'Right you are, Sergeant, be glad to get out of this hellhole for a while. Have you squared it with the Beak?'

  'Of course, I'll pay your expenses and give you a couple of sovereigns – if there's any left over when we're done.'

  *

  Fortunately, the vicar had not had time to gossip about Richard's death and Emma returned to Whitford Hall satisfied she had stemmed any possible tittle-tattle. The letter she had sent to London should arrive at its destination within an hour or two and the investigator she had sent for should be with them by the morning at the latest.

  Whoever it was would have to attend the funeral, which was to be held tomorrow afternoon. It was going to be difficult keeping the news quiet especially from the tenants and villagers. However, she must do her best to contain news of the tragedy at least until the investigation was well under way. Although she was convinced that vile Benedict Stanton was to blame until she had proved this was the case, it would be better to keep matters quiet. If news leaked out, then it must be that Richard had died in a tragic shooting accident.

  She glanced down at her serviceable promenade gown – by right she should be enveloped in widow's weeds, the house festooned with black ribbons and the shutters closed. Although she had been fond of Richard, she was no more than sad at his passing. Whatever her feelings she was determined to bring the perpetrators to justice.

  On the way to the library, which had now become a study, she caught a glimpse of herself in the tall mirror that stood above a side table in the entrance hall.

  Did she look like a woman who had lost her husband? She stared critically at her appearance – her fair curls still shone with vibrancy, eyes sparkled as usual and her cheeks were not pale and wan. Her abundant curves demonstrated she was unlikely to go into a decline.

  At that moment something she had refused to believe until now shoved its way rudely to the forefront of her mind. She turned away from her reflection in disgust. Richard had been a dear, kind man, always impeccably dressed, good humoured but she had not loved him as a true wife should love the man she had married.

  They had lived in separate apartments, he had visited her to do his duty but a handful of times, and if she was honest she had been relieved when this duty was no longer required of her. She was devastated by his death, of course she was, but her grief was for a friend not a lover.

  Did this make her a heartless woman? She shrugged – too late to repine – she had been the best wife she could. Now it was time to avenge his untimely death. She vowed she would not rest until his murderer was brought to justice. Whatever it took, whatever she had to do she wouldn't hesitate even if it meant sacrificing her good name or giving up her comfortable life.

  There were household matters to attend to. Smithson must prepare a room for the investigator, accommodation must be made for his horse and she must get ready to receive the lawyers who were due to come later today.

  She had collected all the documents that related to the estate before she locked the study. There was nothing untoward to be found in them – and she certainly couldn't see how anyone would gain any monetary advantage by murdering Richard. She was at a loss to understand why he had been killed but she had placed her faith – and a great deal of money – on the experience and expertise of the man coming from Bow Street.

  Annie had suggested tactfully that a black gown would be more suitable for the service tomorrow and Emma had agreed she would wear something sombre – but she wasn't going to put on black. This would just make things seem worse. She intended to focus on the search for justice and once that was accomplished she would be ready to grieve. Only then would she inform her family and put a notice in The Times.

  Her appetite had all but deserted her but as she was of a robust constitution a few days without eating would do her no harm. The house felt almost normal, as if Richard had just gone away on business as he did so often. The staff must think it odd of her to be pretending he was still alive – but they were loyal and well-paid so she doubted they would complain.

  She wandered about the library pulling out books and pushing them back without any set plan. She was relieved when the butler came to tell her Mr Dickens, the Stanton family lawyer, was waiting to speak to her.

  'Bring him here, please, and have refreshments sent. I believe this could be a long and tedious meeting.'

  He bowed and left to do her bidding. There was a large, leather-topped desk in the bay window and she decided it would look more businesslike if she was seated behind it.

  There were sufficient chairs placed about the large chamber for the lawyer to find himself one – she should have arranged things before his arrival but it was too late to do so now. The library door had been left open and she could hear the man approaching. Hastily she took her place behind the desk, pushed the file of documents to one side of her and pinned a smile of welcome on her face.

  'Mr Dickens, my lady.'

  'Come in, Mr Dickens, bring up a chair and we'll get started straight away.'

  The lawyer was a man of middle years, middle height and pinched features. He appeared grief-stricken but she didn't need his platitudes. Better to stop him before he began to offer his condolences.

  'I hope you have followed my instructions and not spoken of my husband's murder to anyone? I have sent for an investigator from Bow Street and until he's here and has taken charge of matters I wish no one to know about the tragedy.'

  'You're right to be concerned, my lady, I hardly know how to tell you what I have discovered.'

  Emma jerked forward sending the neatly stacked documents to her left tumbling sideways. Her eyes widened and for a moment she couldn't reply. She swallowed the bile in her throat and found her voice. 'Tell me at once.'

  He fiddled with the papers, gazed round the room for a few seconds and then wiped his eyes. 'There are discrepancies, it would seem that… it would seem that someone has had access to Mr Stanton's funds and has, and has….' He couldn't continue and dropped his head in his hands.

  'Are you trying to tell me, sir, that the Stanton investments have been stolen? That somebody in your office is responsible?' Her sharp tone had the desired effect.

