving her affectionate companionship but leaving her free to live her life the way she wished.

  “None that is obvious. She did, however, make some criticisms about the duke’s friends. As I said, I am only assuming what Miss McNeil said based on Mrs Phillips’ replies, but Lord Moray is mentioned by name. Mrs Phillips says she is glad to hear that the duke is no longer associating with Lord Moray and that Miss McNeil must feel safer because of it.”

  “Safer?” Ishbel asked.

  He nodded. “There are no more details than that. However, there is also a mention – with no names given – of the duke’s friends treating Miss McNeil with an unpleasant degree of familiarity, as if she were no better than a... well, than a fallen woman.”

  “That must have been horrible for her,” Ishbel said. She felt as if she had quite a clear picture of Miss McNeil in her mind by this point in the case, and she liked all she knew of the woman. She was happy to learn there was no reason to think her guilty, but they still had to prove her innocence, preferably before the law caught up with her.

  “If Lord Moray was indeed one of the men who behaved like that then it explains the falling out between him and the duke.”

  Ishbel frowned. “It is strange that the servants thought the disagreement was over money. I would have thought that they would have had opportunity to overhear the truth from the duke.”

  “Perhaps the issue over money – whatever it was – was the final straw, or perhaps that occurred before the duke learnt of Lord Moray’s actions.”

  “Yes. You are probably right. Did the letters mention anything else important?”

  “They give a good deal of insight into the relationships between the actors. It occurred to me as I was reading them that we might consider two sets of suspects: those who were acquainted with the duke and had a reason to want to harm him and also those who knew Miss McNeil and might, for instance, have been in love with her and killed the duke because he was a rival for her affections.”

  “Is such a person mentioned?”

  “She apparently had quite a long romantic liaison that ended about a year ago with an actor referred to only as Tim. I can ask Chiverton who that might be.”

  “So if this actor’s feelings had remained strong towards Miss McNeil, he might have thought he stood a better chance of winning her if the duke were out of her life.”

  “Exactly.” He got to his feet, straightened his coat and walked to the table where he had placed Miss McNeil’s belongings. “There is something else. I found this amongst the items Miss McNeil owned.”

  He held a small object out to her. She breathed in sharply as she took it: “A letter opener.”

  “It is hardly uncommon for people to possess such a thing and I can see no blood on it, but in light of our discussions about the murder weapon...”

  He tailed off and she looked down at the harmless-looking silver object in her hands. Could it have been used to kill Duke Raden?

  Chapter Fourteen

  ISHBEL STIFLED a sigh as she sat in the overly warm drawing room of Lady Mooreville. Since Harriette had been so generous in her attitude about her work, Ishbel had felt the need to reciprocate and had agreed to attend an informal luncheon with her. Lady Mooreville was one of the more important and well respected members of Edinburgh society, so Harriette had felt it would be useful for Ishbel to make a good impression on her. It was only now, sitting amongst people with whom she had nothing in common, that Ishbel remembered she never knew what to say at such gatherings and was, therefore, unlikely to make any impression at all on Lady Mooreville.

  A couple more guests were announced and Ishbel looked up with pleasure to see Mr Chiverton and a young blonde lady whose similarity of features suggested that she was his younger sister. He introduced her to Lady Mooreville then to the others present, smiling at Ishbel as he said to Miss Chiverton, “This is Miss Campbell, MacPherson’s friend.”

  There was a spark of curiosity in Miss Chiverton’s blue eyes as she curtsyed to Ishbel, who guessed that she knew about the investigation and wondered if she also understood about her brother’s relationship with one of the actors.

  “I am very happy to meet you,” she told the young lady. “I am never quite comfortable at big social events but your brother’s kindness has always eased my nerves. I hope you will consider me a friendly face in similar situations.”

  Miss Chiverton gave a pretty smile. “I would very much appreciate that. I am almost shaking with fear today and this is just a small group. I have no idea what to say to anyone.”

  “I have no good advice on that. I tend to say very little as I have no interest in clothes or balls.”

  “What does inte
rest you?” Miss Chiverton asked.

  “Books. Increasing my knowledge about medicine and the world in general.”

  “I like to read,” Miss Chiverton said in a quiet tone, as if confessing something scandalous.

