Page 99 of Beyond the Grave
Buchanan's eyes flashed. His jaw went rigid. "You swine. You pretend innocence in my own home—"
"Julia's home. What do you mean 'pretend innocence?' What are you getting at?"
Buchanan swung his fist, but Harcourt moved at the last moment and the punch merely clipped his shoulder. Lincoln was close enough and fast enough that he could have intervened but he didn't. He merely stood by, his hands at his back, and watched.
Julia gasped. "Stop this! Stop it at once. Andrew, explain yourself."
"Why not get him to explain?" He nodded at Harcourt, now safely out of reach. "He put me there."
"In Bedlam?" Julia turned her wide eyes onto her eldest stepson as he spluttered a protest.
Marguerite sat up and blinked at her husband. "You didwhat?"
"Had him admitted to Bedlam," Edgecombe drawled. "Keep up, Sis."
"I did no such thing!" Harcourt tugged on his waistcoat hem. "I would never commit anyone to Bedlam, let alone a family member. Not anymore," he added upon Edgecombe's derisive snort. "That place is worse than a prison. It's a torture chamber. I wouldn't commit my worst enemy, let alone my own brother."
"Don't play the innocent, kind big brother," Buchanan sneered.
"Andrew, listen to yourself! Why would I send you to Bedlam? What possible motive could I have?"
"Jealousy." He arched his brow at Marguerite.
Harcourt regarded his wife coolly. "Andrew, you are a fool," he said with lofty condescension. "I admit to occasionally having bouts of jealousy still, but you and I both know that Marguerite's infatuation with you will go nowhere."
Marguerite clutched her throat and blinked back tears. She looked like a china doll, all pale glossy skin, pink heart shaped lips and vacant eyes. Julia waved the smelling salts beneath her nose again until Marguerite regained some color.
"If not jealousy then simple anger," Buchanan went on. This time he sounded less certain. I, too, began to have doubts about our theory. Harcourt wasn't acting like a guilty man. "You were angry with me for asking you for money. When we fought and I hit my head, you panicked. If I died, you would be arrested for murder."
"You wouldn't have died! You were already on your way when I left you."
"On my way?" Buchanan sat and rubbed his temples. "Yes, I was. I recall walking off down the drive, away from the house."
Harcourt hitched up his trousers and sat too. "I cannot believe you would accuse me of such a thing. I would never take you off to Bedlam. Never. As to your debts, yes, I was angry when you asked for money, but that's nothing new. You often make me angry. You have ever since you were knee-high."
So if he didn't do it, someone must have falsified his signature on the admission forms and passed themselves off as Lord Harcourt to the Bedlam governor. That meant a man was involved. While it didn't eliminate Julia or Marguerite—they could have hired someone—I didn't think it was either of them. Marguerite loved him unconditionally, and Julia had been the one to come to us in the first place.
That left one man. I watched Edgecombe from beneath my lashes. Surely it couldn't have been him. He was wheelchair bound, and he'd been friends with Buchanan before his accident.
Before, but not after, perhaps. Why not? Had Buchanan lost interest in a friend who could no longer join in with his revels? Perhaps Edgecombe had been the one to pay a man to pretend to be Lord Harcourt at Bedlam. His man, Dawkins…
No, not Dawkins. He was new. The previous assistant had died—at around the same time Buchanan disappeared.
"Then who…?" Julia asked, clutching the back of Andrew's chair. She appealed to Lincoln with a delicate lift of one shoulder.
He looked to me, which brought her brows crashing down. "Charlie, if you please," he said. It would seem he had the same suspicion as me.
I nodded as he moved to block the doorway. "Mr. Edgecombe, what is the name of your previous assistant?" I asked.
Edgecombe blinked at me. "Good lord, you don't thinkhedid it, do you? Why would he?"
"Tell her the name," Lincoln growled.
Edgecombe bristled. "It was Cleves. Norman Cleves."
"Middle name?" I prompted.
"What in God's name for?"
