On a Wild Night (39 page)

Amanda walked to the window and saw Martin setting off on one of the horses. “He must be going to the village . . .” Allie hadn't asked him to fetch anything.

Allie came up beside her, a frown in her old eyes as she watched Martin disappear down the drive. Then she nodded brusquely. “Ah—of course. He'll be going to the cemetery.”

“The cemetery? I thought I saw a mausoleum in the woods.”

“Oh, aye—his parents are buried here.” Allie shook out her duster, and attacked the tallboy. “But it's Sarah he'll want to see first. That's where it all began.” Allie glanced at Amanda. “He has told you, hasn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Allie nodded at the window. “You'll know what to do.”

The rock-solid confidence in Allie's tone overrode the doubts rising in Amanda's mind. Leaving Allie, she headed for the stable.

Onslow helped her saddle the other bay, then mount. They hadn't been able to find a sidesaddle and she hadn't had time to change into her habit; with her skirts rucked up to her knees, she felt utterly hoydenish as she cantered down the drive.

Keeping the house at her back, she took the lane south and followed the river. The morning was bright and fresh; spring was in the air, the buds plump on the branches, just waiting to burst. A haze of green had already replaced the dull brown of winter. Beside the lane, the river ran strongly along its rocky bed, fracturing the sunlight, its murmuring a paean to the morning.

She reached the church and saw the other horse tied to a tree. Reining in, she dismounted, an ungainly exercise she was thankful no one was around to see. The bakery stood just a little way along, a blacksmith's opposite, the forge
glowing inside the shadowy workshop. Tying her mount alongside Martin's, she headed for the lychgate.

It stood open; she climbed the steps to a narrow path that led to the church's front door. Glancing about, she followed the path; before the door, it bisected, circling the small building. She turned to the right and walked on, scanning the graves. None of the stones were big enough to hide Martin, yet she arrived back at the church door without sighting him.

Frowning, she looked across the road at the bakery, then peered at the forge. Searched the surrounding fields. No Martin. Puzzled, she walked back to the gate, then around to the horses—they were both still there.

Then she remembered. Sarah had taken her own life.

Amanda looked to either side, then headed left around the outside of the cemetery wall, seeking the small plot that often existed outside hallowed ground. It lay along the stone wall toward the back of the cemetery. The grass grew longer there, the graves bare mound only just detectable.

Martin stood before one, distinguished only by a rock placed at its head, the letters SB crudely carved into one face.

He must have heard her approaching, but he gave no sign. What she could see of his expression was bleak, intimidating. Stepping between two graves, she slipped her hand into his, and looked down at the grave of the girl he'd been accused of dishonoring.

After a moment, his hand closed, tight, around hers.

“I never had a chance to say good-bye. When they bundled me off that night, they wouldn't let me stop here.”

She said nothing, just returned the pressure of his clasp. Eventually, he drew a huge breath and looked up. Then he glanced at her. She met his gaze. He studied her eyes, then nodded ahead.

He led her out of the small plot to a jumble of boulders at the corner of the cemetery. He lifted her up to sit on one, then hoisted himself up alongside.

They looked up the sunlit valley to where the house stood high on the rise with the cliff at its back. The sun struck the windows, made them wink and gleam.

She didn't need words to know they were thinking the same thing.

“Which cliff was it?” Swivelling, she studied the ragged cliffs that formed a backdrop to the village.

He pointed to a towering escarpment. “That one. Froggatt Edge.”

She considered it, considered the distance from the village, the sheer drop to the broken ground below. “Tell me again—what happened that morning when you set out to find Sarah's father?”

He hesitated for only an instant, then turned and pointed to a cottage down a narrow lane. “I went to Buxton's house first. When the housekeeper told me he'd gone walking, I thought for a minute, then took that path.” Pointing, he traced a well-worn path that led from the lane across the fields to the escarpment. “It climbs around the side of the Edge, and comes out some way back from the lip.”

He paused, then went on, “I didn't see or hear anyone or anything, but the path goes up that cleft and needs concentration—it's not an easy stroll. On top of that, I was in a rage—a gunshot I might have heard, but anything less might well not have penetrated.

