The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [130]
“So ye think that he might have discovered what Siverly was into—perhaps as a result of your visit—and killed him to prevent his carrying out the scheme? Whatever scheme it was?”
“Yes. That’s the honorable theory. The dishonorable one is that, discovering that Siverly held all this money—presumably on behalf of the conspiracy—he might simply have decided to do away with Siverly and pocket the lot. But the point is …” He spoke more slowly, choosing his words. “Whichever it was, if it had to do with money, then there may be proof of it in the papers that Siverly had.”
Grey’s hand had curled into a fist as he spoke, and he struck it lightly on his knee, unconscious of the movement.
“I need to get into the house and get those papers. If there’s any proof of Siverly’s involvement in a political conspiracy, or Twelvetrees’s relations with him, it must lie there.”
Jamie had been wondering, during these last conjectures, whether to mention the Duchess of Pardloe’s information regarding Twelvetrees and money. Apparently, she hadn’t chosen to share it with her husband or her brother-in-law, and he wondered why not.
The answer to that presented itself almost immediately: her wicked old father. Andrew Rennie was undoubtedly the source of her information, and she likely didn’t want Pardloe finding out that she still dabbled in intelligence work for the old man. He didn’t blame her. At the same time, the situation now seemed more serious than whatever marital strife the revelation might cause, if it got back to the duke.
“I don’t suppose you’re any more anxious to see him fight another duel than I am.” The duchess’s words came back to him. Ah, he’d forgotten that. It wasn’t only her father she was concerned with; it was what might happen if Pardloe crossed swords—either figuratively or literally—with Edward Twelvetrees.
Aye, well—he might be able to save her confidence, even while sharing the information.
“There’s a thing ye ought to know,” Jamie said abruptly. “For some time, Twelvetrees has been moving large quantities of money to Ireland. To Ireland,” he emphasized. “I didna ken where it was going—nor did the person who told me—but what d’ye think the odds are that it was going to Siverly?”
Grey’s face went almost comically blank. Then he pursed his lips and breathed in slowly, thinking.
“Well,” he said at last. “That does alter the probabilities. If that’s true, and if it means that Twelvetrees was involved in the conspiracy, then it may be a case of plotters falling out—or …” A second thought brightened his face; clearly he didn’t like the notion of Twelvetrees being a traitor, which Jamie thought very interesting. “Or he was misled in what the money was to be used for and, discovering the truth, decided to put Siverly out of commission before he could put anything into action. I suppose your source didn’t tell you exactly what this particular conspiracy had in mind to accomplish?” He shot Jamie a sharp look.
“No,” Jamie said, with absolute truth. “But I suppose ye’re right about the need to see the papers, if ye can. What makes ye think Twelvetrees hasn’t already got them?”
Grey took a deep breath and blew it out, shaking his head.
“He might. But it was only yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?—that Siverly was killed. Twelvetrees wasn’t staying in the house; the butler told me. The servants will be in a great taking, and Siverly does—did—have a wife, who presumably inherits the place. The constable said he was sealing the house until the coroner could come; I can’t see the butler just letting Twelvetrees march in, open the chest, and make off with everything in it.
“Besides,” he glanced toward the stone cottage where Tom Byrd lay, “I’d thought that once you got me out, we’d go straight back to Glastuig, and I’d almost certainly be there before Twelvetrees could worm his way in. But things happen, don’t they?”
“They do,” Jamie agreed, with a certain grimness.
They sat for a moment in silence,