No sooner had Stacks pulled the horses to a stand than the front door flew open. A young lady of seventeen or so stepped out and then frowned at his carriage. She shifted, as if she were about to return to the house.
“Excuse me,” Jeremy called as he opened the carriage door and stepped onto the flagstones. He signaled for Stacks to stay on the driver’s bench. “Is this Allenton Park?”
The girl hesitated as if unsure of the answer or of her duty to reply. With a flip of her long dark hair, she frowned at Jeremy. “Yes, it is.”
It appeared as if she wanted to say more, but she clamped her lips tightly together. Then she lifted her gaze over his head, past the coach and down the drive.
Jeremy swiveled to identify the cause of the sudden clatter coming up the hill. It was another coach—dusted with the dirt of the road—and four horses, looking tired and in need of hay and a brushing.
“Excellent!” the girl said to … no one. Then she turned toward the still open door. “They’re here!” she shouted with great enthusiasm.
A footman—or so Jeremy assumed by his attire—leaned past the threshold for a peek. He frowned at Jeremy and was about to say something when a voice called from inside the manor. The footman turned and nodded to an unseen person.
Suddenly the entrance was filled with people. A tall bespectacled gentleman with his hair brushed away from his face stood leaning on a cane next to a woman of a diminutive stature; she had surprisingly short grayish-brown hair and a Grecian nose. A young man, likely Jeremy’s age of twenty, with a half-grown Vandyke beard joined them. They all shared the same oval-shaped face and deep-set eyes as the girl, obviously her family. Accompanying them was a thin older woman, looking prim and proper with her gray hair pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck and an unadorned black gown; she had the aspect of a housekeeper. Added to this mixture were the footman, and a stodgy-looking man that was very butlerlike in his appearance and demeanor.
Clearly, Jeremy had arrived at an inconvenient time. Some sort of arrival was imminent and questions about a murder were entirely out of place. Looking from one eager face to another, Jeremy was quite certain that he had indeed been the victim of a hoax after all. Yes, Allenton Park existed, but there had been no murder.
The footman stepped around the motley collection of souls, opened the door of the newly arrived coach, and handed out a young lady—a rather attractive young lady with black hair swept up under a wide-brimmed straw bonnet; she had a lithe physique and dainty features. Following on her heels was a gentleman with gray curls and a broad smile.
As the crowd gathered to greet the newcomers, Jeremy tried his best to fade into the background. He kept stepping backward until he encountered a solid wall. Only, the wall was in fact a person.
“And who might you be?” a deep masculine voice asked.
Jeremy turned to face the gentleman he assumed was Mr. Edward Waverley.
“I do beg your pardon. I arrived just before your guests. I’m here … I was sent here by Sir Elderberry of Bow Street.” Jeremy tried to sound confident despite being anything but. He attempted a smile but knew it was weak at best. “I’m a Bow Street Runner … or will be soon enough. An … investigator.”
“I have sent many a letter to Sir Elderberry about a number of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”
Taking a deep breath, Jeremy straightened his waistcoat. Now was not the time to let his insecurities get the better of him. “I am here about the murder, Mr. Waverley.”
Silence. Sudden silence.
Each word resounded and echoed beneath the overhang of the entry.
The reaction was more dramatic than he anticipated. Mr. Waverley turned red in the face and then lost all color. Mrs. Waverley slumped, leaning heavily on the arm of the gentleman by the coach, and the younger members of the family gasped.
Only the young lady in the straw bonnet reacted in a sedate and reasonable manner. She lifted her brow at Jeremy. “A police investigator?”
* * *
“Shall we start with your name, young man?”
Mr. Waverley strode across the floor of the dark wood-lined study—the cane in his hand more of an affectation than a need. He gestured toward a chair sitting in front of a substantial mahogany desk. The gentleman’s complexion had returned to a more normal hue, and the wary look had disappeared from his face—though Jeremy was not sure that irritation was a promising alternative.
Jeremy stood in the doorway, ignoring the chaos in the entrance hall as the family exchanged greetings and the staff took hats and traveling cloaks.
“Principal Officer Fraser—”
“Yes, yes. You are one of John Fielding’s men. A Bow Street Investigator.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Come into the room, young man, even if you have no wish to sit!” Mr. Waverley shook his head, muttering to himself for a moment before continuing. “And you are here about the murder of my son.”
Jeremy frowned. He stepped closer to the desk, ignoring the chair, and huffed a sigh. “I was under the impression—obviously a mistaken impression—that you requested assistance in the investigation and hired the Runners.”
Mr. Waverley laughed. It was not an amused laugh, though, but one of scorn. “I have been trying to get the attention of Bow Street for many months. Why have they finally deigned to send an investigator?” He dropped into the chair behind the desk and stared at Jeremy with a look of hostility.
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
Mr. Waverley shook his head again. “So you are a Bow Street Runner—a green one by the looks of you—and you have come regarding the murder, which took place nearly a year ago. I have long since given up on the local constabulary, but I had expected better of the Runners.”
“I know nothing of that, Mr. Waverley. I was assigned to the case three days ago.”
“Bow Street sent you with little to no information. Really! That is most unimpressive—as is your youth. An experienced man would have been more to my liking. Is this your first case?”
“No, indeed not,” Jeremy was hasty to reassure, while not admitting that the number was all of three.
“I don’t need eager enthusiasm; I need someone who knows what they’re doing. This is not a trivial matter. We are talking about the murder of my son, and I want justice!” Mr. Waverley, in his apparent grief, seemed to be spoiling for a fight. “I’ve been privy to a discovery—a development, if that is the right word,” the gentleman said. “Of which I informed Bow Street months ago.”
Jeremy reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pad of paper. From his hip pocket, he drew out a pencil. As he prepared to record the details of the crime, he allowed a smidgen of his tension to waft away. He had not been sent on a wild goose chase after all. Though now he understood Sir Elderberry’s smirk. He had sent Jeremy into a tense situation without any warning.
“About three months ago,” Mr. Waverley began, “I was searching Glendor Wood, as I have been doing almost daily since last Michaelmas—”
A loud burst of nervous laughter echoed into the room. Mr. Waverley leaned to the side, looking around Jeremy and out into the hall.
“Searching Glendor Wood…,” Jeremy prodded.