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Charles sat down, crossing his legs. Arthur returned to his own seat, behind the desk.
“Quite a scare, old boy?” Arthur prompted him.
“It was,” Charles agreed. He took a sip, letting the oaky liquor slip down his throat, warming him. “You know, Arthur—they’re all clients of mine.”
Arthur frowned. “Do you think the murderer is trying to frame you?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.
“So you’re in here to tell me that you’re planning to hire Alistair, then?”
“To get your advice,” Charles replied. “As both a friend and a professional.” He passed his list over to Arthur, who perused it. “These are all of my clients who have requested the same services as Lords Diggar, Danbury, and Drysdale. All of them have recently revised their wills. As though they knew that someone meant to murder them.”
“You think the murderer has sent them threats, perhaps?” Arthur asked, curiously.
“I do,” he said. “I know that Lord Drysdale and the Duke of Tiverwell have received threats of an epistolary nature. Not to mention, there was a threat painted on the wall of Tiverwell Manor, during the summer.”
Arthur sat, staring at the list for a very long moment. He squinted, clearly deep in thought. Charles waited patiently, taking a good swallow of his drink to steady himself.
“I have the name of a private detective whom I trust implicitly,” Arthur replied at last. “I think you two should have a chat.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to solve this more easily than the constables will?” Charles asked.
“To put it simply, yes,” Arthur replied with confidence. “The Constabulary are a bunch of bumbling nincompoops. Who knows how long it will be until they start suspecting you again. You’d be delivering yourself up, tied with a neat bow. You must protect yourself. You’ll need this person on your side. He’s an Earl himself, for what it’s worth.”
Charles nodded. It couldn’t get much better than that. “All right. What’s his place of business?”
“He works out of his home,” Arthur replied, digging around in his desk, then coming up with a small card. He handed it over, and Charles glanced at it.
Lord Alfred Honeywell, Earl of Dunsmore, Private Detective.
“Thank you, Arthur.” Charles had heard of Lord Dunsmore. He was renowned for his exploits, as well as his rather impressive list of successes.
Arthur was right, though. Charles would need a gentleman of the ton to back him up. He had the feeling that the Duke of Tiverwell was not himself. Nor would he remain an ally, should Charles be blamed. It was clear—His Grace was terrified.
Arthur raised his glass in a salute. “That’s what I’m here for, old friend.”
* * *
Arabella had finally calmed down, when Mr. Blankley came to get her. She followed him down to the parlor, where the constable waited to get her statement.
“My Lady,” the constable said. “I’m Constable Mills. I’ve only just spoken to your mother, and gotten her statement.” He was an older man, with bushy white eyebrows, and a moustache. He was on the portly side, almost as if he’d been stuffed into his uniform.
“Where is she?” Arabella wondered. It would be good to have her there, to back up what Arabella said.
“The Duchess has gone up to her room,” Blankley replied. “She’s feeling…indisposed.”
“I see,” Arabella said, taking a seat. She glanced over at Blankley, who stood at attention by the door.
“Your butler may remain here,” the constable said.
“Thank you, that would be preferable,” Arabella replied.
“So, Lady Arabella,” Constable Mills said.
She looked at him, wondering how these things were done.
“Your statement, please.” He had a pad of paper, and a pen, for notes. He held the pen, poised over the blank sheet. Arabella took a moment to collect her thoughts.
