To Wed an Heiress (20 page)

“
H
ave either of you seen Uncle Harold?” asked Eda.

Torin and Haro were enjoying a quiet breakfast, the only sound in the dining room the chewing of sausage or the clinking of silverware against the plate.

Torin grunted a negative.

Haro looked up. “No, not since yesterday. Why?”

“I’ve just been up to the attic, and it looks as if his bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps the maid’s already been there to make it up.”

Eda frowned. She was familiar with the routines of all the housemaids, and it was highly unlikely that they would straighten up the attic room before they had finished their other duties. After all, the old man was hardly likely to notice whether his bedclothes had been put to rights or not. Just to be sure, however, she summoned Henry who was in the front hall polishing candlesticks. “Please tell Mrs. Alfred I would like to see her.”

“Oh, there you are, Mrs. Alfred,” said Eda as the housekeeper entered and stood there, hands folded, expectant. “I was wondering, have the maids been upstairs to straighten up Mr. Harding’s chambers yet?”

Mrs. Alfred adopted a defensive posture, as if her competency as a housekeeper was under scrutiny. “Not yet, Miss Swanycke. They are not shirking their duties though, and as soon as they are done with the other rooms, they will be upstairs.”

Eda held up a white hand. “There’s no need to make haste. I just wanted to make sure that no one’s been upstairs yet to attend to his room.”

“No, miss.”

“Thank you.”

As the housekeeper departed, Eda looked at her cousins meaningfully.

Torin took a swallow of coffee to clear the clog of sausages in his throat. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Eda. Perhaps he made up his own bed himself before he went out.”

Haro pushed away his plate and stood up. “When was the last time
you
made up your own bed, Torin? No, Eda’s right. Something’s amiss. I’ll go out to the stables and ask if the groom has seen him this morning.”

Eda pressed his hand in thanks. It was warm and sympathetic, but somehow she still did not feel completely comforted.

Opening the door, Haro sighted Henry and sent him upstairs for his topboots and coat. He tapped his foot while waiting at the door. “This is the first time I’ve gone out of doors in three days.”

Eda’s lips parted. “Since…?”

“Yes.”

Henry trotted down the stairs, boots in hand, and coat laid over his arm. Eda took a deep breath. The last time Haro had worn that coat, it had been covered with icy water from the pond, and in his arms had been the lifeless form of Arabella Hastings.

***

The icy air nipped at Haro’s face as he darted over to the stables to investigate, and even with his greatcoat on, he felt chilled to the bone.

“No, m’ lord. Can’t say as I’ve seen him this morning,” said Jimmy, the groom. He was spreading fresh straw around the horses’ stalls. “And he usually comes by the stables on his way out. Likes to give the horses an apple.”

“What about yesterday?”

“Aye, I seen him then. He was with that Runner fellow. They went down the path to the pond, I recollect.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.”

When he returned to the house, Haro saw that Eda’s anxiety had increased sevenfold. “I had Henry and George search the house,” she said. “He’s nowhere to be found.”

“You’d best tell them to put their coats on then,” said Haro grimly. It was the second time this week they’d begun a search for a missing person, and the first search had not ended well.

***

Pevensey shook his head in disbelief. An hour ago, the Earl of Anglesford had asked him for particulars on where he had last seen Harold Harding. He had mentioned the bridge and their conversation yesterday. Now the servants—four of them with sturdy backs—were carrying in a long body in a shabby frock coat, a corpse as cold and rigid as a block of ice.

“Another murder!” shrieked the scullery maid, which set the housemaids to wailing about the woods being cursed. “Hush!” said Mrs. Alfred sternly, but with little effect.

“My God!” said William Hastings, emerging from his room to see the source of the ruckus. “What is this?”

“Bring him to my study,” said the young earl, an ashen pallor overcoming his fair face. “And Jimmy,” he said, taking the place of the groom who was holding the dead man’s right leg, “ride for Dr. Stigand and tell him he’s needed right away.”