  'I apologise, my lady, but we're all distraught. Mr Stanton's account has been handled by a senior partner, Mr Chalmers, and it is he who has removed the money. The wretched man hasn't been into the office this week – we had a note from his wife saying that he was stricken with the summer influenza.'

  'Have you informed the magistrate? Are you searching for this man?'

  'This theft was only discovered an hour ago, my lady, and we decided it would be better to speak to you before we did anything else. The estates and the income from them remain yours but everything else has been stolen.'

  Emma was on her feet, fury outweighing her shock. 'You made the right decision, Mr Dickens. I believe I know who is behind this, but I don't wish you to inform the authorities. I'll leave it to the professional to investigate.'

  The door at the far end of the room opened and a footman came in with a tray. She had no wish for him to see the lawyer, who was sniffling and mumbling into his handkerchief, so stepped forward thus concealing the abject man. 'Put the tray on the side table. We shall serve ourselves. Kindly close the door after you.'

  A strong cup of coffee with plenty of sugar should restore Mr Dickens. Cook had sent some dainty almond biscuits, several small slices of plum cake as well as coffee and chocolate. Keeping her back firmly turned to allow the poor gentleman time to recover his composure, she called out to him. 'Mr Dickens, would you prefer coffee or chocolate to drink?'

  The noise of a chair scraping back alerted her. The lawyer was coming to join her. Fortunately, there were several comfortable armchairs grouped around the empty fireplace and a selection of octagonal side tables. They could take their refreshments at this end of the room and then return to the desk when they were both feeling more recovered.

  'A cup of coffee, if you please, my lady. I do apologise for...'

  'There is no need to apologise, this disaster was not of your making. Now, shall we take our drinks over there and talk of something else until we have consumed them.' She gestured to the food and was pleased to see that he put several biscuits and a slice of cake on a plate.

  The library had floor-to-ceiling windows at either end but the other two walls were filled with leatherbound books. As the fireplace was in the centre of one of the book-lined walls it was a trifle gloomy but ideal in the circumstances.

  They munched and sipped for several minutes without conversing. He was first to break the silence.

  'I have been trying to fathom how such a swindle could have taken place without us being aware of it. You will see that all the documents pertaining to the transfer have been signed, it was only on close inspection that we realised the signatures to be forgeries. We have no idea how long it has taken to steal everything but obviously when the last amount was removed from the accounts Chalmers fled.'

  'Would it be possible to track the money somehow? Surely when stocks and shares are moved from one place to another there must be a record at the bank?'

  'We are looking into that, my lady, but unless we want this matter to become common knowledge we have to tread carefully. At the moment nobody at the office, apart from myself and my brother, are aware of the enormity of the theft.' He slurped down the last of his coffee and looked hopefully at the tray.

  'Would you like me to refill your cup? More biscuits and cake?'

  He nodded, his colour now restored and his appetite too. Once he was settled with his second serving, she wandered down to the desk and took her place behind it then she reached out and drew the pile of documents he had placed on the desk towards her.

  She could see immediately why the fraud had not been discovered until now. The genuine signature was almost indistinguishable from the forgery. Indeed, if she hadn't been alerted to the problem, she might well have missed the fact herself. This Mr Chalmers was not only a thief but a master forger as well.

  The lawyer joined her. 'You will see, my lady, if you peruse from the front to the back of that pile of papers that the first transfer took place a little over a year ago. As Mr Stanton did not ask us to visit or make enquiries about his holdings there was no need for either my brother or I to look into the documents.'

  If there had been the slightest doubt in her mind who was behind the swindle and the murder it now vanished. Mr Stanton had visited just before the time the money started to disappear.

  'Is there any way at all that Mr Benedict Stanton can claim Whitford for himself?'

  'No, my lady, they are yours. Fortunately, your husband appointed Mr Stokes, his man of affairs, to be your trustee and work alongside you. If that were not the case, I could foresee that there might be difficulties. However, Mr Stanton would be in a position to take control if you were to die without having remarried.'

  Emma's coffee threatened to return. 'How is that possible? I have a will already written as you know that leaves everything to my sister and her children.'

  'Although the estates are not entailed, my lady, Mr Stanton has an excellent claim in law to keep them in the family. Whitford Hall has been occupied by a Stanton for a century or more – he could insist that it would be wrong for them to pass to the distaff side.'

  'But if I were to be married this would not be the case? The estates would belong to my husband?'

  'That is correct, my lady.'

  The meeting was at an end. She had no wish to prolong the conversation. She stood and nodded politely; he took the hint and went to gather up the papers.

  'I shall need these, please leave them with me. No doubt whoever is sent from Bow Street will come and see you in the next day or two.'

  She rang the bell and a footman appeared to conduct the lawyer from the premises. As soon as he had left the library she collapsed into the nearest chair and closed her eyes. Her head was swimming. Her heart was pounding. On her death Richard's evil brother would get everything – was her own life in danger too?