“When I got to the top, it was deserted, as I'd expected it to be. I'd gone up because from there I would have been able to see Buxton if he was anywhere around. I walked to the lip and looked. All around, everywhere. I didn't see anyone. I remember suddenly feeling cold, deathly cold. Then I noticed the buzzards. They were circling below the lip. I went right to the edge and looked down.”

He stopped; after a moment, she prompted, “Where was it that he'd fallen?”

Martin pointed to the base of the escarpment, to where the ground was broken by upthrusting rock and scattered boulders. “There's a gap between the rocks. You can't see in until you actually reach it—or unless you look down from the top. I remember . . . it looked like Buxton, and the first thought I had was that I was glad he was dead. I thought he must have thrown himself off in remorse and guilt.”

“You came down to check.”

“I wasn't sure it was him. He was lying facedown, and besides, what if he wasn't dead? I couldn't just leave him there.”

“How did you get down?”

“The same way I got up.”

She considered the distances. “Is there another way down from the top to where he fell?”

Martin pointed to the other side of Froggatt Edge. “There's a much steeper path down that side. It's shorter, but I didn't take it because it's more dangerous, and usually that means slower.”

“So you got to the bottom, to where the man was, and . . . ?”

“He'd been turned over and his skull had been bashed in with a rock.”

Amanda stared. “Between the time you saw him from the top and reaching him at the bottom?”

Martin nodded. “Someone had been there in between and whoever it was had made sure he was dead. The rock was covering his face. I still wasn't sure . . . so I picked up the rock.”

“And that's when the villagers found you.”

He nodded. “I lifted the rock and saw . . . then I heard them coming and looked up, and there they were, crowding in . . .” He refocused and shook his head. “I must have been in shock. I know that now, but then . . . nothing like that had ever happened in my life. I'd just learned Sarah had died, that people assumed I'd . . . and then that. I don't know what I said, truth to tell, although I do know that later I insisted I hadn't done it.”

Amanda frowned. “You said the villagers had seen a gentleman they thought was you throw the old man over the edge.”

Martin waved at the forge. “The blacksmith was working— the back of the forge was open. He happened to glance up and see two men—old Buxton and a young gentleman he mistook for me—struggling on the Edge. He saw the man
push Buxton over. He downed tools, doused what he was working on, then rounded up some others and raced for the spot.”

Amanda fitted the information together like a jigsaw in her mind. “So . . . Buxton goes out walking—he goes up to Froggatt Edge. Is that likely?”

“Many walk up there. It's a popular spot.”

“Very well—he goes up and walks. You come to his house, then set off for the Edge, quite coincidentally, to locate him. But someone else who also wanted to find Buxton is before you. While you're climbing up, he struggles with Buxton and pushes him off. The blacksmith sees, douses his work and rushes off to get help. Then, not sure Buxton is dead, the murderer pelts down by the other path to finish him off. Meanwhile, you reach the top, look around, and see Buxton, lying facedown. You couldn't see that other path from the top, could you?”

His face impassive, Martin shook his head.

“You decide to go back down and check for life. You go down by the first path. Could you see the spot where Buxton fell from that path?”

“No.”

“While you're on the way down, the murderer reaches Buxton, turns him over and bashes him dead. Then he runs away. Could he have done that without being seen by you or the villagers?”

Martin hesitated. “It would have been dicey, but yes. The ground's so uneven near the base of the cliffs, he could have got out of sight of both me and the villagers without having to go far. Later . . . once the villagers found me, no one was watching for anyone else.”

Amanda nodded. “So then you get to the body, and the villagers find you there. That's how it happened.”

Martin eyed her calm, determined—stubborn—expresssion. “You seem remarkably sanguine about murder.”

She met his eyes. “I'm remarkably
unsanguine
about you being wrongfully accused of murder.” She held his gaze, then continued, “But you worked all that out years ago.”

He didn't deny it. She let the moment stretch, then asked, “So . . . how do we go about proving the truth?”

“I don't know that it's possible. There wasn't a shred of evidence at the time. If there had been, even in shock, I would have waved it.”

