“Then I should inform you that you will soon receive a visit from the senior constable in the company of the chief-magistrate, keen to question your master on the matter of murder. If you have any loyalty to the gentleman, tell me where he went.”
After blinking back his shock, and getting himself into a fluster, the servant said, “A boy came with a message three hours ago, and Mr Layton left.”
Three hours ago?
That meant Layton returned home after the murder.
“To go where? You must have passed instructions to his coachman.”
The butler shook his head. “Mr Layton climbed
into a hackney. It arrived shortly after the boy delivered his message and scampered off down the street.”
Lawrence rubbed his jaw. Confusion plundered his already muddled mind.
“Fearing your master might be in danger,” he began in the masterful tone that always reaped results, “I insist you accompany me on a quick tour of the house.”
The butler pursed his lips.
“Once the magistrate arrives, he will take over the proceedings, and I’ll have no hope of finding a clue.”
With some reluctance, the butler agreed.
Lawrence found nothing incriminating in Layton’s bedchamber other than a wet coat and breeches, and the absence of his Elizabethan costume. When it came to examining the study, the butler insisted Lawrence observe his master’s private room from the doorway. That was enough to notice two copies of Vathek on the desk.
“Might I inspect those books?”
The butler plodded over to the desk and studied the spines before abiding by his request. Lawrence flicked to the vacat page. Nothing. Not one word of warning. Not a single threat. He leafed through the clean pages—still nothing.
“They’re new,” the servant informed. “Mr Layton ordered them earlier this week. He gave his previous copy to a friend.”
“Indeed.” He returned them to the butler. “You should mention your master’s fondness for this particular book when the magistrate arrives.”
After thanking the butler, Lawrence returned to the hackney coach and delivered the news to Wycliff and Cavanagh.
“I’m more than happy to accompany you to Dover,” Cavanagh said when Lawrence instructed the driver to head for Jermyn Street. “Unless there’s a substantial reward, few constables will make the long journey.”
“Particularly when we have no notion that’s where the fool is heading,” Wycliff added.
No, and until Lawrence knew for sure, he would return to the hotel and not let Verity out of his sight.
“With luck, Layton’s ship will sink in the middle of the Dover Straits.” If not, Lawrence feared he might be forever looking over his shoulder, waiting for Layton to pounce and proclaim him the victim. “I had hoped to have this matter concluded today.”
Wycliff grinned. “What? And be forced to part ways with Miss Vale? I have it on the best authority that you’ve won the internal battle and have ceased waging war on your principles.”
Lawrence glared at Cavanagh. “Remind me to give Lady Mills ammunition the next time she confronts you in the street.”
“Haven’t you heard? Cassandra manufactures her own munitions. Nothing she says about me bears any resemblance to the truth.”
“Except that you drink and gamble and bed loose women.” Wycliff chuckled.
“A man has a reputation to uphold. The lady called me a spurious swindler which in the common man’s tongue means cheating bastard.”
Lawrence shook his head. When would his friend stop pretending? When was he going to acknowledge that he took no pleasure from this wicked game? Admit that he held some affection for the woman he’d known since childhood? They had been friends longer than they had been enemies.
“Knowing that her father would string you up and spill your innards if you so much as looked at her in an amorous way,” Wycliff began, “I trust she is referring to your last friendly wager.”
Cavanagh smiled though his gaze remained detached. “Can I help it if both Harper twins find me attractive? Some siblings share everything.”