Dead and Buried by Barbara Hambly Page B

even imagine who would have done such a thing!’
    ‘Can’t you?’ asked January softly, and the Viscount started, as if at the flick of a whip. ‘Because that’s exactly one of the questions I wanted to ask you: is there anyone who would have done such a thing? Who would have murdered Mr Derryhick?’
    Foxford wet his split lip, ran a quick hand through his blond hair, thick and tumbling in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid Mr Shaw has already been over that with me. I – I simply can’t help you there. Even in London, or in Dublin, Patrick hadn’t an enemy in the world—’
    ‘Not even your uncle?’
    Something in the boy’s eyes shifted. He evidently had to think about that, like an inexperienced card player trying to remember what was trumps. ‘I don’t . . . Of course not. Are you thinking about what he said about my cousin’s death . . .? You were there, weren’t you, sir? In the hotel?’ His eyes met January’s again. ‘Please don’t – Uncle Diogenes knows, as well as anyone in the family, that his son’s . . .’ he fished visibly for a euphemism – ‘ shortcomings were of Theo’s own choosing. Uncle . . .’ He fumbled for words. ‘When someone you care for dies – even someone you know was leading a life that could only end in a stupid accident like that – it’s hard not to blame. But Uncle would never . . . He was angry at Patrick, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’d . . . he’d do him harm.’
    He can’t say it , thought January. Can’t say ‘stab him and hold a pillow over his face until he suffocated to death’. It has to be just ‘do him harm’ .
    Grief filled the young man’s eyes, and he looked away. He had what was generally called a ‘frank’ face, every emotion readable: How much longer do I have to keep this up?
    Foxford went on, ‘But they can’t hang me for the crime because I simply didn’t do it. Ask anyone who knew Patrick! He was like a father to me!’ Sweat stood out on the young man’s face – understandable in the heat, and yet January sensed that heat was not the only cause.
    ‘Tell me about Lord Montague Blessinghurst, then.’
    For one second there was unmasked terror in those expressive eyes. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’
    January made no reply.
    ‘I don’t! Who . . . who is it?’ he added with a total lack of innocence.
    ‘He’s the man Patrick Derryhick quarreled with on Thursday night,’ said January gently, ‘just before he returned to the hotel and his death.’ The boy’s eyes widened: horror and shock. ‘And he’s the man you called a scoundrel – and attempted to assault – at Mr Trulove’s ball in Milneburgh on your first night in town. Did Derryhick know him?’
    ‘No, of course not.’
    ‘How do you know that,’ asked Shaw mildly, his long arms folded, ‘if’n you don’t know who he is?’
    ‘I – that is – I don’t know who he is, but Patrick would have said . . . Patrick didn’t know him.’
    ‘An’ the girl you fought over?’
    ‘We didn’t fight over a girl.’
    Shaw spat. ‘Then why’d you fight?’
    ‘We didn’t. I mean, I – he – he called me a – I don’t remember. I was drunk,’ added the boy defiantly. ‘Uncle Diogenes told me I’d quarreled with a man but I didn’t remember any of it. Did we fight over a girl?’
    ‘According to witnesses,’ said January, ‘you quarreled – with sufficient violence as to alarm bystanders – over a young lady named Isobel Deschamps—’
    ‘Oh,’ said the Viscount quickly. ‘Oh, yes – was that her name? I saw this man – this Blessinghurst, you call him – trying to force his attentions on her and I . . . Well, one doesn’t simply stand by and let that sort of thing take place, does one? The man was clearly a scoundrel.’
    January opened his mouth to point out that this directly contradicted his statement of three seconds previously; to ask why, since he had only been in New Orleans less than twenty-four