On a Desert Shore (20 page)

Chase went still. “By whose orders do you confine Miss Garrod?”

“The Reverend Tallboys, sir,” they chorused, responding to the unmistakable note of authority in his voice, and the burly guard added, “He said anyone who questioned the order was to speak to him directly.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He's in Mr. Garrod's study, sir,” the guard answered. He relaxed a little, letting his cudgel dangle from his hand, and gave a tentative smile.

A couple of local men, Chase thought, hired to isolate Marina Garrod from her friends. No doubt the rumors had been spreading since her appearance at the inquest, but wouldn't the family want discretion? Possibly the guards had been told she was distraught over her father's death and needed to be alone with her grief. They would have heard that her mental state was questionable.

“From the village, are you?” he asked the men.

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“Stable hands?”

“How'd you know?” said the burly one.

“Your friend has a piece of straw sticking out of his boot,” said Chase. Before Lewis could renew his protests, Chase said to him in an undertone, “Be patient. Let me find out what's going on.”

“The young lady is ill and needs her rest,” volunteered the more talkative guard, trying to be helpful.

Lewis hesitated. “Something's wrong, Mr. Chase. You'll bring me word as soon as you can?”

“Yes. Don't do anything stupid.” Chase walked away.

***

Samuel Tallboys opened the door at Chase's knock. “Well,” he said, smiling with all his teeth, “this is fortuitous. I needed a word with you, though my time is not my own this morning. The funeral, you understand. Come in, come in. I can spare you a few minutes.” He waved a casual hand at an armchair in front of Garrod's desk. “Have a seat, sir.”

Chase sat. Tallboys took his place behind the desk, smoothing the sleeve of his well-brushed black suit and straightening his pristine cuffs. As he reached into the drawer, he briefly admired his hand upon which a mourning ring of gold and jet gleamed. A moment later the hand reemerged with a bank draft, which he pushed across the polished surface toward Chase. “The balance of your fee, sir. I trust you find it satisfactory?”

Chase didn't pick up the check. “My fee? I thank you, sir, but I can't accept it for work undone. Mr. Garrod's killer has not been apprehended.”

“Work undone? Those are the precise words used by Mrs. Wolfe when I tried to pay her for the magazine profile she was to have written. She refused.”

“This surprises you? She feels as I do. It's not possible.”

“Why not?” Tallboys said reasonably. “Though she was not able to complete the commission due to the tragedy that has overtaken us, she has lost several days of her valuable time and undergone an ordeal. We feel it is the least we can do. And the same is true for you. You mustn't think we blame you for what happened to Hugo. I am not certain it could have been prevented if the devil was bent on having his way. You may accept your fee in good conscience.”

“What's this about? Why have you turned off the Bow Street constables and stopped access to Miss Garrod?”

Tallboys turned an aloof gaze on him. “You are too impatient.” He pointed at the bank draft. “There is your money. Take it. This makes us quits, I believe.”

“You are discharging me?”

“Your usefulness has come to an end, Mr. Chase. You were employed as escort for Miss Garrod, but these services are no longer required.”

“In short, you are turning me off.”

“I cannot help it if you choose to take it like that. Please understand. My responsibilities are immense at the present time. I must attend to an ever-increasing load of business in relation to the estate, consult with lawyers, be of comfort to my old friend's family, and care for his daughter. This in addition to my parish duties and my work as magistrate—” Tallboys broke off, drawing a hand over his eyes, overcome with emotion. When he pressed his head against the back of the chair, the fruity odor of the pomade from his curled wig reached Chase's nostrils.

“What about Miss Garrod? Allow me to speak to her.”

“I'm afraid I cannot allow that. Poor, poor girl. Anyone must feel for her.”

“Does Honeycutt know she is confined to her room? He told a room full of people yesterday that she is his affianced bride.”

“Marriage.” Tallboys shook his head. “That must be a consideration for the future. First things first, Mr. Chase. She must be made whole, purified, if you will, of her evil humors before she can become a suitable English wife.”

“Be plain, Tallboys. What are your intentions for her?”

“Oh, you need have no fear on that score. She will receive the most tender attention.” He looked at Chase sadly. “No one can be more eager to serve her than I. According to the terms of the will, I am to be joined with another in the guardianship of this child. It is a heavy charge, Chase. I don't mind owning that.”

“You mean to bring in doctors to see her?”

“That has already been discussed. In any case, she is soon to depart.”

“To…go…where?” said Chase, throwing as much force as he could into each word. A look of alarm crossed the clergyman's face, but he managed to scowl back from under his bristling white brows. Chase himself knew his attitude was all show. Tallboys had the law on his side. He had the right to send his ward to school, banish her to the country, send her abroad—anything he chose—and there would be nothing Chase could do.