  Mr Chiverton glanced round to make sure they were not overheard, then said to Ishbel, “Speaking of knowledge, how is your investigation going?”

  “We have a number of possible suspects,” Ishbel told him, as his sister listened with interest. “There is actually one that we wanted your advice about. Do you know of anyone amongst Miss McNeil’s colleagues whose first name is Tim?”

  “Yes, Alex has mentioned him and I believe I met the fellow a couple of times socially. Now what is his surname?” He frowned into the distance and then his expression changed to a smile. “Harrison. Tim Harrison. He is one of the regular group, not one of the people whom their manager employs when they visit a new city. How is he a suspect?”

  Ishbel hesitated, unsure of how much to say in front of Miss Chiverton. Trying to speak in a delicate manner, she said, “He had a close friendship with Miss McNeil, we have learnt, and could have seen the duke as a rival.”

  “Eddie, everything you and Mr MacPherson do these days seems to be involved in scandal,” Miss Chiverton whispered to her brother. “It is wonderful!”

  Ishbel smiled at the young lady’s glee, certain now that she liked her, and saw her brother stifle laughter.

  “It is pleasant as long as no one else finds out about it,” he told her in an equally quiet tone.

  Miss Chiverton made a crossing gesture over her chest. “I will tell no one.”

  They straightened from the conspiratorial huddle as Lady Mooreville approached to collect Miss Chiverton and introduce her to the new arrivals.

  Left alone with Mr Chiverton, Ishbel found herself uncertain what to say.

  “MacPherson said that he had told you about Alex and I,” Mr Chiverton said in so much of an undertone she could barely hear the words. “I am grateful to you for promising not to tell others about it.”

  “Of course,” she said at once. “I would never wish any harm to befall you or your friend.” After a moment she added, “I have to admit that it is one of the few subjects I have never encountered in my book collection.”

  He smiled in a self-conscious manner. “I imagine not.”

  She found she wanted to understand him. “Is it like being in love?”

  “It is exactly that,” he told her. “It is the desire to find someone who loves you, understands you and will always support you that I imagine most people feel.”

  She digested this, thinking that perhaps the two of them were not so different: him in his wish to love whom he chose, and her in her wish to live her life as she chose. At least she was free to be honest, even if it meant facing the scorn and anger of others. It must be painful to always have to keep part of one’s life a secret. “I wish you well,” she told him sincerely and received a bright smile in return.

  The guests had now all arrived so they sat down together in the stiff-backed drawing room chairs and no further secret conversations were possible. Ishbel, sipping a cup of tea, was steeling herself for a dull afternoon when she heard one of the gentlemen across from her addressed by name.

  With a surge of excitement, she said in what she hoped was a calm tone, “Are you Lord Moray, sir?”

  “I am indeed.”

  For some reason she had not expected him to be so young: perhaps in his mid-twenties like Mr MacPherson. Since there was no one about who could effect a proper introduction, Ishbel ignored convention and gave him her name. She then said, “I believe I should offer you my condolences, sir. I understand you were a good friend of Duke Raden.”

  She noticed as Mr Chiverton and his sister looked sharply in her direction, clearly realising this was someone involved in her investigation, while Harriette gave her a warning glare.

  “His death was a great loss,” Lord Moray said, looking uncomfortable.

  “And such a terrible tragedy.”

  “True.”

  Ishbel was burning with questions to put to him, but none of them were suitable for asking at a tea party and he clearly had no wish to discuss the matter. Frustrated, she resolved to simply learn more about him. At the very least, she knew what he looked like now and had exchanged an introduction, so she could speak to him further in the future.

  He began a conversation with a gentleman opposite him and she studied him.

  Her comments had clearly discomposed him, which was interesting.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CHIVERTON CHECKED his appearance in the full-length gold-framed mirror in his bed chamber and frowned. “Would the yellow striped coat and breeches be more suitable, do you think?”

  Anders, his valet, an older man of around thirty years, whose opinion on fashion Chiverton knew he could trust, said in his English accent, “Either colour and style is entirely à la mode but the blue is more distinguished on you, I feel, sir.”

  “Good.” Chiverton turned and smiled. “I would not want my friends to think me shabbily turned out.”

