All My Broken Dreams (Locksley Hall #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

S he had a set of keys to the building and Deacon’s flat. She could let herself in to wait for Mrs. Cameron to arrive.

There was nothing for breakfast but seeing as she was already out, she could stop in at Jimmy’s cafe and pick up some bacon and eggs to go. She wouldn’t feel comfortable eating alone in a crowd and. Deacon said the place filled up with students at eight o’clock.

A strange thing happened as she emerged from the narrow laneway and into the open side street. She thought it was her natural anxiety surfacing and prepared to meet it with the techniques her therapist had taught her.

But it wasn’t that. The sensation she had was of being watched. Robbie looked around, scanning the street but she was alone.

The feeling only got stronger as she made her way to the flat, forgoing breakfast at the cafe. By the time she was fumbling the key in the lock, Robbie had broken out into a cold sweat.

“It’s all in your head,” she told herself when she was safely on the other side of the door.

But when she entered Harry’s flat, the feeling returned. She had left the door unlocked yesterday so she could get back in, and she had got in to fetch Harry’s scarf this morning.

This was different. Something was different.

Robbie closed her eyes and opened them again to see it.

The mug was missing.

Deacon arrived at the Dining Hall ten minutes after receiving the summons on his phone. He had come through the kitchen, greeting the early morning staff who were in the middle of prepping the morning meal. Deacon poured a hot cup of tea and snatched a roll from the bowl on the counter.

“Professor Manderville is waiting for you in the Little Room with the others.” Mrs. Baird wiped her hands on her apron. “You can tell them from me, I don’t appreciate having the kitchen turned upside down at the last moment. They’ll get their breakfast when it’s ready and not a moment before.”

“I’ll tell them, but I don’t think the meeting will go long. Tea and coffee should do, Mrs. Baird.”

They were assembled in the Little Room, which was a private dining hall off the great Dining Hall where the student body took their meals. The Little Room began its life as a private chamber for faculty members to dine, but as the Academy grew, so did its staff and the room became too small.

Faculty dined at the Head Table, presiding over the student body. The room was left now for private functions and the occasional benefactor’s luncheon.

Everyone was seated around the table, in the same positions they had taken the night before at Dugald Croft. They are nothing if not predictable, Deacon thought. If it wasn’t for the fresh hair and makeup on Penelope, he’d swear they hadn’t even gone to bed.

“Mrs. Baird is not best pleased,” he said as he entered.

Deacon set his cup of tea on the table, pinned the roll between his teeth and shrugged out of his coat. Students were already filing into the Dining Hall for breakfast.

“We’ll make this brief.” Alastair opened a folder that contained a stack of legal documents. “This is Harry’s trust fund agreement. He was set to inherit the Stewart estate on his twenty-fifth birthday. As we all know from our conversations with my son, he was unaware he was the only living heir in the Stewart clan.”

“Nevertheless,” Casey moaned, “he was not one of the original families and therefore had no place at this table. If we are going to let any Tom, Dick and Harry buy his way into this house, then what is the point?”

“Harry was my son,” Alastair snarled. “My firstborn. First blood. That was his right. D’ye ken what I’m saying or do your ears need boxing to make you understand?”

“We’ve been over this half-a-dozen times, Casey.” Reginald turned on the young man. “We put it to a vote and determined that Alastair had the right to choose which son to bequeath his position as The Black. Harry rejected his offer after witnessing the unfortunate mishap with the vagrant. Now, will you shut up so we can get on with it.”

Casey raised his hands with false cheer. “Don’t let me interfere. Proceed. I won’t say another word.”

This was one of those moments when Casey had Deacon’s sympathy. Casey had lost status as Alastair’s only son when Harry came along and he wasn’t mature enough to take his demotion with grace.

