Chapter 2

By the time Beau and Aunt Vee had returned to his uncle’s home, he needed a drink. Archie Turnbull imagined himself a humble brewmaster, all the while being as rich as the lord of the manor. The paradox was evident his massive home built in the Tudor style, well-appointed with gleaming wood-paneled walls and handsome finishes. It was a counterpoint to the home Beau had grown up in, which, like the offices of Silver Lumber in downtown Saint John, exuded the might and opulent tastes of Frank da Silva.

He loved Veronica very much; she was his only connection to his mother, who had died not long after the birth of his sister Jessica. Both Veronica and Archie, unable to have children of their own, had become a surrogate family to him and his sister over the years, and a welcome reprieve from his father Frank’s overbearing personality. Unlike Frank, who had never failed to find fault in Beau, his aunt and uncle were far more indulgent. But apparently even Veronica had her limits, and those involved spending a small fortune on an old book for a complete stranger.

Even if that stranger was intoxicatingly beautiful.

“I’m not sure how you are going to explain that to your father,” she said, unable to let the subject drop. “Do you even know this woman?”

Of course he didn’t know her—he even failed to get her name before she bolted from the shop. But there was something utterly and unaccountably tantalizing about her. Beau was six feet tall, and that redheaded siren nearly looked him in the eye. Her face was full, her curves lush. She reminded him of a Rosetti painting he’d seen in London a few years ago. Like a creature out of time.

“It was, I admit, probably one of my least thought through decisions,” he admitted. “But I have the money to spend, and we both know people who have gambled away more in a bad business deal or at poker table.”

“Don’t try to rationalize it,” she said, carefully removing her hat pin and handing over her things to Mrs. Hayes, the Turnbull’s faithful housekeeper. “I didn’t think you were one for gestures, Beau. Especially with one of those women.”

There was a subtle, if unmistakable shift in Aunt Vee’s voice then. Those women. Beau had no idea what that meant, but given he needed a change of subject, he wasn’t particularly in the mood to ask. Instead, he deposited his hat and gloves in Mrs. Hayes’ hands, and made straight for the sideboard in the parlour to pour himself a glass of Uncle Archie’s best brandy. Archie Turnbull may have made a fortune brewing ale for the common folk, but he had cultivated a taste for far more expensive luxuries.

“At least it wasn’t a wedding ring,” he said, plopping himself down in plush leather chair. “Then you would have something to be concerned about.”

“Don’t tease me,” Aunt Vee said, following him into the room and taking her normal place on the settee. “I don’t have the fortitude for another discussion about your marital status. Unless…” She trailed off. “Well, if you have other preferences, your secret would be safe with me. But your past behaviour would suggest you are simply unwilling to settle down. And you should. You’re nearly forty, Beaumont. It’s starting to be unseemly.”

“What would be unseemly is foisting my ne’er-do-well ways on a young thing that is only interested in my money. I’m more than happy to have my fortune go to Jessica’s children.”

Before Aunt Vee could reply, Mrs. Hayes returned, holding out a silver tray.

“Excuse me, Mr. da Silva, but this came for you.” Beau rose to meet the housekeeper, picking up the envelope and frowning as he read the stamped address in the corner. It was from the telegraph office.

Beau stifled a groan. He’d left Saint John two days ago, following his triumphant return from their New York business trip. Before he left, he’d gotten into a row with his father. For the past decade, arguing seemed to be their primary method of communication. Before he’d allowed his father to get in the last word, Beau had stormed off. He was half expecting a demand to return and apologize in person.

He ripped open the envelope and unfolded the note. It took him a moment, or possibly two, to process the message, which was equal parts short and brutal.

Father dead. Your pistol at the scene. Tell me you’re innocent. J.

“What’s the matter?” he heard his aunt ask, the concern in her voice barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.

Beau sank down into his chair and handed the note to Aunt Veronica. He poured himself another glass of brandy and swallowed it in a single gulp.

“Dear heaven,” she said, an unmistakable wobble in her voice. “What does that mean, do you think?” She lowered the note. “I didn’t know you owned a gun.”

“I picked up a revolver years ago,” he said. “I didn’t even think I had bullets for the thing. It’s been locked away for eons. And I didn’t shoot him.”

Him. Frank da Silva was dead. Dead. It didn’t make any sense.

“I didn’t say you did,” his aunt said calmly. “But someone clearly thinks you did.”

“I have to contact Jessica,” he said, fighting his way through the disorientation that was starting to cloud his thoughts. “I need to find out what happened.”

“You will do no such thing,” she said. “Not until I discuss this with your uncle.”

His aunt’s declaration struck him straight in the chest. His father was dead. Shot with Beau’s gun. And the last thing Beau did was have a rip-roaring fight with his father before leaving for Halifax.

Tell me you’re innocent.

