Page 85 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“He offered to help. Out of kindness. He’s like an uncle to me.” Annabeth knew she was probably protesting too much, as if she wanted to convince herself. But it simply could not be Russell who killed her father and tried to kill her.

“He was the only person Mr. Winfield’s valet said came to see your father that last week of his life.”

“They were friends. They always visited each other.” Annabeth drew a breath and sat back. “Very well. I understand. We have to consider everyone, just as you said, no matter how unlikely. But we also must consider Lord Edgerton. I think anyone would agree that he is much more the kind of man who would be ruthless. Obviously he was still in love with my mother. He knows important people—when Sloane and I called on Mother the other day, she was not looking forward to a party that evening because she found all those government people dull.”

Nathan spoke up. “Annabeth, I think you’re letting your dislike of the man color your reasoning. I could believe him killing Mr. Winfield more than Mr. Feringham doing it. But this person tried to kill you. Edgerton wouldn’t try to shoot his own stepdaughter.” Verity snorted, and Nathan turned to her. “I know you don’t believe that aristocratic men have any morals, but even if he didn’t care about Annabeth, he wouldn’t harm her for the very same reason Annabeth suspects him of murdering her father. He loves her mother. He wouldn’t do anything that would hurt Lady Edgerton.”

Annabeth said, “When we spoke to him the other day, he clearly did not want us to tell Mother about Papa’s death or someone shooting at me. He was trying to keep the news from her. Besides, she wouldn’t know that he had shot me or ordered it done.”

“Much as I hate to say it, I agree with Nathan,” Sloane said. “If you were hurt, there’s no way he could keep it from Lady Edgerton. And even if she didn’t know he was responsible, it would still make her terribly unhappy. I don’t think he would do something that would hurt Lady Edgerton that much.”

“You can’t take him off the list of suspects just because you think he loves his wife,” Annabeth protested.

“No, of course, we won’t take him off the list. We have to consider him, just as we have to consider Feringham.” Sloane turned. “Verity, what have you found out?”

“Nothing,” she said in disgust. “We searched all over Stonecliffe—no secrets stashed away there.” Verity pulled out a notebook and tossed it onto a table. “And this code in the notebook you found at the rental house defeated me. I worked on it till my eyes crossed, and I couldn’t figure it out.”

“She even let me have a try at it,” Nathan said.

“So I decided to take it yesterday to someone I know is very good at codes. He couldn’t come up with anything that made sense. I think it wasn’t a code at all, but just what it appears to be—an ordinary notebook. From the pattern, I assume it was a record of something. The numbers could have been money. Purchases? Payments? The letters could have been a sort of code for a product, perhaps. Or maybe the initials of people. The same letters appear often, but the numbers are very different.” She shrugged. “I thought the initials might refer to his operatives and the numbers indicate what information he received or what he paid them. They weren’t dates. Or maybe it’s just a list of clothes or liquor or cigars, who knows? At any rate, it hasn’t led me to anything other than a headache.”

Annabeth picked up the notebook. Whatever it contained, it had been important enough to her father to hide. She went through the pages slowly. They were all the same, a column of letters and a column of numbers, with a symbol at the end of the line, either a triangle or a circle. If it wasn’t a code but a record of something, as Verity now surmised, what would have been so important that Hunter had found it necessary to hide the record? Surely he couldn’t have been involved in some other secret than espionage or his racing accident.

Annabeth went still, her mind humming. Going back to the beginning, she ran her finger down the list of initials. “I think—I think maybe this is a record of his bets. And these letters are the people he wagered against.”

“Or raced against.” Sloane straightened, his eyes intent on hers.

“Yes. Here is a PLA. SQS.” She turned the page, once again skimming down the rows. “They’re here more than once.”

“Peter Alexander. Maybe this Smythe fellow,” Sloane said.

“Yes, but here’s another one that ends in S—APS. LMC. Could be Congrove.”

“Obviously we’re going to have to find these men’s entire names,” Nathan said.

“I know this one—MFBE. Michael Frederick Billingham Edgerton. There’s a circle by his name. I think the symbols might stand for whether Papa won or lost—a circle for losing and a triangle for winning. JHK—that must be Jamie Kidlington.”

“What’s the last name on the list?” Sloane’s voice was tight.

Annabeth looked up at him, and her eyes lit with understanding. “The race that made him stop.”

“Perhaps.”

She thumbed quickly through the pages and stopped on the last set of initials. Her insides turned to ice. “REF. Russell Edward Feringham.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“WE DON’T KNOW that this means it was Feringham,” Sloane told Annabeth as they left the house. After some discussion of the matter, Verity and Nathan had set off to find out what they could about their targets of Alexander and Kidlington while Sloane and Annabeth went to talk to Russell.

“I know. You said it before,” Annabeth told him. “But it doesn’t look good. There was no win or loss symbol at the end of the line. My father never went back to fill it in.”

“It could be that he never followed through with bets with Feringham. They were good friends, and the winner was a foregone conclusion. Everyone agrees that Feringham was a terrible driver.”

“Perhaps.” She looked at him. “Why are you arguing the other side now? I thought you were sure it was Uncle Russell.”

“I hate for you to look so sad,” Sloane replied. “Besides, I’m not sure. I, too, find it hard to believe he killed your father or tried to harm you. He should be on the stage if he’s played the role of loving friend so well all these years.”

“Really, all the clues we have are scarcely hard evidence,” Annabeth said, looking a little more cheerful. She smiled at Sloane. “Thank you for trying to make me feel better.”