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Edwin’s thoughts traveled round and around in weary circles. The Earl, gone now, his body awaiting burial; the war, over, but leaving behind a trail of destruction and weariness; the Americans, returned to their own factories and farms, taking their war brides with them; Blanche Harrigan, filled with hope; Harry Harrigan, with money to burn; the new Countess of Southwold, cool, distant, and sharp-tongued.
Sending Toby Whitby to cope with her that first time had been an act of cowardice. With Alderton dead, he should have gone himself, but he had not wanted to face the Earl. He had wanted someone fresh and unbiased to consider Lady Sylvia’s claims. Well, matters were coming to a head. The Earl was dead, and the child was here. Decisions would have to be made.
Toby Whitby came quietly into the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
“Well?”
“Troubling news, sir.”
“I assume we are not talking of your motor car.”
“No, we are not.”
“Do you wish to tell me?”
Toby dropped down into a chair. His face was pale and anxious. He seemed to be groping for words. “I had some cards printed. Business cards.”
“Yes, I know. I authorized the expense. Surely the police are not involved in the printing of business cards.”
“No, of course not.”
Another hesitation, interrupted only by a small crash and a shower of sparks as the coals in the fireplace caved in on themselves, sending a welcome wave of warmth.
“The police have recovered a body, washed in by the tide and snagged on some barbed wire.”
“They should have cleared the beaches by now,” said Edwin, knowing he was speaking of an irrelevancy. The shingle beaches of the south coast were still littered with anti-tank traps, coils of rusted wire, and all manner of improvised defenses left over from the time when the German Army was amassing across the Channel.
“If she hadn’t been caught on the wire, no one would ever have found her,” said Toby. “She’d have been washed away.”
“She?”
“Yes, a woman who had my business card in her pocket. Apparently the card withstood the seawater very well.”
“We use only the best printing establishments.”
“Yes, sir.”
Edwin waited impatiently. Whitby seemed lost in his own thoughts.
“Well, who was she?”
“The police don’t know. They want me to look at her to see if I can identify her.”
“And you don’t want to look?” Edwin sighed in exasperation. “We’ve all seen our share of dead bodies, Mr. Whitby. Surely you can take a look.”
Whitby leaned forward in the chair. “I don’t need to. I know who she is.”
“Then tell them.”
“If I tell them, I might have to tell them everything, and Slater will connect it all to Alderton’s murder.”
Edwin thought of the red file folder, the missing notes, and the documents impossible to refute, and equally impossible to verify. The war had been an excuse for many things, but the war was over. The rule of law had to be restored. Lawyers could no longer be flexible, and aristocrats could no longer live protected lives.
“Volunteer nothing, but answer all questions truthfully.” “I’m not sure I know the truth.”
Whitby’s eyes were shielded by his thick spectacle lenses, but Champion could see conflict and denial written plain across his face. He fixed his young employee with a steady gaze.
“You know the truth.”
Whitby shifted his gaze, and Edwin wondered if Whitby knew another truth; something he had not yet mentioned. Well, let him keep that to himself for the time being. Not all thoughts should be given voice.
“I’m relying on you, Mr. Whitby. Go now. No need to attend the funeral. I will represent the firm.”
He watched as Whitby went quietly out of the room, and he listened to the opening and closing of the front door. The short winter day was drawing to a close, and the room was lit only by the dim glow of the coals.
When the time comes, Champion, I’m relying on you to do the right thing.
He had given the Earl his word, and surely the time had come. He went to the Earl’s desk and turned on the lamp. He ran his fingers along the scrollwork and found the trigger. The hidden drawer slid open.