Page 142 of Where the Heart Leads
“All except the last, but he hasn’t yet had time to dispose of them. And now, thanks to you and Smythe combined, we know who he is.”
The earl smiled, this time predatorially. “Excellent.”
It was Penelope who asked the most pertinent question. “Where does Cameron live?”
The earl knew. “He lives with his lordship at Huntingdon House.”
Assured by the earl that Lord Huntingdon would still be up and about to receive them even though it was close to two o’clock, they all trooped around to Huntingdon House, which was luckily situated in nearby Dover Street.
Stokes pulled two constables from their patrol in St. James and put them in charge of Smythe, who Lord Cothelstone declared needed to come, too, so it was quite a procession that marched through the doors of Huntingdon House. But Huntingdon’s butler drew himself up, and handled the matter with aplomb. Leaving the earl, a frequent visitor, to see himself and Barnaby into Lord Huntingdon’s presence in his study, the butler bowed Penelope, Griselda, and Stokes into the drawing room, then whisked the boys, Mostyn, the constables, and Smythe to a set of straight-backed chairs lined up along the corridor leading from the front hall.
Within five minutes the butler was back, to conduct them all into his master’s sanctum.
Huntingdon, a large, heavyset gentleman, was no fool. He listened without emotion as Barnaby and Stokes outlined the case as they knew it against the man Smythe and the boys had known as Mr. Alert, now believed to be his lordship’s private secretary, Douglas Cameron.
When told that Smythe and the boys could identify Alert, Smythe by sight, the boys by his voice, Huntingdon studied all three carefully, then nodded. “Very well. Your story otherwise strains belief, but those lists are damning. Thatishis hand, and thosearehouses he has visited frequently in my train. I see no reason not to put Cameron to the test. If by some twist of fate he’s innocent, no harm will be done.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”
“However”—Huntingdon held up one finger—“we will do this correctly.” So saying, his lordship made his dispositions, directing everyone as to where they should stand, and what they should do.
Two doors, one on either side of the long study, led to adjoining rooms; a large oriental screen stood before each door. Huntingdon sent the two constables and Smythe to stand behind one screen. He dispatched Penelope, Griselda, and both boys to the room beyond the other screen.
“I want you to bring the boys out only when you receive word from me. Adair’s man will stand by the main door here, and when I give him the signal, he’ll go out into the hall and around to tell you to enter. I want you to keep the boys behind the screen, where they can hear us, but not see us.” Huntingdon fixed Penelope with his weighty gaze. “I rely on you, Miss Ashford, to tell me if the boys correctly identify Cameron as the man they heard giving Smythe instructions. You’ll know from my lead when to step out and tell me.”
Penelope nodded. “Yes, sir.” She gathered the boys; together with Griselda they went into the next room.
When everything was arranged to Huntingdon’s liking, with the earl and Barnaby standing behind the desk to his right, and Stokes by the wall to his left, Huntingdon rang for his butler and instructed him to fetch Cameron. “And Fergus—no word to him regarding who is here.”
The butler looked offended. “Naturally not, my lord.”
Huntingdon glanced at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “Gentlemen, while I appreciate your interest in this, I will conduct this interview. I would take it kindly if, regardless of whatever Cameron may say, you maintain your silence.”
Stokes looked unhappy, but nodded. Barnaby agreed more readily; he approved of his lordship’s tactics, and saw no reason not to leave the interrogation in his clearly capable hands.
A minute ticked by, then the door opened and Cameron entered.
Barnaby studied him. His hair, an average brown, fashionably cut, was slightly ruffled, and there was a faint flush on his pale cheeks; Huntingdon had earlier stated that he hadn’t asked Cameron to hold himself available that evening, and Fergus had confirmed that Cameron had been out since nine, returning only recently.
He was as well dressed as usual, not a cuff out of place; after an infinitesimal hesitation, excusable given the unexpected company, he closed the door and walked forward, surveying them with his usual arrogant air, significantly more deferential when it came to Barnaby’s father and Huntingdon.
Barnaby noted that, along with Cameron’s more evenhanded attitude toward himself. The man was supremely conscious of the lines of class; he treated everyone he considered beneath him with dismissive arrogance, all those above him—like Huntingdon and the earl—with toadying deference, while those he considered his equals—such as Barnaby—he acknowledged with an unruffled air. In Barnaby’s experience, only thosenotsecure in their place in the world expended so much effort reinforcing it.
Cameron halted a pace before the desk. Like any good secretary, his expression revealed nothing, not even curiosity. “Yes, my lord?”
“Cameron.” Clasping his large hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed him with a level look. “These gentlemen have come to me with a disturbing tale. It seems they believe you have been involved…”
Huntingdon gave an expert summary of their case, omitting all unnecessary details, concentrating on the outcomes and conclusions.
Watching Cameron carefully, Barnaby thought he paled at mention of the lists, but that might have simply been his flush slowly fading.
Regardless, Barnaby—and he was quite sure Stokes, his father, and Huntingdon, too—had Cameron’s guilt confirmed within minutes.
The man didn’t react; even though Huntingdon’s initial statement had told himhewas suspected of being behind the crimes Huntingdon subsequently described, Cameron maintained his aloof composure. An innocent man, no matter his control, would have at least shown some sign of surprise, shock—at least perturbation—on being informed he was suspected of such acts.
Instead, Cameron simply waited patiently until Huntingdon reached the end of his recitation, concluding with, “Well, sir? Can you enlighten us as to the accuracy of this tale?”
ThenCameron smiled, an easy, gentlemanly smile inviting his lordship, and the earl, too, to join him in the joke. “My lord, this entire tale is nothing more than fabrication, at least as regards my supposed involvement.” A wave of his hand dismissed the notion, along with the lists lying by Huntingdon’s blotter. “I have no idea why suspicion has fallen on me, but I assure you I had nothing whatever to do with this…series of burglaries.” He made the last words sound like an act he couldn’t conceivably have been thought to perform—like cleaning out a fireplace.