Jessica’s plea hurt him more than he thought possible. Beau was hardly an innocent man. He’d spent a lifetime working for Frank da Silva, an iron-fisted mogul with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue—one that seemed to grow even more cutting after his wife’s death. In his youth, Beau had given himself to all the excesses that a boy with too much money at his disposal could ask for—drink, women and occasionally cards. He had a face, his father said, that could charm the devil out of his own soul, and a natural ability to put people at ease. He’d charmed teachers, women, friends, and even a few enemies. He’d used that smile and a few chosen words to get himself out of more scrapes than was probably fair. A smile and a laugh and for most, Beau da Silva could do no wrong.

Except for Frank da Silva. For him, there was little Beau did that was right. Their last meeting was so heated that Frank had sent one of his prized porcelain vases whirling at Beau’s head. Even now, Beau’s face burned from the anger of it.

And now Frank was dead.

“I have to talk to the investigators,” he said, swallowing back the bile that tainted the back of his throat. “I’m innocent.”

“Yes you do, but you need help to do it.” Aunt Vee went to her side table, scratched out a note, and rang the bell for her housekeeper. Mrs. Hayes reappeared and after receiving the note and a few words of instruction, she was gone. No sooner had she exited than Uncle Archie appeared. His normally jolly expression was solemn.

The two were a study in opposites—Aunt Vee was petite, slight, but fierce in her own way. Her husband was of average height, but his bombastic personality, generous girth, and well-trimmed but rather remarkable beard made him seem larger.

“This might be a new record for you,” Archie said, peering at Beau through eyebrows so thick they seemed to have a personality all their own. “You’ve been in town for barely eight hours and already I’m going to have the police at my door.”

Beau got to his feet and raked his hand through his hair. “I swear on my life that I’m innocent.”

“I’ve sent for that private detective I read about in the papers,” Veronica said, patting the seat beside her. “I hope he’ll be able to help us.”

“Not that Ashe fellow?” his uncle asked, his brows forming into a deep vee as he sat on the settee next to his wife.

“What’s wrong with him?” Aunt Vee replied.

“Coughlin doesn’t like him,” he said. “And he is married to one of those Everwell women. I’m not sure what your New Women’s League would think of that association.”

“You may be business associates, but any one Victor Coughlin trusts implicitly is not someone I’d leave my purse with.” Aunt Vee waved her hands around, effortlessly brushing aside Archie’s concerns as if they were an unwanted housefly. “I’m hiring Mr. Ashe, not his wife. Besides, he handled a small affair for Ann Kenny and she told me he was excellent. Very discreet.”

Within the hour, there was a ringing of the doorbell, and a moment later a tall man in a brown suit and matching derby appeared in the door. He was Beau’s height, or a little taller, with fair skin and light brown hair neatly combed back.

“Mr. Ashe,” Aunt Vee said, “here you are at last. This is my husband, Mr. Archibald Turnbull, and my nephew, Mr. Beaumont da Silva.”

“Dominic Ashe,” he said in a clear, Boston accent. He offered his hand to Beau and the men shook hands before taking a seat.

“Before we go any further, I need to know one thing,” Ashe continued, looking Beau straight in the eye. “Did you do it?”

The question took Beau back slightly, in part because of the straight forward way the American had posed it. He shook his head.

“No.”

“Any idea who did?” the detective continued.

Beau pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket and handed it to Dominic. His father had a lot of business rivals—and among those, some particularly bitter enemies. “I started making a list.”

“I recognize a few of these names,” Dominic continued. “Who would have access to your personal affects? Someone went through some trouble to pin this on you.”

Beau sat back in the chair, trying to ignore the tightness at his throat. “No idea. It’s possible any of them could have bribed someone to find my gun and use it. Frank da Silva was not an easy man to work for. If he loved you, he loved you. And if he didn’t, you were out.”

“And what happens to the business with him out of the picture?”

“Most of the company goes to me,” he said, instantly aware of just how damning that was to say. “Jessica—my sister—is to be given a smaller stake, and a sizeable cash settlement. And Neil, my brother-in-law, is looked after as well.”

“Did your brother-in-law and father get along?” Mr. Ashe continued.

“Like two peas in a pod. Neil was the son my father probably wished he had. Business driven. Loyal,” Beau replied, stifling down the hint of envy that twisted. Frank loved Neil. Loved him the way Beau could have only wished of his father. “I can’t imagine he would have bit the hand that feeds him.”

“Someone killed your father with a gun you owned,” Mr. Ashe said, looking down over the list, then back to Beau. “Was it public knowledge you had a pistol?”

Beau shook his head. “I bought it at an auction on a whim. I’ve never even fired the thing.”

“Who knew you had it?”

“The family of course,” he said, wracking his memory. “Probably half the businessmen on that list. They were at the same event.”

Beau continued with the interview, giving the detective as much information as he could about his circumstances, when Mrs. Hayes returned.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking from Beau to his aunt and uncle. “But the paper’s just come. I think you might want to see it.”

