Page 79 of Beyond the Grave
But Edgecombe only chuckled. "She has reason to, Sister." He patted the seat beside him and I sat, careful that not even my skirts impinged on his space.
Lincoln settled opposite, his knees touching mine. "I didn't think you left the house, these days, Edgecombe."
Edgecombe turned a sour gaze onto Lincoln. "You try getting in and out of carriages, up and down stairs, without the use of your bloody legs."
"John, really, do youhaveto embarrass me like this?" Marguerite muttered.
Edgecombe's brows shot up his forehead. "Embarrass you? Mydearsister, I came all this way to London, exposing myself to ridicule if any of my old chums see me, and you accusemeof embarrassingyou? You don't even know what embarrassing is until you can't perform in the bedroom like you used to."
Marguerite's face flushed scarlet.
Edgecombe reached under the seat, opened the storage compartment and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry, Fitzroy, but there's only enough for one."
"You came here for a reason," Lincoln said flatly. "It must be important."
"Ah, yes. I got to thinking about Buchanan after you left Emberly the other day. I'm quite sure he's dead."
Marguerite spluttered a short sob. Lincoln handed her a handkerchief and she held it to her nose.
"He's not," I said.
Lincoln gave his head a slight shake. "We don't think so."
"Buck up, Sis." Edgecombe took another swig from the bottle. "She's upset, you see, because she's still in love with her brother-in-law."
"John! That is not true. This is an indignity and I cannot bear it. I will not."
He rolled his eyes. "It's obvious to a blind man."
Marguerite blinked wet eyes and sank into the corner.
"Why do you think he's dead?" Lincoln asked.
"Because where could he be if he isn't pushing up daisies? I had my man Dawkins ask in the village, after you departed, and no one there had seen him. When I arrived at Harcourt House last night, my sister confirmed that Donald admitted to fighting with his brother at Emberly. So we know he was there, but never made it back to the village."
"He might have gone to a different village for the night."
"But we know he never made it home to London! God, man, you're supposed to be some sort of inquiry agent, yet you're not looking at the evidence. The last person to see Buchanan alive was the man he fought. Donald."
Marguerite placed her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes shut. She was close to falling apart.
"My sister doesn't like to think that her husband killed the man she loves."
Marguerite began to hum, as if she were trying to drown out her brother's words. I eyed Lincoln and lifted one shoulder in a "what-shall-we-do" gesture. He simply gave his head another half-shake.
"Harcourt doesn't strike me as the sort of fellow who would kill his own brother," Lincoln said.
"Why not?" Edgecombe sneered. "He put his own wife in Bedlam."
Marguerite's humming grew louder, and she gently rocked back and forth. I laid my hand on her knee but she jerked violently, and I recoiled.
Edgecombe laughed, a bitter, brittle sound that grated on my nerves. "He had her admitted to the asylum a few months after the baby's birth. She was still very affected by Hector's death, and she wasn't showing signs of recovery." He nodded at the humming, rocking figure of his sister, opposite. "She was much like this, as it happens."
"Her own husband," I said quietly. Poor Marguerite.
"She hasn't been the same since." Edgecombe shook his shoulders, as if shaking off the memories. "So you see why I suspect him, don't you? A man capable of such a callous action toward his wife is surely capable of killing his brother out of jealousy."
"Jealousy?" Lincoln asked.