“Is he…?” Miss Swanycke, descending the stairs, did not finish her own question. The blue cast to the old man’s lips and face had answered it before it was even uttered.

The younger brother, Torin, had entered the hall as well, and quietly taken the place of the second footman to support the left shoulder of his great-uncle.

Pevensey’s eyes flicked from one face to another. As far as he could tell, every mouth was open in genuine shock and surprise. There were many faces missing however—Philippe Bayeux’s, Mrs. Rollo’s, Lady Anglesford’s.

Pevensey followed the body into the study and watched as the men deposited it on the sofa. The doctor would give the final verdict, but from a cursory glance, there was no sign of strangulation or other hints of foul play. Perhaps the cold winter itself was the killer, though it had chosen an unfortunate and highly coincidental time to claim its quarry.

It took another three hours for Dr. Stigand to arrive. The groom had found him at the house of his most prestigious patient, Sir Robert Blount, and despite his gouty leg, the magistrate was not far behind the physician.

“What’s this, Emison?” said Sir Robert, entering the hallway leaning heavily on his cane. “A second murder in your woods? ’Pon rep! There’s something rotten in Denmark!”

“Not murder this time, I think,” said Dr. Stigand, exiting the study after having examined the body. “Our dear Mr. Harding died of hypothermia from spending the night in the woods.”

“But why would he do such a thing?” said Eda. Pevensey noted that her white skin was even more luminous than usual. “Why would he not come back to the house when evening fell?”

Dr. Stigand cleared his throat. “I found some swelling around the left ankle that indicates it had been injured. Perhaps he sprained it and was unable to walk well enough to return to Woldwick before dark. He may have become disoriented in the woods—”

“Yes, that’s it!” interrupted Sir Robert. “The pain was too much for him. The poor chap sat down on the icy ground and round about midnight or so, gave up the ghost.”

“We seem to have reached the same conclusions,” said Dr. Stigand with a faint smile. Pevensey wagered that the medical man was used to guiding the magistrate’s diagnosis of affairs.

“There was a good deal of ice on the bridge and the path,” Pevensey offered, genuinely sorry to see the old man had come to harm.

The earl said nothing. His cousin, Miss Swanycke, had buried her head in his chest to cry while he wrapped one arm around her protectively.

“Torin,” said the girl, lifting her tear-stained face enough to speak. “Go upstairs and tell Lady Anglesford.”

***

Eda’s mind was numb. She wished she could faint and be put to bed and wake up tomorrow to find that this was all a dream. But fainting seemed like a highly unnecessary piece of theatrics, a ploy to draw attention to oneself used by the likes of Arabella Hastings.

Uncle Harold dead? Uncle Harold gone? For as long as she could remember, Uncle Harold had been there, always ready with an adventure to share, a story to tell, or a piece of buttered toast. Without Uncle Harold, she was bobbing about in stormy seas. The only thing anchoring her now was Haro’s arm, pulling her tightly against his chest.

“Come, let’s sit down,” said her cousin, taking her hand and leading her into the drawing room. They sat together, side by side on the sofa, and she laid her head against his shoulder without a care for who should see them.

“What now?” asked Eda. “What do we do, Haro?”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank God for his life and pray for his soul, I suppose.” He sighed. “I believe he deposited a will with our own solicitor, Mr. Godwin. I will write him a letter and find out who is the executor—not that there will be much to distribute, but he has mementos that I know will be dear to you, to me, and to Torin. We’ll have him buried in the woods—give him six feet of earth or however much more he is taller than other men. And there he shall lie, among the birds and the squirrels and the trees that he loved so well. He would be happy not to leave Woldwick, I think, and when the rest of us must go, there he shall stay in perpetuity.”