Archie rose and took the paper, pausing to read the headline. Archie was a hearty and hale man, but he visibly blanched. Aunt Vee went to his side, and her sharp gasp brought Beau to his feet. In a flash he crossed the room and took the folded broadsheet from his uncle.

Shocking Murder of New Brunswick Lumber King

Murder Weapon Found, Suspect at Large

Beau skimmed the story: Frank da Silva was found dead from a single shot to his heart in his study. The murder weapon was in the bushes on the grounds.

And the suspect? Right above the fold, was Beau’s face.

It wasn’t the first time Beau had been on the front page of the paper. As the only son of one of New Brunswick’s most powerful families, he’d landed there for any number of reasons, and not all of them were moments his father was proud of. But even his most embarrassing moment paled compared to this.

“It wasn’t me,” Beau said again, handing the paper to Dominic. “Frank and I had an argument—and it was a good one. I packed my bags and took the first boat I could out of Saint John Harbour heading across the bay. I got a train from Windsor the next day and landed in Halifax. I haven’t been home for two days.”

“Did anyone else know where you were going?”

Beau shook his head. “I’ve got some property outside the city. I’d recently been offered a deal for it, and it gave me an excuse to get out of town.”

“We didn’t even know he was coming until he arrived at our front door,” Aunt Vee said.

“Well, it seems I have my work cut out for me,” Dominic said. “I have a contact at the Chronicle. I’ll see what he knows about this.”

“And what do I do in the meantime?” Beau asked.

“Stay out of sight,” he said.

Aunt Veronica sniffed, sitting back down with a glass of something notably stronger than tea in her hand.

“We were at MacAskill’s this morning. It was full of people. No doubt someone will recognize him from that image. Why don’t you go to Europe, Beau?” she asked. “Just until Mr. Ashe can sort things out for you.”

“Aunt Vee,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve got to prove my innocence and start running the company so everything Frank built doesn’t run into the ground. I can’t do that from across the ocean.”

Silver Lumber was Frank da Silva’s legacy. Beau had been groomed to run the business since his father had first discovered Beau’s gift for coaxing the best deal out supplies and getting the best price for their goods. It was a talent Beau had honed to a fine point and he’d used to great effect over the years. It had not only helped the company’s ledgers, but his own personal fortune as well.

Still, it had never seemed enough. He’d spent a lifetime chasing Frank’s good favour, waiting for that moment when his father would clap him on the shoulder and tell him how proud he was of him. He’d never received it. Now he never would.

At least his proclamation that he was staying was met with his aunt’s approval.

“I appreciate that,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “But that handsome face of yours is probably on every newspaper from here to New York and Toronto. They will have you in irons and a rope around your neck if you’re not careful.”

His shirt collar had suddenly become a little tighter than it had a moment ago, but Beau resisted the urge to loosen it. He’d been in tight spots before—but this was something else entirely.

“Mrs. Turnbull has a point,” the detective said, pointing at the paper and handing it back to him. “The company has posted a reward for any information that leads to your whereabouts.”

“What?” His uncle’s voice bellowed, mixing with Beau’s own protest.

“Two hundred dollars,” Mr. Ashe said. “Someone is really out for your hide, Mr. da Silva.”

Beau sank down in his chair, running his hand down over his face, before letting out a string of curses under this breath.

“People are going to come looking for you,” his uncle said. “And they are going to start with this house.”

“It would be best if we get you out of town,” Mr. Ashe said. “At least while I can do some work and follow up on some leads.”

“The Grove,” Aunt Veronica said, then looked to her husband, and they sat silently for a moment, seeming to have an entire conversation with only their eyes. She nodded, then turned back to Beau and Mr. Ashe. “It’s out of the way. You were here to sell it, Beau. Maybe you can put that off until this mess is behind you.”

Mr. Ashe leaned forward, clearly interested in the idea. “How out of the way?”

“Very,” she said, meeting Beau’s gaze. “Emily and I couldn’t wait to escape it. She hated the country. Your father was her escape.”

Beau’s mother had died when Jessica was barely two, and he was four. He remembered her vibrant smile and a loving nature, but little else.

“Would Beau’s presence be noticed?” Mr. Ashe asked.

Aunt Vee paused, giving a thoughtful sip of her tea, before shaking her head. “We could ask the Chandlers to help out—they’ve been looking after that property forever and I would trust them with my life. There’s a telegraph office in Windsor if anyone needed to get ahold of you.”

“Someone should be with him,” the detective said. “Just in case.”

“Who?”

“I have someone in mind, but it may take some convincing,” Mr. Ashe said, coming to his feet. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll stop by the Chronicle offices and talk to Ben Miller. He might be able to tell me more than what’s in the paper.”

The others rose, and Archie took Mr. Ashe’s hand. “You will do this, Mr. Ashe? Whatever your rates are, I’ll pay it and more to find out who is determined to have my nephew swing.”

“This is my problem, Uncle,” Beau interjected. “I appreciate your kindness, but this is my mess. Whatever you need, Mr. Ashe, you’ll have it. Name your price.”