“Not the sort of delicate missions normally entrusted to those who can’t control their tempers.”

“Precisely. They can control themselves when they wish, at least to a manageable degree. However, the truth is they love-to the point of addiction-the drama and sheer energy they can let loose, and so if there is no pressure to rein their tempers in, they don’t. Won’t. Instead, they indulge themselves, to the general terror of all those around to hear.” His lips curved. “Mind you, I have it on excellent authority that the current generation are but a pale imitation of the ancestor who gained the family their nickname.”

Tristan snorted. “Probably just as well, although that hasn’t in this case stopped the ton from attributing a murderous impulse to the infamous Vaux temper.” He met Christian’s eyes. “Which brings me to our next point. Quite aside from any temper-induced fury, nonwarrior that he is, could Justin Vaux have killed his brother-in-law, especially in such a brutal manner?”

Christian held Tristan’s gaze for some moments before saying, “I can imagine him killing with a pistol-a single shot. Or with a sword thrust. What I find difficult to imagine is him committing the unnecessary violence. By all accounts there was very little left of Randall’s face.”

Tristan grimaced.

“And,” Christian went on, “while admittedly I haven’t met Justin since he was fourteen, even then he was a stickler in some respects, quite rigid in his adherence to our codes. Again, a Vaux trait. I can imagine him killing Randall-quickly and cleanly, even strangling him-but what I cannot imagine is him doing so and then fleeing. If Justin had killed Randall, brutally or not, he would have been the one to raise the alarm. Quite aside from it being unusual for a Vaux to decline to appear in a scene of high drama, they’re incredibly proud, something that goes bone-deep, alongside their stubbornness.”

Tristan pressed his lips together, then stated, “Everything you’ve said-all we’ve found and all we feel-about Justin Vaux suggests, strongly, that he’s acting to protect someone.”

Christian nodded. “I agree.”

“So the question is: Who?” Tristan shifted. “Let me play devil’s advocate. Could Lady Letitia have killed Randall, and Justin then acted to protect her by deflecting attention to himself?”

Christian had already considered it. “I can readily believe Justin acting in that way-it would fit his character as I know it to a T.” He met Tristan’s gaze. “But equally I know, absolutely, that Letitia did not kill Randall. While I admit she had, on the surface, a motive of sorts in opposing Randall’s plans for her sister, she could have-and would have-dealt with that easily enough by other means. In that disagreement, the power lay with her and she knew it. Beyond that, she has no motive. And beyond that again, I seriously doubt she has it in her to intentionally kill anyone, and if she’d unintentionally harmed Randall, lethally or otherwise, not being the sort to readily lose her wits, she would have summoned assistance immediately.”

Tristan held his gaze steadily. “As devil’s advocate, I would have to point out that she might not have done the actual killing.”

It took Christian a moment to realize what Tristan was implying.

As understanding dawned, Tristan went on, “If, as it appears, the marriage had deteriorated, it’s not inconceivable that Letitia has a lover. Perhaps she schemed with her lover and he killed Randall. Or perhaps the lover acted on his own initiative and killed Randall without her knowledge. As for motive, who can tell what goes on between man and wife-what passions and jealousies might come into play?” Tristan broke off, then continued, “I was going to suggest that perhaps Randall’s death came about in self-defense, but that won’t wash given the injuries.”

“Indeed.” Christian hesitated. “I don’t believe that Letitia has a lover, certainly not a recent one.” He didn’t want to believe that she might, even now, have a lover in the wings. He forced himself to evenly say, “But I can’t swear to it.” He straightened from his slouch. “I’ll make discreet inquiries.”

They revisited the items on their investigative list. “So we have three fronts,” Christian summarized. “Justin Vaux-both his whereabouts and any hint of a motive, on neither of which we have any firm information. Secondly, we need to confirm if Letitia has a lover, and therefore some motive beyond what we know, and if said lover might be involved.”

“And lastly,” Tristan said, “Randall himself. We need to know much more about him, especially if neither Justin Vaux nor his sister are the murderers.”

Christian grimaced. “Indeed. Once we eliminate them…at present the field is empty.”

“Which is going to make it doubly hard to argue the Vaux’s combined innocence.”