It was beautifully said, and Eda had nothing to add. She lifted a hand to wipe one of her tear-stained cheeks and in the midst of this moment was overtaken by the mundane. “Your cravat—I’ve ruined it.” Its damp and crumpled folds bore witness to the truth of her statement.

Haro looked down at the piece of fabric with a wry smile. “I think that, under the circumstances, Garth will be forgiving.”

From the open door of the drawing room they could hear raised voices in the hallway. “Seems like the fellow had gone all soft upstairs,” said a crude voice which could only belong to William Hastings.

Eda saw Haro grit his teeth.

“Now what do you mean?” asked Sir Robert. “A little eccentric, I daresay, but won’t we all be when we’re eighty years old?” The magistrate was determined to stand up for a county man over and above a mill owner from the city.

William Hastings grunted a reply that was inaudible from the drawing room. Haro let out a deep breath.

Eda looked up at him, admiring the firm chin above the soggy cravat. In that instant she realized that there was no one with whom she would rather experience sorrow than Harold Emison. And if even a death could be braved with him beside her, what would the loss of a house and a fortune matter?

Her mind flew to Lady Anglesford, alone in her chambers. “Your mother,” she said suddenly. “She’ll be beside herself. We should go to her.”

“You’re quite right,” said Haro, drawing her hand to his lips again. He stirred on the sofa just as a pair of footsteps entered the drawing room.

Henry cleared his throat. “You’re wanted in the hall, my lord. The magistrate wishes to speak with you.”

***

Despite Eda’s concern for Lady Anglesford, it was two or three hours before they were able to go to her and offer some solace. Dr. Stigand had given his opinion of accidental death induced by hypothermia, but despite the absence of foul play, Sir Robert informed Haro that, as magistrate, he must needs see the place where the body was found. Perhaps he felt such a pilgrimage necessary to make up for the missed excitement of three days ago.

Haro wanted nothing more than the opportunity to grieve in peace, but he did his duty as head of the family and lord of the manor, leading the stocky magistrate out into the woods. Eda insisted on coming too, holding onto Haro’s arm as they stepped over frozen underbrush and ice-coated earth. Sir Robert groaned aloud every few paces, reminding them all of the torture he was enduring from his gouty leg.

The leafless forest was a homogenous wilderness, and it took Haro and Jimmy some time to work their way back to the place where the body had been discovered. When they finally located the spot, the magistrate wished to stand near it a while for a moment of silence.

“Very sad business, my boy,” said Sir Robert, clapping Haro on the shoulder. “Very sad, indeed.” He lowered his voice. “And the other business…how is this Bow Street Runner getting on? I’ve had to entrust the investigation to him, you know, being so incapacitated with this dashed leg.”

Haro took a breath, not certain how to best answer this sort of question, and, in the interim, Eda interjected her own assessment. “More’s the pity, for he’s bungling it badly, Sir Robert. He seems convinced that Haro’s the only possible suspect simply because Haro had the misfortune to find the body.”

“Tut, tut! That is unfortunate,” said Sir Robert. He had known the earl since Haro was a child, and his own son Stephen was of a similar age. “I’ll have to speak to the fellow about the wisdom of casting a wider net. Poachers, I should think. Has he considered that?”

Haro shrugged. “He holds his cards close to his chest. I suspect he’s considered a great many things.”

“Hmm. Well then,” said Sir Robert, quite finished with viewing the scene of the accident. He smacked his cane on the ground and turned around sharply. “Let’s return to the house, shall we?” He followed up that question with a howl of pain. The cane, it seemed, had landed on his gouty foot.

“Please, allow me!” said Haro, bending over nearly sideways on his right to allow the shorter man to lean on his shoulder. At a nod from the earl, Jimmy came to support Sir Robert on the other side, and so between them, they were able to return him to the house in a far shorter time than it had taken them to find the scene of Uncle Harold’s demise.

“Ah, doctor,” winced the magistrate as they passed through the grand old columns to enter the front door of Woldwick. “I’m afraid I will need you to attend on me once again.”