Tallboys knew it too. “I don't owe you an explanation,” he said mildly. “But as a courtesy, I'll tell you that we have made arrangements for her to go away for a few months until such time as she is more composed and can be trusted not to endanger herself or others.”

“Preposterous. Miss Garrod is no danger to anyone. You do realize that the scene enacted for our benefit last night was faked. If you're the honest man you claim to be, you should ask yourself why Mrs. Yates bothered. Ask yourself, who benefits from Miss Garrod's disgrace? Ask yourself, who hopes to profit from her father's death?”

“Ah, but you see. I already know the answer to these questions. Though Hugo was in the habit of altering his arrangements frequently, one fact is beyond dispute. He was quite determined on making Marina his heiress. There is your motive, sir. Surely you sympathize with my wish to protect this family as much as possible. One person is dead, and I will not have the blood of others laid to my account.”

Chase felt a muscle ticking at the side of his mouth. “You're wrong. Marina Garrod did not kill her father. The girl is as sane as you are—as I am. There is a conspiracy against her, and for all I know you are in the thick of it. Where are you sending her? To a private madhouse?”

“To the moon, sir. To the moon. Where better for a moonstruck girl?” He stood to signal the interview was over.

Chapter Twenty

“Who did it?” said Penelope. Sitting on a high-backed settle in the private parlor at the Windmill Inn, she addressed this question to John Chase, who rested an arm on the mantel as he kicked one booted foot against the fireboard. This board, designed to block the fireplace hole in summer, showed a painting of a large flowerpot that Chase probably scuffed without realizing. Edward Buckler didn't bother to point this out. He was perched on the window seat opposite, gazing at a sequence of hunting prints on the walls, which chronicled the destruction of a fox. He felt a paralyzing coldness within.

Chase said, “I have my own ideas about that. If more than one of them is involved, we know the reason.”

“Greed,” said Penelope.

He nodded. “They won't hesitate to destroy Miss Garrod's name even if they suspect, or know, that someone else is the real killer.”

Sitting next to Penelope on the settle, Lewis Durant stirred, and her hand drifted over to pat him, though she kept her focus on Chase. “I agree,” she said. “Money is at the root of this crime.”

Chase gave the fireboard one last kick and went to throw himself into a chair at the small dining table. “A clever plot. One with few obvious mistakes.” He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hand. He described the gardener Higgins' testimony along with his own conclusions. “I asked the head gardener where Higgins was today. He's gone off to a plant nursery to collect some supplies. He'll be back soon. I must see this man.”

“Even if Higgins gives you the name of the person who sent him to the boiler room, I don't see how that's proof of guilt,” objected Penelope.

“You're right. That's been the trouble all along, hasn't it? Without a witness to place someone purchasing the poison or interfering with the teapoy, proof is hard to come by. What we need is a mass of circumstantial evidence—and knowledge of the will's contents.”

Still, Buckler said nothing, but he wondered uneasily if Chase was aware of the reason for his silence. This reflection only increased his self-consciousness, his sense of being set apart from the people he cared for most, and his overwhelming fatigue. But at least he had no need to question whether Penelope understood him. He had been pretending not to notice the searching looks cast in his direction for the last quarter of an hour.

Lewis addressed Buckler. “What about Marina? Do they really mean to lock her up in a madhouse? Will you allow it, sir?”

Buckler didn't want to look into Lewis' pleading face; instead, he stared at the hideous print that showed a pack of dogs baying over a cornered fox, their teeth snapping inches away from its nose. After a pause, he said, “We don't know Tallboys' precise intentions. He may intend only a rest cure at some spa. She may have nothing more sinister than that to fear.”

“I don't believe that,” said Lewis. “They mean her harm. I'm sure of it.”

“Why not murder her then?” asked Chase, his tone thoughtful. “Why go to the bother of sending her away if they need to eliminate her? Why not quietly ensure she takes an overdose of laudanum?”

“To get her on her own so that we can no longer protect her?” said Penelope.

“Marriage,” said Buckler.

They stared at him. Chase's eyes kindled with interest. “What the deuce do you mean?”

A faint smile twitched at Buckler's mouth. “Garrod told you from the first that he wanted his daughter wed. No doubt his will reflects that ambition.”

Penelope squeezed her brother's knee and released it. Rising, she crossed the room and stood near Buckler. “But if he thought her mentally incapable?” she argued. “He wouldn't make her the heiress, Edward. The family systematically fed her father's doubts about her and made her appear superstitious and unpredictable.”