Christian nodded and stood. “I’ll look into Randall and his circumstances, and inquire about any lover Letitia may have. But first I’ve an appointment with Pringle-I asked him to take a look at Randall’s body.”

“An excellent idea. Meanwhile I”-Tristan rose, too-“will scout through the clubs for more pertinent information on Justin Vaux-whether anyone knows of any reason he might have headed to Dover, or if, as we suspect, he was merely blazing a trail for us to waste time following.”

Christian met Pringle in an anteroom off the police morgue.

While the dapper little surgeon washed his hands, he happily recited a list of Randall’s injuries. “Those to the face are the most severe, of course-extremely heavy blows with the poker. And yes, before you ask, it was Randall’s poker that was the sole weapon. No hint of any other blunt instrument coming into play.”

Picking up a waiting towel, Pringle turned to look at Christian. “What was most interesting, however, was that he wasn’t killed by the blows to the face and the sides of his head.” Pringle grinned at Christian’s look of surprise. “Indeed. The gentleman was killed with one lucky blow to the back of his head.” Raising a hand, now clean, Pringle indicated the base of his skull.

Christian frowned. “Why a ‘lucky’ blow?”

“Because it was delivered with far less force than the blows to the face. In many men, it wouldn’t have killed them. Randall had a thin skull, as it happened, so it did for him. Regardless, the killing stroke-administered first-was weak and definitely struck from behind. All the rest-the blows to the face and sides of the head-came later.”

Disappointment settled in Christian’s gut. “So in your opinion, a woman could have delivered the blow that killed Randall?”

Unaware of the importance of the question-that the chance to eliminate a female as the murderer was what had prompted Christian to ask him to examine Randall, and then pull strings, using his rank to arrange it-Pringle grinned. “Indubitably. Any reasonably tall woman could have done it-I say tall so the angle of strike fits.”

Letitia was definitely tall.

Christian fell silent, digesting the news.

But Pringle hadn’t finished. “What, however, in my humble opinion, a woman couldn’t have done was deliver the blows that came later.”

Christian refixed his attention on the surgeon. “You’re sure?”

Pringle pursed his lips, weighing the question, then nodded. “Perhaps a strong woman from the circus might have, but any normal woman simply would not have been able to impart such force, even with him laid out on his back and her standing over him. Whoever struck those after-death blows was a male-a grown man. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

Christian inwardly grimaced at the scenario taking shape in his mind. “How long after death?”

Again Pringle pursed his lips. This time he took longer before he answered. “My best estimate-and I stress it’s only an estimate, this is an inexact science after all-would be at least fifteen minutes after death. Possibly as many as thirty, but not much longer. The injuries caused by the heavy blows were bloody-there was definitely some blood, but in none of the injuries, nor in the relevant reports, can I find sufficient blood to suggest the man’s heart was still pumping. It wasn’t. He was already dead, and from what else I saw on the corpse, for at least a little time.”

“So it looks like he was first struck down when he was facing…the desk?”

Pringle considered, then nodded. “Again I’m going by the reports, but there wasn’t any indication he’d been moved other than being turned over, which of course he was. And yes, with the knowledge that he was first struck from behind, not from the front as was assumed, he was indeed facing the desk, not the hearth.”

Randall had been facing away from the person who had shared a drink with him. The person who’d sat in the other armchair.

Christian tucked the information away and refocused on Pringle. “Do you have any insight into why anyone would deliver those blows to the head and face of an already dead man?”

Pringle nodded. “Indeed I do. A guess, of course, but I believe it bears examining.” Laying aside the towel, he reached for his coat. “Those later blows were extremely deliberate, struck with concerted, focused force. Any notion they were the product of some frenzied attack is purest fancy. No. Those blows were administered, I believe, to achieve precisely what had been achieved before you called me in. The police doctor didn’t look closely enough-he assumed that the blows to the face and sides of the head killed Randall, and that, as I said, would exclude any woman as a suspect.

“I believe,” Pringle caught Christian’s eyes, “that the postmortem blows were administered with the sole objective of hiding-disguising, if you will-that a female could, in fact, have been the murderer.”

Christian nodded; the scenario in his head had solidified.

“Just as well you called me in when you did,” Pringle went on, shrugging into his coat. “If I hadn’t got here this morning, it would have been too late. They’re releasing the body to the undertakers as we speak-he’ll be buried this afternoon.”