Page 9 of The Hazardous Measure of Love
Eventually we emerged with very few notes and, speaking personally, a distinct feeling that we were getting nowhere slowly.
Adrien was in the dining room, using the table as a desk, and making lists. He stood up when we came in and I thought how pale and shaken he looked and how different from the energetic young man who had looked after the twins so well. ‘I have sent one of the footmen with a message for my father asking him to come, but not saying why. It will be too much of a shock to break it in such a way. He should be the one to tell my Uncle Frederick. This will do his health no good at all.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ Sir William asked.
‘Phthisis. He has suffered from it for years, but has deteriorated very badly in the last few months. The winter weather was particularly bad for him. If we were not at war I am certain my father would have tried to persuade him to go to the Mediterranean coast. He suggested one of the southern English resorts, but my uncle is very stubborn.’
‘What is phthisis?’ I whispered to Luc.
‘Consumption.’
Tuberculosis, in other words. A terrible killer, with no cure at the time, or well into the twentieth century, come to that.
‘And after your Uncle Frederick, your father, Mr Alexander Prescott, is the next heir to the title?’
‘Yes.’ There were set lines bracketing Adrien’s mouth. He was clearly well aware of that fact and the implications of his father’s presence in this house shortly before Lord Tillingham’s murder. I saw suddenly why he had been so hesitant to talk about his uncle earlier – he had realised that his father had a very strong motive indeed.
‘There is a younger brother, I believe?’
‘Yes. My Uncle Horace.’ He took a deep breath then added, ‘My father has four sons and two grandsons.’
‘Quite so.’ Sir William looked approving of Adrien’s fairness in pointing out just how far removed his youngest uncle was from the title. ‘Your father is still in Town, I assume?’
‘Yes, sir. He came up because of an invitation to attend the reception at the Palace. He and Uncle Horace share a house in Upper Wimpole Street. I believe – ’ The sound of the door knocker interrupted him and we all listened as it was answered. Then Adrien said, ‘That is my father.’
Mr Alexander Prescott looked a little like his youngest son, I decided when Grainger showed him in, although the gangling frame had solidified with maturity and the mousey hair was flecked with grey. He was respectably dressed but, with my eye now attuned to the kind of tailoring Luc wore, I thought him more country gentleman than Town buck.
‘Adrien? Where is Tillingham?’ He stopped just inside the door and surveyed us. ‘Lord Radcliffe? And you are Sir William Abernathy, are you not?’ The magistrate’s missing arm and general air of military authority must have made him easily identifiable. Mr Prescott gave me a rapid bow. ‘Madam.’
‘Miss Lawrence, my father, Mr Alexander Prescott. Father, Miss Lawrence, a guest of Lady Radcliffe,’ Adrien said hastily. ‘Sir, I am afraid I have very bad news. My cousin Henry is dead. Murdered.’
‘Murdered? Good God.’ He cast me a harried glance. ‘My apologies, Miss Lawrence.’
‘Come and sit down, Father.’ Adrien took his arm and steered him towards the nearest chair, then tugged the bell pull. ‘Brandy, Grainger,’ he said when the butler came in.
We all sat while Mr Prescott absorbed the shock, the decanter was brought and he took a gulp from the measure Adrien poured for him. He was not far short of fifty years old, I guessed, studying him as he pulled himself together and put down the glass.
‘By whom?’ he asked, his voice steady. ‘And when? Is that why he was not here when I came in answer to his message?’
‘He was here,’ Luc said. ‘His body was found behind his desk this morning.’
‘Behind – My God.’ This time he made me no apology for his language.
‘Perhaps you can explain what occurred when you called last night,’ Sir William said. ‘It will assist me in establishing the facts.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Prescott ran one hand through his hair. ‘We were at the Palace.’ He made a vague gesture towards where St James’s Palace lay. ‘It was a reception for gentlemen prominent in agricultural improvement. That is an interest of mine, and of my brother Horace and his sons, but it was not my usual kind of evening’s entertainment,’ he added with a flash of dry humour. ‘I do not welcome getting rigged out in Court dress. However, there it was, one cannot decline such an honour without good reason and I had business that made the journey less wasteful than it might have been otherwise. A footman brought me the note whilst we were assembling. No members of the Royal family were present yet and, given that I could walk here in five minutes, I thought it best to come.’
‘Did you recognise the handwriting?’ Luc asked.
‘I did not pay it any attention. How are you involved in this matter, my lord?’
‘As a neighbour and as a friend of your son,’ Luc said calmly. ‘I have some experience in these matters, as Sir William can vouch.’
‘I see.’ Alexander looked somewhat put out. ‘And Miss Lawrence?’
‘Miss Lawrence is also a friend of mine,’ Adrien said, with a fleeting smile that I returned. ‘I am hoping that she will come with me to break the news to Miss Jordan.’
‘Good heavens, yes. The poor girl! Tillingham’s betrothed, you know,’ he added as an aside to Sir William.