“He had a number of legal options. As to why the family wishes to isolate Miss Garrod, this may be a preparatory step to a hasty marriage once she has ‘recovered' from her illness or a means of preventing any marriage at all. Or perhaps I'm wrong—and they lock her up because they do not wish to draw further attention from another death.” Buckler contemplated Lewis. “They may have believed it necessary to remove her before she could fall in love or elope with someone else.”

Penelope stepped closer. “Can they do this? Can they confine her against her will?”

The warmth of her arm pressed against his reminded Buckler that he must throw off his gloom. “They can. Tallboys is her legal guardian. He will have given his authorization, which is strengthened by his role as magistrate. The family may also have obtained a doctor's certificate.”

“A medical certificate?” said Lewis. “What rot! No sane person can be treated like this in a free country. Sir, what's the writ, the one you and Mr. Thorogood used for that man who had been imprisoned? You can try something of the sort for Marina, can't you?” Again, he appealed to Buckler, and Buckler, seeing the concern behind the boy's anger, fumbled for an explanation that might satisfy him.

“A writ of
habeas corpus
. It is seldom successful, and we have no legal standing. We are not relatives or even close friends of the family. Tallboys may intend private confinement for a single ‘lunatic,' which is not subject to the same regulation—”

Lewis cut him off. “There must be something we can do. You give up too easily.”

“Lewis. Let Edward speak. You're being rude,” cried Penelope.

“It's fine,” said Buckler. The boy did not know about the fear that haunted him—the thought of that gently bred girl forced to live among strangers, perhaps treated cruelly, unable to make the smallest decision to govern her own life. He hid his shaking hands by thrusting them into his coat pockets, but he managed to answer with composure. “We may be able to get a judge to order an examination by a doctor of our choosing. This kind of thing does happen. Pretended friends, mercenary relations, and impatient heirs—they have all been known to arrange for the disappearance of people who stand in their way. There has been some progress: the registration of patients, visitation and licensing requirements, restrictions on the power of the madhouse keepers. Not enough. Secrecy and a family's right to privacy often make oversight difficult. The relations may use a false name for the victim, for instance. And once confined, the victim is denied writing materials and sometimes…restrained. What must a rational mind suffer under these conditions?”

He gave a harsh laugh and when no one seemed inclined to comment, he continued. “Many of our finest medical minds seem convinced that we have a positive epidemic of insanity in England, especially, some say, among the youth and the poets. This, they claim, can be traced to English indulgence in luxury, our spirit of competition, even to an abundance of…love or a passion that maddens the soul.”

His voice choked on this last word. He saw that Penelope had tears on her cheeks, that Lewis seemed bewildered, that Chase did him the service of a friend by waiting calmly for him to finish while affecting not to notice anything wrong. It was this last kindness that steadied him. He got to his feet and wrapped an arm around Penelope. He kissed her cheek. “Enough talk. We must act before it is too late. John, will you see Tallboys again, or shall I? I'll force feed him some law, if you think that will help.”

Chase frowned. “That won't do any good. I've an errand in town that I hope will uncover the purchase of the poison. With more information, I can convince Tallboys to delay.”

“What makes you think he would stand against the family?” said Buckler. “If there's a conspiracy, he may be one of the guilty ones. Penelope tells me he seems damnably fond of Anne Yates and Beatrice Honeycutt. None of them can be trusted to stand Miss Garrod's friend.”

Chase rose, thrust his hat on his head, and looked around for his walking stick. “What choice do we have? I must try.”

Lewis said, “May I go with you, sir? I feel I must be doing something.”

Penelope smiled at Chase. “Yes, John. Let us do something.”

“Return to Laurentum and pack your things. Make your farewells in a leisurely fashion but arouse no suspicion. If I'm not back after an hour or so, go home and wait for me there.”

“What about me?” said Lewis.

Chase directed a stern look at him. “Go with your sister. Watch Miss Garrod's door to see if any visitors are admitted. You may contrive to strike up a conversation with the guards. By God, Lewis, don't make me sorry I trusted you.”

Lewis flushed a little. “I won't, sir.”

“I appreciate that,” said Chase curtly. Penelope said nothing more. She left Buckler and went to give her hand to Chase. She bid them both goodbye, and Buckler read the tenderness in her face for both of them. Putting on her bonnet, she paused in front of the mirror above the hearth to assess her reflection with a small grimace, as if readying herself for a performance. She followed Lewis from the room.

His heart aching, Buckler watched her until the door closed behind them. “What can I do?” he said when he and Chase were alone. “Give me something to do to help that unfortunate young woman.”

Chase's eyes went to Buckler's black coat. “You will pay your respects to the memory of Hugo Garrod at the funeral. I imagine his lawyers will be present on this occasion.” He consulted his watch and restored it to his waistcoat pocket. “Draw them aside and drop a word in their ear about Miss Garrod's plight. Make them listen. And find out if Ned Honeycutt knows about the plan to take Miss Garrod away. I'll join you at the house as soon as I can.”

