Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [151]
“I suppose it hardly needs saying that the boy is who he seems to be?”
“There could be no doubt,” Marsh answered. I peered across at him: Had that been a faint accent I heard, a faintly Semitic placement to the R?
“He is the very image of Gabriel at that age,” Iris confirmed. “The boy Thomas may be a fake, but not Gabe.”
“I agree,” said Alistair, not looking up from his carving.
“Very well; that settles the problem of inheritances,” Holmes said, and made to go on to the next item of business on his agenda. I, however, was not so sure.
“It may settle the question of the title,” I cut in, “but I wouldn’t assume it settles the future of Justice. Helen is by no means clear in her mind that coming here would be best for the boy.”
Holmes was already shaking his head dismissively. “It matters not. If the boy is Gabriel’s son, born in wedlock, then he is the seventh Duke. What his mother decides to do about the child’s living arrangements may require lengthy negotiations, but that element of the problem lies in the future. Are we in agreement?”
It was somewhat unusual for Holmes to consult with his partners before tying off his conclusions, but then, this was hardly his usual sort of case. However, the once and (potentially) future duke, his wife, and his cousin were all in accord: The strawberry leaves, at least, had been lifted from Marsh’s head.
“We are still left with the question of Sub-Lieutenant Hughenfort’s untimely death. I take it we agree that the man who arranged his death is still at large, and that he must be dealt with before we can all feel free to return to our natural orbits?”
“The child wouldn’t live to see mid-summer,” Alistair growled, and sliced a vicious strip from the knot of wood in his hand. Iris winced at his words, Marsh sat silent, but we all agreed: The five-year-old Duke of Beauville could not be left vulnerable.
“From the early days of this case,” Holmes resumed, flaring a match into life and setting it to his pipe-bowl, “we have been confronted with a choice of villains, coming down eventually to two. And before you interrupt me again, Russell, let me say that the three of us occupied the War Records Offices for a solid week—very solid, taking into account the state of the sofas on which we slept—and after scouring the files, we came up with no definitive evidence, not a shred that would eliminate either man from consideration.”
I raised my cup to my lips, to hide the smile I could not help: Normally it was Holmes who managed to snag the more interesting and productive path of an investigation. This time he had sent me off on a boat into the frigid Atlantic, and I’d come up with gold while he had uncovered only a lot of dust. A few years before, I might have pointed this out; now, I merely took a swallow of coffee and kept my eyes demurely on the fire.
Rather sourly, Holmes continued. “There are two prime candidates for Gabriel Hughenfort’s murder-by-proxy. Sidney Darling came most immediately to hand—a man with deep ties, both financial and social, to his wife’s family home. Even before the War, Darling had a lot to say in the running of the estate and the tenant farms. Since the War, Darling has been virtually running the place. The proposed stud is his project, the Hall and the London house are his freely to use, he has position, authority, everything but the title. All that would have changed were his nephew to have inherited, when Lady Phillida would have been issued an income and become a guest in the Hall, not its mistress. As for opportunity, Darling’s position in 1918 was such that he could readily have arranged for Gabriel’s transfer and, later, the condemnatory letter. Darling had considerable interest in preserving the status quo at Justice Hall. Similarly, when Marsh came, he too represented