Amanda remembered Lady Osbaldestone's words. “Things happened very quickly. It's possible something was overlooked, or only came to light later.” When he said nothing, she urged, “It can't hurt to ask.”

It could, but it wouldn't be him, or her, who might be hurt. Martin didn't say the words; he knew the time had come. He had to choose—her, or that other he was protecting. She hadn't begged, but if he resisted, she would do even that; she was committed to his resurrection because the future she envisioned for them hinged on that.

It was a future he now coveted more than anything else in life. He looked into her cornflower blue eyes, then lifted his gaze, looking up the valley to Hathersage. His father's and grandfather's and great-grandfather's house. Now his.

Now theirs. If he would . . .

He drew in a breath, exhaled, and reached for her hand. “Let's see if we can find Conlan.”

She jumped off the rock, looked her query.

“The blacksmith who thought he saw me pitch old Buxton over Froggatt Edge.”

“Da's in the cottage out back, m'lord.” The blacksmith set aside his bellows; his demeanor was eager as he waved them in. “He'll be right pleased to see you. That old matter's weighed heavy on his mind these last years. If you don't mind going through? He's not too steady on his pins, these days.”

“We'll do that, Dan. I remember the way. You won't want to leave that.” With a nod, Martin indicated the glowing shoe Dan had been working.

“Aye—well, you've the right of it, there.”

As they crossed the yard behind the forge, Martin looked up, slowed. Amanda followed his gaze to the escarpment. Froggatt Edge was clearly visible, yet could anyone be sure who it was they saw at such a distance?

“Country eyes are notoriously sharp,” Martin murmured.

“Hmm.” Amanda matched his stride as they headed for the cottage flanking the cobbled yard.

Martin knocked on the door. A buxom young woman opened it. When he gave his name and asked to see Conlan, the woman's eyes grew round.

“Oh, heavens!” She bobbed a curtsy. “My lord, I—” She glanced back into the room behind her.

“Who is it, Betsy?”

Martin raised his brows. Flustered, wiping her hands on her apron, Betsy backed and waved them in.

“It's Dexter, Conlan.”

An old man in the armchair by the hearth squinted, blinked, then his face cleared. “Yer lordship? Be it really you?”

“Indeed. It's me.”

“Praise be!”
Conlan struggled to his feet and bowed. “Welcome home, m'lord—and I thank the Lord I can finally tell you. It wasn't you I saw.”

 

“How can you be so certain?” Martin asked, once they'd all sat and Betsy had closed the door. “I can understand you being unsure if it was me or not, but how can you be certain it
wasn't
me? There's no way even you could have distinguished features at that distance.”

“Aye, you're right there, but it wasn't features that told me.” Conlan sat back in his chair, gathered his resources. “Let me tell it like it was, then you'll see how it happened.”

Martin nodded the permission Conlan waited for.

“I saw the figures on the Edge, wrestling, fighting, then I saw the young gen'leman shove old Buxton over. I knew it was Buxton 'cause of that yellow-striped waistcoat of his. I ran and fetched Simmons and Tucker, and Morrissey, too. Others joined us as we ran to the cliff. Tucker asked who'd thrown Buxton over. I said ‘twas a young gen'leman looked like you. Well—you were the only young gen'leman we had round about, and we all knew what you looked like, even from a distance. And I'll still take my oath on it—the gen'leman who threw Buxton over looked just like you. At the time, that's all I said—all I really knew, clear in my mind. And then we found you, and it fitted. You'd done it. Even though you said otherwise, what was we to think with you standing there with the rock in your hand and Buxton dead at your feet?

“So we hiked you to your Da, and he acted swift—that was a shock, I can tell you. We never expected he'd up and send you away like that. But it was done . . . we all went home.” He nodded to the window. “I sat right here, and heard the carriage rumble past as they took you south.”

Conlan sighed. “I tried to sleep but there was something nagging at me. Wouldn't let me go, kept forcing me to see it all again and again in my mind, see the gen'leman force Buxton to the lip and over. Buxton was no fool—he hadn't been walking close to the lip. The other had to force him back, and o' course he didn't go easily . . .
that's
when it all came clear and I knew we'd got it wrong.”

