“Be that as it may.”
They settled to search. She noticed he did things—looked in places—she’d never have thought of. Like the backs and undersides of drawers, the upper surface above a top drawer. Behind paintings.
After a while, she sat on a chair before the escritoire and applied herself to all the notes and letters therein. There was no sign of any recent or promising correspondence. When he glanced at her, she waved him on. “You’re much better at that than I.”
But it was she who found the connection, in an old, very faded and much creased letter lying at the back of the tiniest drawer.
“The Reverend Mr. Henry Timmins, of Shacklegate Lane, Strawberry Hills.” Triumphant, she read the address to Tristan, who had paused in the doorway.
He frowned. “Where’s that?”
“I think it’s out past Twickenham.”
He crossed the room, lifted the letter from her hand, scanned it. Humphed. “Eight years old. Well, we can but try.” He glanced at the window, then pulled out his watch and checked it. “If we take my curricle…”
She rose, smiled, linked her arm in his. Very definitely approved of that “we.” “I’ll have to fetch my pelisse. Let’s go.”
The Reverend Henry Timmins was a relatively young man, with a wife and four daughters and a busy parish.
“Oh, dear!” He abruptly sat down in a chair in the small parlor to which he’d conducted them. Then he realized and started up.
Tristan waved him back, handed Leonora to the chaise, and sat beside her. “So you were acquainted with Miss Timmins?”
“Oh, yes—she was my great-aunt.” Pale, he glanced from one to the other. “We weren’t at all close—indeed, she always seemed most nervous when I called. I did write a few times, but she never replied…” He blushed. “And then I got my preferment…and married…that sounds so unfeeling, yet she wasn’t at all encouraging, you know.”
Tristan squeezed Leonora’s hand, warning her to silence; he inclined his head impassively. “Miss Timmins passed away last night, but not, I fear, easily. She fell down the stairs sometime very early in the morning. While we have no evidence she was directly attacked, we believe that she came upon a thief in her house—her front parlor was ransacked—and because of the shock, fainted and fell.”
Reverend Timmins’s face was a study in horror. “Good gracious me! How dreadful!”
“Indeed. We have reason to believe that the burglar responsible is the same man intent on gaining entry into Number 14.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “The Carlings live there, and Miss Carling herself has been subject to several attacks, we presume intended to frighten the household into leaving. There have also been a number of attempts to break into Number 14, and also into Number 12, the house of which I am part owner.”
Reverend Timmins blinked. Tristan calmly continued, explaining their reasoning that the burglar they knew as Mountford was attempting to gain access to something hidden in Number 14, and that his forays into Number 12 and last night into Number 16 were by way of seeking entry via the basement walls.
“I see.” Frowning, Henry Timmins nodded. “I’ve lived in terraces like that—you’re quite right. The basement walls are often a series of arches filled in. Quite easy to break through the archways.”
“Indeed.” Tristan paused, then continued, in the same, authoritative tone, “Which is why we’ve been so set on finding you, why we’ve been speaking to you so frankly.” He leaned forward; clasping his hands between his knees, he captured Henry Timmins’s pale blue gaze. “Your great-aunt’s death was deeply regrettable, and if Mountford is responsible, he deserves to be caught and brought to book. In the circumstances, I feel it would be poetic justice to use the situation as it now stands—the situation that has arisen because of Miss Timmins’s demise—to set a trap for him.”
“Trap?”
Leonora didn’t need to hear the word to know that Henry Timmins was caught, hooked. So was she. She edged forward so she could watch Tristan’s face.
“There’s no reason for anyone beyond those who already know to imagine Miss Timmins died other than by natural causes. She’ll be mourned by those who knew her, then…if I may suggest, you, as heir, should put Number 16 Montrose Place up for rent.” With a gesture, Tristan indicated the house about them. “You’re clearly not in any need of a house in town at present. On the other hand, being a prudent man, you will not wish to sell precipitously. Renting the property is the sensible course, and no one will wonder at it.”
Henry was nodding. “True, true.”
“If you’re agreeable, I’ll arrange for a friend to pose as a house agent and handle the rental for you. Of course, we won’t be renting to just anyone.”
“You think Mountford will come forward and rent the house?”
“Not Mountford himself—Miss Carling and I have seen him. He’ll use an intermediary, but it will be he who wants access to the house. Once he has it, and enters…” Tristan sat back; a smile that was no smile curved his lips. “Suffice to say that I have the right connections to ensure he won’t escape.”
Henry Timmins, eyes rather wide, continued to nod.
Leonora was less susceptible. “Do you really believe that after all this, Mountford will dare show his face?”
Tristan turned to her; his eyes were cold, hard. “Given the lengths to which he’s already gone, I’m prepared to wager he won’t be able to resist.”
They returned to Montrose Place that evening with Henry Timmins’s blessings, and, more importantly, a letter to the family solicitor from Henry instructing said solicitor to act on Tristan’s directions regarding Miss Timmins’s house.