“Bad enough,” she concluded, her voice very nearly wavering, “to discover that Randall was a farmer’s son, but now I find he wasn’t even an honest one!”
Christian opted for silence.
Dalziel, brave man, tried for rationality. “There’s nothing illegal about running a gaming hell, in and of itself. The company isn’t breaking any laws per se.”
“That may be so”—Letitia’s tones were clipped; she clearly wasn’t mollified in the least—“but owning a string of gaming hells, no matter how exclusive, is breaking every ton law ever created.” She narrowed her eyes on Dalziel. “You, of all people, know what that means.”
Dalziel held her gaze, then, to the utter fascination of his ex-subordinates, inclined his head and retreated.
Letitia looked down at her fingers, clenched in her lap. “The only bright light in all we’ve uncovered today is that according to Mrs. Rigby, there was talk of someone wanting to buy the hells. If that’s so—”
“If that’s so,” Christian cut in, “you’ll need to wait and see who approaches you. Or me as your agent—you should take care not to be involved.”
“I have no interest in being involved.” She frowned at him. “That’s my point—if they wish to buy, then I’ll happily sell my share of the company. I want all ties with its enterprises severed and no more, as soon as humanly possible.”
“That’s understandable,” Christian allowed, “but you might want to consider not being quite so open about it.”
She frowned harder. “Great heavens, why?”
“Because,” he replied, jaw firming, “it’s entirely possible that the putative sale was in some way behind Randall’s murder.”
That gave her pause. “How so?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but until we know more, we need to play our cards very close to our collective chest.”
She consider that, then pulled a disgusted face and stopped arguing.
“We should,” Dalziel said, breaking into the ensuing silence, “put together all we’ve learned thus far about Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin. We need to see how the picture fits together, an
d what pieces of the puzzle we’re still missing. We know all three were governors’ scholars, in the same year, at a school with a sizable percentage of boys from ton families and an otherwise solid base of the gentry-born. The three would have been entirely out of their social depth—certainly they wouldn’t have been readily welcomed among the other boys—so them banding together makes excellent sense.”
“It’s also,” Christian put in, “not hard to see what might have fired their ambition to become a part of the ton.”
“True,” Dalziel continued. “But from the time they left school to the time Randall appeared in London—which seems to be much the same time as Trowbridge and Swithin also relocated to the capital and the company was established—we know nothing of their lives. Whatever happened during that interval might be crucial, especially with regard to the motive for Randall’s murder.”
Tristan was nodding. “However, when they came to town twelve years ago, they immediately set about establishing a string of exclusive gaming hells exquisitely tailored to appeal to the dissolute young gentlemen of the upper echelons of the ton.”
Tony snorted. “Well, you can see it, can’t you.” He glanced around the circle. “They’re preying on the very group who, at Hexham Grammar School, would have made their lives hell.”
“There is,” Christian said, “a certain thread of irony running through all this.”
Jack stretched his long legs before him. “Extrapolating from Hexham to how they behaved when they arrived in London, I’d suggest that to fill in those intervening years we look for word of them at Oxford or Cambridge. Who knows? We might find gaming hells—the first they set up—operating there.”
Letitia glanced at Dalziel. “Much as I do not want to know the answer, I suggest you ask Justin. He would know—at least about Oxford.”
Dalziel nodded. “I’ll ask him, and send up and ask another who might know if Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin actually owned a hell or hells in Cambridge.” He nodded to Jack. “I agree it seems likely they learned their trade there.”
Tristan grimaced wryly. “That would certainly explain their excellent understanding of how to attract their chosen prey—the fattest and easiest of all to pluck—into their establishments.”
Looking up to see nods all around, he continued, “While you’re pursuing that, I’ll see what I can learn about this rumor of Randall selling. The Newport Place manager seemed to think a deal was in progress.”
“I can help with that,” Tony said.
“And me,” Jack chimed in.
“Meanwhile”—Dalziel looked at Letitia and Christian—“I think we now have sufficient information to make another interview with Trowbridge worthwhile.”
“Indeed.” Christian rose. “We’ll go tomorrow.”