Chapter 13

James had left Cecilia at Camden House with misgivings. He trusted Cecilia to be circumspect in her investigation. What he wasn’t certain about was her strength, and would she do too much, ignoring any signs of weakness her body put forth in her enthusiasm to discover the truth of Mr. Montgomery’s death? He’d said nearly as much to Dr. Worcham before he left—leaving out the investigation into Mr. Montgomery—and the man said he understood. The good doctor had no knowledge of Cecilia’s tenacious manner, he thought, smiling to himself.

His beautiful wife had certainly changed him in the year they’d been married. He’d always been considered a rather phlegmatic man within society, languid, reserved, and bored with everything. A mere observer of society and its machinations. His observation habit was what had drawn him to Cecilia to begin with, and his appreciation for her tenacious manner. He doubted she would have survived that first investigation she undertook if he hadn’t played curious bodyguard to what she’d been doing.

And he”d feared for her life during her recent influenza. Now the lingering cough she endured chilled him whenever he heard it. He loved her to distraction and couldn’t imagine being with any other woman.

He inhaled deeply as he considered his next move in the investigation. He needed to meet the local magistrate and find out how he came to quickly determine Soothcoor to be the murderer. Something—or someone—had to have pushed him in that direction for the arrest to have happened as swiftly as Alastair said it had. Before breakfast yet! That screamed suspicion.

He’d learned the magistrate’s direction before leaving the inn. It was three miles further on toward Stamford. He’d sent along a letter of introduction and hoped he’d worded it noncommittally enough to convey an open attitude. The magistrate was the local gentry, Squire Eccleston. Mr. Price said he was a fair man though a bit touchy about his position in society. James would have to ensure his London manners were tucked discreetly out of sight for this visit. Many people outside of London frowned on Londoners—not that James considered himself a Londoner though another might.

Squire Eccleston’s white-washed Georgian-style manor house looked austere, rising up as it did from the flat landscape around it. More land recovered from drainage, James assumed. Sheep grazed in the distant fields, and nearby fields were planted, though whatever grew there appeared to struggle to gain growth just as they did near Summerworth Park due to the cold weather.

The squire came out to meet him as he drove up.

“Sir James,” he greeted as James stepped out of the carriage.

“Magistrate,” James responded.

“Come in, come in,” he said, leading the way inside. “You said in your note that Mrs. Montgomery sent you up here.”

James nodded, “She requested I investigate her husband’s death,” he said. “Were you aware that Mrs. Montgomery believed her husband to be dead these two years past?”

The magistrate frowned as he pushed open the door to his office on the ground floor of the manor. “No, I wasn’t. Strange. Why was that?”

“It is my understanding that it was at Mr. Montgomery’s request. Are you aware of the nature of Mr. Montgomery’s illness that had him residing at Camden House?”

“I was told something about a spontaneous violent nature,” he said, waving at him to take a seat across from his desk.

“Mrs. Montgomery told me he had at least three different personalities,” James said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his chair arms, “one of whom she said was violent. He was called ‘Archie’ and is the reason Mr. Montgomery had himself committed, first in Scotland and later here at Camden House. He arranged to have himself declared dead with only his father, his cousin, the family vicar, Dr. Worcham, and Mrs. Montgomery’s father knowing this was not true.”

Squire Eccleston frowned. “I think there is something illegal about all that. I shall have to consult a barrister.”

James’s hands shrugged. “For the most part, the estate trustee—his cousin—has treated her fairly, keeping the property for her son. What all parties failed to consider was whether Mrs. Montgomery should choose to remarry. My wife is of the opinion this is a typical gentleman’s failure to consider their wives,” he said with a small smile.

Squire Eccleston smiled slightly in return. “In my time as a magistrate, I have seen other instances of wives not being properly accounted for in wills, assuming the executors would do the right thing, causing all manner of grief for families.”

“Yes. In this instance, there was no thought to Mrs. Montgomery wishing to remarry and now she does.”

Eccleston frowned. “And so, the gentleman she wished to marry traveled here and killed Mr. Montgomery.”

“Did he? Did someone see it happen? That’s what Mrs. Montgomery wishes to know. What exactly happened?”

Eccleston leaned back in his chair, interlacing his lands together where they rested on his stomach. “Stands to reason what happened. In a fit of anger, her lover fought with Mr. Montgomery and held him underwater until he drowned.”

“Held him underwater.”

“Yes. According to Dr. Worcham, drowning was the cause of death.”

“What do you know of the gentleman you have arrested?”

“The Earl of Soothcoor?”

“Yes.”

He pursed his lips as he shrugged. “Mr. Ratcliffe told me he was acquainted with Mr. Montgomery and Mrs. Montgomery from their childhood in Scotland. That he had, twenty years ago, asked for Mrs. Montgomery’s hand in marriage and had been refused because she was to marry Mr. Montgomery. Now that he thought she was free he determined to marry her and when he found she was still married, traveled here to kill Mr. Montgomery.”

“This you got from Mr. Boyd Ratcliffe.”

“Yes. And the staff at Camden House confirmed he arrived first the previous day to talk to Mr. Montgomery, then returned late in the next day to see Mr. Montgomery when he was at dinner. After dinner the two of them went outside to talk and walk the grounds. Mr. Montgomery’s body was discovered in the canal early the next morning.”

“So why the quick arrest of the Earl of Soothcoor?”

“I’m a busy man, Sir James, besides being the local magistrate, I am a property owner, and this has been a hard year for property owners, freeholders, and tenant farmers alike. Everything Mr. Ratcliffe said fit the facts. The earl had plenty of motive and time. He was the only one there. Who else could or would have done it?”

“So, without proof, you arrested him.” James saw the magistrate growing frustrated and angry with his questioning.

“Yes! If there is doubt, it is a matter for the court. I did my job!”

“Including treating a well-respected member of the aristocracy, well-known for championing the weak, the innocent, and the ill, like a common murderer and having him thrown into the general prison population?”

“The warden wasn’t there, and Mr. Ratcliffe said it would be fitting for the night to have him in the general prison for what he did to his cousin,” he explained, with some discomfort in his voice.

“Do you know he was injured in that violent population? Instead of using what money he had to have a surgeon see to his wounds he had the warden buy decent blankets for everyone there?”

“No, and I don’t see what that has to do with the matter of his guilt.”

“And you have never gone to see him since you arrested him, to ask him for more information about that night, have you?”

“I told you I am a busy man. He was arrested and put where he needed to be.”

James rose from his chair. “I do not argue that this is a particularly hard year for all rural property owners. I am one myself. I understand the time required to fight against nature. Nonetheless, a magistrate for an area is an important position. If you do not have the time to be a magistrate, then let someone else have the position.”

The magistrate rose as well, anger quivering in his body. “And what makes you so sure this Earl of Soothcoor did not kill Mr. Montgomery?”

James ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “I know more of Mr. Montgomery’s illness, I know more of their childhood history, I know the earl, and lastly, I know when he arrived back at the inn he had dry clothes on. How do you drown someone without getting wet? Now, excuse me if I leave you to your property woes while I investigate who really killed Mr. Montgomery.”