  Chapter Three

  The ride to Chelmsford took longer than Sam had expected and even if he had wished to he could not continue his journey to Whitford Hall today. He decided they would overnight at The Saracen's Head, this was the main posting inn so should be a decent place to stay.

  They clattered into the yard and he dismounted. 'You see to the horses, Collins, I'll see to our accommodation. We'll meet in the common snug, more likely to hear any gossip in there.'

  'Right you are, sir, I'm fair famished. I hopes as they have a decent table here.'

  Inside the vestibule was gloomy, insufficient light filtered in through the small leaded panes of the windows. The landlord greeted him with a friendly smile. Sam had changed from his normal outfit which would immediately place him as a Bow Street Runner. Instead he had put on his smart brown riding coat, green waistcoat and freshly starched neckcloth.

  'I should like a room for the night and dinner when it's ready for me and my man. He's taken the horses to the stables and will be joining me presently.'

  'Certainly, sir. The best rooms are spoken for but I've a decent chamber at the rear of the property. You will have the room to yourselves, you won't have to share.' He scratched his head and then pointed to a door at the far side of the hall. 'You'll have to hurry if you want to eat tonight. The kitchen will be closing in half an hour. Over there, if you're lucky you'll find yourself a space at a table.'

  He didn't ask for payment in advance, something that frequently happened when Sam was in his uniform. Not everybody viewed law enforcers as friends.

  'I'll stow my bag and then eat.'

  The landlord yelled and a potboy in a grubby apron appeared to show Sam to his chamber. The boy didn't bother to open the door for him, just pointed and disappeared. Sam lifted the latch and stepped in almost braining himself on a beam. Small wonder the boy had been smirking behind his hand.

  This room was under the eaves and he wouldn't be able to stand up without doing himself serious harm. Apart from a small square in the centre of the room the ceiling was too low. Fortunately, the large bed was situated there but the washstand and commode would require him to approach on his knees if he wished to use them.

  The landlord must have realised this chamber was unsuitable for a man as tall as Sam but he had slept in worse and at least it was clean. He threw his saddlebag onto the floor and bending almost double he removed the pitcher of water and the basin from the stand and placed it carefully on the end of the bed. After a quick wash he was more than ready to find the supper he'd been promised.

  Collins had made his way directly to the dining room and claimed two seats at a table. Sam joined him and immediately a red-faced serving maid plonked a plate of lamb stew and dumplings in front of him.

  'This is a bit of all right, sir, and no mistake. There's ale in the mug – didn't reckon you'd want claret tonight.'

  'Thank you, Collins. Are the horses well settled? I warn you the room we've been given is a death trap. If we manage to get out of it without a concussion I'll be surprised.' Sam dipped his spoon into the steaming plate and was pleasantly surprised. There was freshly baked bread to mop up the juices and second helpings freely available.

  'That was an excellent meal, Collins. I'm going to join the young bucks and play a hand or two of cards – you go into the public bar and ask a few questions about the family lawyers, Dickens & Dickens.'

  When he eventually retired to bed, he'd gleaned nothing new from his temporary acquaintances. They'd heard of the Stantons but had nothing bad to say about the family and had certainly no knowledge of Mr Stanton's untimely demise.

  He remembered to duck as he entered his bedchamber and managed to undress and toss his garments safely to one side before clambering into bed. Collins knew the location of the chamber, had been warned about the beams and would find his own way to bed when he was ready.

  He was instantly asleep; the ten years he'd spent as a foot soldier had taught him to take his rest when and where he could. When light spilled into the room, he was instantly awake but not quick enough to remind his associate to duck.

  Collins cracked his head and tumbled to the floor plunging the room back into darkness. Sam pushed himself up onto one elbow. 'I told you to beware, serves you right. Stop making that racket, you'll wake the rest of the corridor.'

  'Sorry, Sergeant. Bloody hell! Where's the bed? Can't see a bleedin' thing.'

  'Shut the door, then four paces and you'll be there. You can stand upright in the middle of the room but nowhere else. Throw your clothes to the left, mine are on the right. By the by, did you learn anything interesting in the taproom?'

  'Nothing at all, ain't a bad word to be heard about the Stantons nor the lawyers.' After further muttering and cursing the bed dipped and seconds later the room reverberated with the sound of Collins' snoring.

  *

  Emma arose the following morning with a sense of dread. Whitford Hall no longer felt like her own home, the place she had lived in for the past five years. It could be because Richard's coffin lay in the family chapel and his death pervading the establishment with sadness.

  The vicar was to perform a simple service of committal at midday – the staff, both indoor and out, had leave to attend. Her dresser had put out a sombre, dark brown ensemble. Emma didn't own anything in the correct colour so this was obviously the closest thing that could be found to mourning clothes.

  The cut was old-fashioned, not having the waistline under the bosom as was favoured currently. The sleeves were long, the neck high and the skirt voluminous. This was not something Emma would choose to wear especially on such a warm day as this; however, she could hardly appear in her normal attire as that would seem disrespectful.

  Once her hair was plaited and pinned in a coronet, she was ready to go down and face the day. Stokes was waiting to speak to her.