Nails? Who would have thought something so simple could rebuild a fortune, but then, most of Europe needed rebuilding, and nails were necessary to that undertaking.

“All quite enlightening, but what does this have to do with a man twitching on the street in broad daylight?”

“I suspect,” Cranmouth said, lowering his voice, “the guidance regarding the rebuilding of the Rothhaven fortunes came from Robert, not Nathaniel. Nathaniel let the house go to ruin. Busied himself tending the estate, and seldom bothered to call on me. How would he have come across a scheme to enrich the family coffers by brokering nails, lumber, and the like?”

“Lumber?” Lumber, especially hardwood, was scarce in England. The ever-growing cities and towns wanted quick construction, not the more expensive stone variety, and what didn’t end up in housing had long since been impressed into service in the Royal Navy.

“Rothhaven bought lumber in America,” Cranmouth said, “where they literally have trees to burn, and let the wood finish seasoning as it traveled across the sea, thus reducing the time the inventory needed to be stored at its origins. These are not the behaviors of a lunatic.”

“But until recently, Nathaniel was the duke of record, so the cleverness must be attributed to him. Of Robert, we know only that he grew up away from his family, likely in a madhouse, and only recently returned to Rothhaven Hall.”

Cranmouth glanced around. “Lunatics do not amass fortunes in only a few years’ time.”

“You have no proof that the investments were Robert’s doing, Cranmouth. Sensible people are not relegated to madhouses.”

Cranmouth sat back, wineglass in hand. “Sensible people are sent to madhouses every day, Philpot. You know that as well as I do. Inconvenient wives, carping aunties, simpletons with no harm in them whatsoever…They can all be quietly incarcerated for a modest sum, and if they aren’t barmy when they arrive at those places, they will be by the time a doctor comes around on an annual visit.”

If any such visit was ever made. “As best I can determine, Robert Rothmere would have spent at least a decade in a private madhouse. He was sent off somewhere as a boy, we know that much, and if you did a very thorough review of the old duke’s ledgers, you could probably ascertain where. Add the falling sickness to his afflictions, and you doubtless have a man of very frail mental faculties. You saw him, Cranmouth. When his fit was over, he couldn’t speak, and he could barely stand. Anybody could have served him a bad turn in such a state or made off with him bodily.”

Cranmouth grimaced and took a sip of his wine. “It was awful, no denying that. One can’t help but feel sorry for the poor fellow. He’s a duke, an extraordinarily wealthy duke, and he looked like a gin drunk twitching in the gutter. Pathetic. This is an excellent vintage.”