Martin frowned. “How? What did you remember?”

“It was the quirt the gen'leman was carrying. He used it on Buxton. I saw it clearly—saw the gen'leman's arm rise and fall, saw Buxton put up his arms to shield his head. That's how the gen'leman forced him to the lip, then he pushed him over. I saw the gen'leman standing there, looking down at Buxton
with the quirt still clutched in his hand
.”

Conlan sighed. “So you see, I knew ‘twasn't you. Couldn't've been.”

Amanda glanced at Martin's face, saw a lightening of the darkness that had always—as long as she'd known him—been there. She turned to Conlan. “Why did that convince you it wasn't his lordship you saw?”

Conlan blinked at her. “The quirt. He never used one. Not ever. Not even when he was first on a pony. We'd all known him since he was a babe—we'd seen him riding for years. No quirt. According to Smithers, used to be head groom at the big house, he never even owned one.”

Conlan turned to Martin. “So I knew then, and you may be sure I told everyone who'd listen. In the morning, I went up to the big house, but they wouldn't let me see your Da. I tried to tell them, but there was a great to-do going on. I spoke with old Canter—he tried to speak with your Da but seems they'd been forbidden to say your name. Canter tried, but his lordship wouldn't listen.

“I told myself I'd done my best, but I couldn't let it go. I went into Buxton village and spoke with Sir Francis, but he said as how your Da was the magistrate for this district, and he couldn't see his way to interfere. He told me your Da no doubt had his reasons and I should leave it be.”

Conlan paused, then said, “And that's where it's laid. I've
been waiting ten year to tell you to your face. I thought you'd be back—that your Da would change his mind, ‘specially when your Ma died. But you never did return.” He lifted wondering eyes to Martin's face.

“They didn't know where I was—they couldn't have called me back.” Martin patted Conlan's shoulder. “Thank you for telling me.”

He rose; he had to get out of the small cottage. Out where he could breathe. Think. Try to comprehend. His smile felt strained as he took his leave of Conlan and Betsy. Amanda sensed his tension; she chatted brightly, easing their way out of the door.

Martin waved to Dan but kept walking, striding. Amanda's skirts shushed as she hurried to keep up, then her hand clamped on his arm and she yanked. Hauled.

He halted, swung to face her.

“Slow down!” She frowned at him. “You heard—you're not guilty!

He looked down at her. “I always knew that.”

“But you never
were
guilty as far as these people are concerned.” She searched his face. “Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

“Yes. It does.” He spoke through his teeth, then exhaled, looked over her head. “Only . . . I don't know
what
it means.” He passed his hands over his face, then cursed and swung away.

Amanda was right beside him. “What do you mean?” Hustling along, she peered at his face. “What do you mean you don't know?”

“I mean—” His whole world was disintegrating before his very eyes. “I—” He couldn't find words to describe the tectonic shift in his thinking. With an oath, he grabbed her arm and towed her past the horses. Stopped by the stone wall of the cemetery. Turned her to the cliffs.

“Look at Froggart Edge. It's much the same time it was that day, the same season. The light's the same. Imagine me standing up there. Now imagine Luc there. Would you—could
anyone
possibly confuse us?”

Amanda stared. Then she looked at Martin. “You thought it was Luc?”

“I couldn't think of anyone else Sarah would have given herself to, but Luc never carried a quirt, anymore than I did.”

 

They sat on the stone wall, side by side, and he explained.

“Luc knew her, too, not as well as I did, but . . . well enough. He was always startlingly handsome—I could imagine it happening. And Luc had been at Hathersage for Christmas, and he'd driven up from London ahead of me that day. I knew he was at the house before me—he would have heard of Sarah's death as I did, as soon as he arrived. He had the opportunity to do what had been done, and I thought he had the motive they gave me.” His lips twisted. “And as much as they called me wild, Luc was wilder.”

Amanda nodded. “I know. You forget. I've known him since birth. But why didn't you realize, if Conlan said the murderer looked like you—”

“I thought he'd made a mistake, one others had made often enough.”

“Confusing you and Luc?”