“Got it,” said Buckler. Some of his depression lifted. Together they would achieve some good, he thought. His friend, eager to depart, was already in motion.

But as Chase reached for the latch, the door flew open. The surgeon Aurelius Caldwell stood on the threshold, his face beaming with enthusiasm. “The landlord told me I'd find you gentlemen here.”

***

The graveside service over, Edward Buckler waited in the churchyard while a long line of carriages withdrew down the road back to London. He looked around. Some of the mourners lingered among the graves of the seventeenth-century victims of the Great Plague nestled among those of Roundhead soldiers killed in a battle fought near Clapham. Buckler had positioned himself next to Hugo Garrod's altar tomb, trying to catch a word here and there of the conversation between the Reverend Samuel Tallboys, Ned Honeycutt, and a trio of lawyers, two of whom were the men who had waited in vain to see Garrod in his final hours. Tallboys had put off his cassock and surplice and now stood arm-in-arm with Honeycutt. The younger man's face was pale and anxious, and Buckler had observed several stormy glances sent the clergyman's way. But Honeycutt stood patiently under his grip and spoke when called upon to his uncle's business acquaintances, friends, and the sprinkling of local gentry.

At another time, Buckler might have been eager to explore the churchyard's antiquities. This was not the modern parish church of Holy Trinity, where Garrod had taken seats for his family to attend divine worship. Instead, the ceremony had been held in the older church, a thirteenth-century structure taken down except for one of the aisles and the transept. Still used for burials, this church had drawn a sizeable crowd today.

Buckler tried to seem lost in respectful contemplation of the inscription on Garrod's black marble memorial tablet that must have been carved in advance. He hadn't been able to get close to Honeycutt during or after the service. Now he watched him step into the family coach followed by Tallboys. Leaning from the door, Tallboys maintained a stream of apologies to the men within earshot. He was sorry, he said, about the lack of a cold collation at Laurentum since the family still suffered from the effects of the tragedy, Miss Garrod, in particular, being in poor health. “You will excuse us, sirs,” he repeated over and over as he shook hands.

“Shabby, isn't it?” Buckler heard a gentleman in a tall beaver hat whisper as he passed by. “When we've come out here to pay our respects.”

“Who do you suppose gets all the money? Is it to be the colored girl, after all?” responded his friend in a voice he likely thought was hushed but wasn't.

“Shh…If so, they'll marry her off right quick, you mark my words,” said the first.

“Pretty young lady,” said the other, “but not just what would take my fancy.”

“Lord no. A strange filly. No breeding, of course, on either side. Not sure I'd be tempted either, unless she came well gilded.”

Buckler heard no more. He returned his attention to the tomb. Under an arch supported by white marble columns was a medallion carved in stone, which framed a recumbent white marble figure in Roman dress. The medallion showed Garrod in profile, a laurel wreath on his head and a solitary mourner at his feet: a woman with large, doe-like eyes and a mouth eloquent of sorrow. In humble posture, she inclined gracefully toward the deceased, extending a skull in one palm. The mourner, Buckler had seen at once, was intended for Marina Garrod, bound to her father in death, as he supposed Penelope was bound to the living father who attempted to control her life from Sicily. What would be the end of it for Marina? Whether or not Samuel Tallboys had any inkling of a conspiracy against Miss Garrod, he would do nothing to help her unless confronted with indisputable evidence. Buckler saw this clearly and knew that the same would be true of the lawyers—narrow, efficient men who would not see beyond their duty to their client. It was likely they would refuse to speak to him at all.

Watching the remaining mourners file by, Buckler's anger grew. Mixed with this anger was determination, a welcome feeling, for it did away with the sense of futility that had overcome him when Chase explained the girl's plight.
Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayers but spare us, Lord most holy
, Tallboys had intoned during the service. What were the secrets of Hugo Garrod's heart? He had released his daughter from slavery, cherished her, given her ease and luxury. And yet in his sugar cane fields in Jamaica, the dark men and women toiled on; they filled his coffers with more and more and more wealth. If her father's heiress, Marina Garrod would own hundreds, perhaps thousands, of human beings. Buckler had read the abolitionists' pamphlets. Like everyone else in England, he had consumed the stories of cruelty—the nightmare journeys across the ocean, the shackles, the whippings, the daily indignities inflicted on these people. All of this ought to sicken the heart and torment the conscience. Were he honest, he'd admit that he read the pamphlets, put them aside, and went on with his life. But now he wondered: did Hugo Garrod deserve to be spared? Had anyone ever bothered to ask this question?