“I have here the trust agreement drafted by Bryan Stewart the year Harry turned sixteen. Clearly, he was confident by then that I was no longer a threat, and he was dying. The solicitor for the Stewart clan sent me a copy at my request. As Harry’s father I have a legal right to protect my son’s interest until his twenty-fifth birthday at which time the trust will be released.”

“Harry is dead,” Deacon said without inflection. “He won’t be turning twenty-five.”

“Another clever observation from Master Wake.” Lester sneered. “As far as the authorities know, Harry Listowel is very much alive and living at Dugald Croft.”

Penelope spoke up. “But Deacon has a point. When Harry’s birthday rolls around and he isn’t here to collect his inheritance, what then? The authorities will be called.”

“That is what we are here to discuss,” said Alastair. “I have a plan but it will require the cooperation of each of you. In a few days, Harry’s body will be discovered along with the thief who was killed. The authorities will determine that he was responsible for the vagrant’s death and his guilty conscience drove him to take his life.”

There was a long moment of silence while everyone digested this bold plan to pin their crime on The Black’s dead son.

“Alastair, is that how you want Harry remembered?” Deacon ventured to ask.

His uncle had aged dramatically in the past month. His jowls sagged and there were dark circles under his eyes, a sign of sleepless nights. His clothes hung loose on his frame. Normally a powerfully built man, he had shrunk in the past few weeks.

“What I want is to preserve the Order. Harry is gone and nothing I do can bring him back. This plan solves both problems. Arrangements will be made to transport the vagrant’s body to Arran. There has been no missing person report filed so we may assume he does not have a family.”

“Likely they gave up on him years ago.”

“Quite.” Alastair cleared his throat. “On to the business at hand. We are here to cover up a murder. Once I begin, all of you will be committed to the plan. Treachery will not be tolerated. If you do not have the stomach for what I am about to tell you, leave now.”

No one moved. Including Deacon.

The only acknowledgement Alastair gave their loyalty was a brief nod.

“Harry’s body will be returned to its original position at the bottom of the tower. The vagrant will be found inside. Evidence of a scuffle will be found at the scene. This has to be carefully placed to satisfy the Procurator Fiscal’s report. We have people in that department but we mustn’t get sloppy. There will be eyes on this.”

“When the bodies are discovered, won’t there be a full investigation with police and everything?” Millicent asked.

Phillip answered. “Not if we stick to our story. In Scotland, accidental or suspicious deaths are investigated privately by the Procurator Fiscal. This person is a qualified lawyer who works for the local crown agent. Only certain types of death are investigated further at Fatal Accident Inquiries.”

“Such as homicides,” Lester said.

Deacon caught the exchange of glances.

“That will not happen if we pull together and point our agent in the right direction. Once the report is written up, the matter will be closed. Harry’s body will be flown home for burial.” Alastair cleared his throat again and returned to the folder. “This is not the outcome I hoped for. The timing is delicate. We cannot hide Harry’s disappearance any longer. Miss Listowel’s appearance at Dugald Croft last night made that clear. Therefore, we will work with the police, declare him missing and his body will be discovered along with the vagrant’s, victims of a murder-suicide that we knew nothing about.”

“It is an elegant plan, sir,” Lester said.

“It is not elegant. It is hamfisted and costly compared to what I had planned. Plans that I can’t act upon now that my son is dead. When Harry came into his trust, I intended to assume management of his trust while he continued his studies. Stewart Holdings would grow the wealth of Fuil Bratach.” His eyes grew hard. “Beyond wealth, there was another, deeply satisfying aspect to this scheme.”

“Revenge,” Deacon said quietly.

His uncle met his eyes. “Do you fault me? Bryan Stewart robbed me of my life.”

“You know I don’t, Uncle. But with Harry dead, none of it matters anymore. Is it worth risking your freedom for this?”

“Harry cannot inherit. But his sister can. In the event Harry Stewart dies before he turns twenty-five, the trust will be released to the next in line. Miss Rowena Listowel. Sarah Stewart’s daughter.”