  “Of course not, sir.” Anders did not shudder at the idea but the implication was there.

  “I will visit Mama before I leave. Is my father around, do you know?” Chiverton would rather remain elsewhere by preference or, at least, be forewarned if he was about to be ordered on some family errand.

  “Mr Chiverton and Mr Henry are in the study, sir. I believe new estate accounts arrived that they are discussing and past experience suggests they will be occupied in this manner for some time.”

  Trust Anders to know every detail. Chiverton ignored the unpleasant feeling of being kept out of his family’s business affairs; he should be used to it by now. He had a generous allowance and assumed that his father or brother would inform him should the family ever lose its fortune. Beyond that, the subject was kept a mystery from himself, Mama and Fiona and he sometimes felt he shared the status of one of the family horses: treated well but owned and put to use when needed. His opinion upon any business matter was as likely to be sought as would that of a horse.

  He dismissed the subject and gave a nod of thanks to his valet before leaving the room. He walked down the corridor past a collection of family portraits, which showed his ancestors to have been a well-favoured group. Some, he had always been amused to see, looked smugly aware of the fact.

  His mother was still confined to her room but was, at last, regaining her strength. Today she wore a red woollen day dress and sat by the fire embroidering, the flames giving her complexion a colour that almost made it seem as if the months of illness and fear for her life had never occurred.

  The sight made Chiverton smile as he approached her and bent down to kiss her cheek. “How well you look, Mama.”

  “It is pleasant to have a fresh view of the room,” she said, touching his hair as he knelt beside her chair. “I am greatly looking forward to the time when I can take a walk round the gardens.”

  “It will not be too many days before you can do so, I am sure, and I hope you will give me the pleasure of escorting you on your perambulation.”

  “That would be lovely.” Her eyes hovered with uncertainty upon his clothes. “It is a cold day. Are you dressed sufficiently warmly for a day outside with your friends?”

  “I will wear my greatcoat and we will be walking for much of the time, so I will be well.” McDonald wanted to buy a new stallion and had asked for his friend’s advice on the two possibilities.

  “I can never think of Mr MacPherson and Mr McDonald as men: in my mind they are still young boys full of energy and excitement. Do you remember how little Ewan used to love seeing the ducks on our pond?”

  He laughed as the image contrasted with MacPherson’s current hobby of pursuing criminals and Miss Campbell. “I recall it vividly.”

  A movement in the doorway made him turn his head, to find a footman hovering there. “Please forgive the interruption, Mrs Chiverton, but Mr M
cDonald’s carriage is here to collect Mr Edward Chiverton.”

  “Then you must not keep him waiting,” his mother said to Chiverton.

  “I will see you when I return,” he promised before leaving her and hurtling down the stairs in a manner that would have gained him a reprimand if either his father or brother saw him. Happily, they did not.

  Both men were already in McDonald’s carriage when Chiverton got up beside them. He had got the impression that MacPherson had been avoiding McDonald lately over the latter’s cool attitude towards Miss Campbell and disapproval over MacPherson’s interest in solving mysteries. He hoped the matter could be resolved today, the friendship between them all too close for such quarrels. No one knew them better than each other.

  McDonald handed him something that turned out to be a hot brick wrapped in wool. “My mother suggested we bring them,” he said, echoing the concern of Chiverton’s Mama, “and I think she was right. I had not realised quite how icy it was.”

  The weather was sunny but freezing and, while the carriage protected them from the wind, it did nothing to alleviate the chill, so Chiverton placed the brick on his knees, hands resting on it, and appreciated the warmth it provided. Mothers clearly understood such matters and he thought, not for the first time, that the death of MacPherson’s mother must have been a hard loss. Men often seemed to look for motherly qualities in wives in such circumstances but Chiverton could not imagine Miss Campbell thinking to arrange for MacPherson to have a hot brick to take on a cold carriage ride. She might remind him to carry a sword or pistol in case of unexpected danger but that was hardly the same thing. As much as Chiverton liked and respected her, he was still not certain she would be a good wife for his friend. On the other hand, would his friends think Alex the ideal companion for him? It was hardly likely but MacPherson at least had kept any such opinion to himself and allowed Chiverton to make his own choice. It was only right for Chiverton to do the same.