Letitia nodded. “Yes. Precisely. Helpful of you to grasp the facts so quickly.”
There was a hint—just a hint—of sarcasm in her tone; Christian knew her well enough to know she’d intended it.
Dalziel had heard it; he hesitated, but—to Christian’s immense surprise—declined to respond.
Or declined to prod a thus far rational Vaux?
The notion that his ex-commander was well acquainted with the Vaux was confirmed by Dalziel himself. His gaze on Letitia, he said, “You may spare me the protestations regarding Justin’s innocence. I may not know him well, but I know enough of him to accept that it’s highly unlikely he committed the crime as I heard it described.”
He shifted his dark gaze to Christian. “Tell me what you know.”
Christian complied, chapter and verse. Dalziel was particularly interested in Pringle’s report.
“That,” he said, “isn’t common knowledge. Indeed, it weakens the authorities’ case considerably—they can’t have Justin bludgeoning Randall to death in a fit of manic temper on the one hand, only to say that he actually killed Randall first with a gentle, lucky tap on the head.”
“Exactly.” Letitia went on, “Given that, along with everything else, it seems patently obvious that Randall was killed by some mysterious friend who saw him that night between me and Justin.”
Dalziel regarded her, then glanced at Christian. “So who was this mysterious friend?”
“That,” Christian said, “is what we don’t know.” He related what little they’d learned from Justin, and his own observations thus far. “So finding who Randall called friend isn’t as simple as one might suppose.”
Dalziel was frowning. “That’s…very strange.”
“And if you add the suspicion that Randall was attempting to lure Justin into debt, it becomes even stranger.” Letitia regarded Dalziel severely. “But the principal point here is that in order to clear Justin’s name within the ton, we need to not just prove he didn’t do the deed, but, as matters now stand—and I assume the swearing of that warrant will only make things even worse—we need to produce Randall’s real killer.”
Still frowning, Dalziel looked at Christian. “We need to learn who else had reason to want Randall dead.”
Christian caught his gaze. “We?”
Dalziel’s lips twisted wryly. “The royal ‘we’—you, me, and anyone else we can call in. Who else is in town?”
“Trentham. I doubt anyone else will have come up yet.”
Dalziel nodded. “Enough to go on with.”
“We have another problem—Justin is our sole albeit poor source of reliable information on Randall. He’s been closest to him—indeed watching him—for the last several years.”
“Eight years,” Letitia supplied. “Since I married Randall.”
Christian inclined his head. “So we need Justin here, not at Nunchance—”
“But you have nowhere to hide him.” Dalziel held Christian’s gaze for an instant, then looked at Letitia, at her hopeful, expectant expression. He sighed. “Very well—I’ll undertake to house the whelp in secret.”
Letitia flashed him a brilliant smile. “Excellent.”
Dalziel looked back at Christian. “Tell him to come to your club—I’ll whisk him away from there. He’ll need to leave Nunchance in the evening so he’ll reach London in the small hours.” He glanced again at Letitia. “His description will have been circulated to the watch, and very likely to all the posting inns. He’ll need to be careful.”
Letitia nodded. “I’ll write and tell him.”
“As for the rest”—Dalziel transferred his attention to Christian—“I suggest we meet at the Bastion Club.” He glanced at a clock on a nearby cabinet. “Shall we say three o’clock? I’ll see what I can learn from the authorities, if they have any more information that might give us a clue as to who the real murderer might be.”
He rose. Letitia and Christian came to their feet.
“Until three, then.” Letitia gave Dalziel her hand.
He took it, bowed, then released her.
As she turned and swept to the door, Christian caught Dalziel’s eye. “No further sign of our old friend?”