He nodded. “We're alike enough now, but then . . . it was easy at a glance to confuse us. Only . . . it wasn't until I heard Conlan describe the scene just now that I realized about the light.”

Amanda looked up at the escarpment. “It was as it now is on that day?”

“Yes. A clear sky with weak sunshine bathing the entire Edge. Quite aside from the quirt, I can't believe Conlan would have missed the difference in coloring—not in that light.”

“Which means it isn't Luc.” Amanda turned to Martin. “So who . . . ?” Her voice trailed away; she felt her eyes grow round.
“A gentleman who looks like you.”
She grabbed Martin's arm. “The highwayman!”

The frown in his eyes told her he'd already made the connection, and would have preferred that she wasn't so perceptive;
she ignored that. Her mind was racing. “That's why he was waiting at the crossroads—he was waiting, not for Reggie, but . . .” She frowned. “How could he have known you were on the road north?”

“I don't know, but I seriously doubt Reggie was his target.”

“Reggie said the shot came immediately he leaned forward.”

“And the ‘highwayman' didn't check his victim, so we don't know whether he realized he shot the wrong man.”

“But why does he want to shoot you?”

“To stop me from investigating the events surrounding Buxton's death—and Sarah's.” Martin was silent for a moment, then, jaw firming, he jumped down from the wall. “Come on—there's someone else we need to speak with.”

 

Mrs. Crockett stared at him for a long moment, then stood aside. “Come in. Can't say as I'm surprised to see you.”

Amanda glanced at Martin; unperturbed, he ushered her past him, then followed her into the cottage's small parlor. Mrs. Crockett waved them to a sofa; she returned to a rocker that was gently rocking.

“Well.” She faced them across the hearth. “I have to say I thought it was you who'd done the old man to death, given they'd found you with the rock in your hand. You could of done it easy with that temper of yours—damned righteous, just like your Da. And it'd be just like you to fly to Sarah's defense. But then Conlan said otherwise, and there's no one hereabouts had sharper eyes than he, not then.”

She started rocking, her gaze drifting from them. “Truth was, I wasn't agin seeing old Buxton dead, not after what he did. The sins of the fathers was all on his head, and rightly so. But”—she paused in her rocking, refocusing on Martin—“there was one thing I knew you didn't do, and that was take advantage of my Sarah.”

Her voice had grown fierce. “I tried to tell them it wasn't you, but they saw it as all of a piece. Everyone knew she was yours if you wanted, anytime you'd thought to crook your finger.” She shook her head. “But you never saw her that
way, not that I ever saw. You never had brother nor sister—she was a little sister to you.”

“Yes.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Crockett drew her shawl tighter. “Nitwits, the lot of them, thinking it was you. I knew. I saw the bruises.”

Amanda felt the room—felt Martin—grow still. Then he asked, softly, “Bruises?”

Mrs. Crockett's lips worked, then she blurted out, “Whoever he was, he forced her. I saw the marks—aye, and the change in her. All laughter and smiles, then the next day it was all I could do to get her to look at me. Cried all night, she had. I didn't know, not then. But she was never one to make a fuss, my Sarah, and with a father like she had, well, no wonder, was it?”

She rocked faster, shot a fiery glance at Martin. “If you'd been here, like as not I'd've sent word—seen if you could talk her round, but she wouldn't say naught to me, no matter what I knew.”

“She was forced.” Martin's voice was even. “You're sure?”

Mrs. Crockett nodded. “As I'm sitting here. On the second of the year, it was, two days after the ball at the big house.”

When both Martin and Mrs. Crockett remained silent, Amanda prompted, “You said you knew it wasn't Martin.”

Mrs. Crockett looked directly at her. “Stands to reason, don't it? If he”—she nodded at Martin—“had wanted her, all he had to do was say. He wouldn't have needed to hold her down.” She sent another glance at Martin; her lip trembled, her voice softened as she added, “He wouldn't have hurt her, either—there were enough lasses round here, even then, would have sworn to that. But my Sarah had bruises, big black bruises, all the way down her back. The blackguard had thrown her down on rocks to have his way with her.” Mrs. Crockett jerked her head at Martin. “Wasn't him.”