“But of course,” said Dr. Stigand, fully aware of his importance to his most prestigious patient. “There is nothing left for me to do here. Shall we return in your carriage?”

“Indeed,” said Sir Robert. “Go on, then, my boy.” He gestured Haro away as he sat down on the hall bench to rest. “Your groom can alert my coachman that we are ready and we shall be on our way. Where has that Pevensey fellow gotten to? A pity—I wanted to speak to him again.”

A
fter bidding farewell to the doctor and the magistrate, Haro and Eda climbed the stairs to look for Lady Anglesford. She had never shown an especial fondness for the old man, but to have the last of her family gone—it would be a blow.

The door to Lady Anglesford’s sitting room was open, and Eda and Haro would have gone inside had not a surprisingly cheerful voice interrupted them.

“Ah, my dears, there you are!”

“Mama! What are you doing?” asked Haro, seeing her come out of the door that led to the attic stairs. It was a steep flight of steps, not one that Eda would have expected Lady Anglesford’s nerves to enjoy.

“I’ve been going through Uncle Harold’s things, searching for some clue to this senseless tragedy. I found this.” Lady Anglesford held out a folded letter.

Haro took it and unfolded it while Eda peered around his shoulder. The ink seemed very new, as if the letter had been freshly written in the last day or two. It was certainly not a memento from the long ago days of Uncle Harold’s adventures.

My dear family,

If you are reading this letter, it means I am no more. It is only right that you should know what transpired three days ago. I encountered Miss Hastings at the pond. She said some things that angered me. I attacked her in rage and her body fell from the bridge. I am sorry for what I have done and hope that you can all forgive me for a momentary lapse in judgment.

God bless you all.

Harold Harding

Eda gasped. Haro’s eyes widened as he finished reading the letter out loud. “You say you found this in his room, Mama?”

“Yes, on the seat of his favorite armchair,” said Lady Anglesford.

“And what are you going to do with it?”

“Why, give it to that Bow Street Runner, of course. No, rather, to Sir Robert. He is the proper person to see it. Has he gone yet?”

“We’ve just said farewell to him,” said Eda, “but his carriage may not have come to the door yet.”

“I shall have Henry go see,” said Lady Anglesford, taking the letter back into her hand and darting down the stairs with unexpected agility.

A frown began to gather on Haro’s face like storm clouds on the distant horizon. “This is all very peculiar. Why would he write ‘three days ago’? It would have been two days ago if it were written on the day he disappeared. And what an insipid way to write a letter! I hardly think Uncle Harold would have made his last confession thus.”

Eda swallowed. She had noticed the same discrepancies as Haro had, but she had also gotten a hold of something that he did not yet seem to grasp—if Harold Harding was deemed the killer of Arabella Hastings, then Harold Emison would be acquitted of the deed.

“You were in his rooms this morning,” continued Haro. “Did you see the letter there? On the armchair, like Mama says?”

Eda pursed her lips. She had not only been in his rooms this morning but also on the morning in question. The story of him throttling Arabella was undoubtedly a fake, as was the letter. But she could hardly fault Lady Anglesford for trying to save her son at the expense of her uncle’s reputation. “Oh, I can’t remember,” she said pettishly. “I was looking for Uncle Harold, not a sheet of paper.”

“Do you think it was Mama that forged it, or someone else? The handwriting seems feminine to me….”

“Why don’t we leave it to Sir Robert to decide whether the letter was forged? After all, the evidence is supposed to be presented to the magistrate, not to you.”

Haro glared at her. “Did
you
write that letter?”

“No.” That, at least, was true. If she had written the letter, it would have been a far more convincing cheat.

“Hmm…well, come on, then. Let us see if Mama managed to catch Sir Robert before he left.”

***

Pevensey pulled out his sketchbook. It was the only possible recourse when witnessing a scene such as this.

Lady Anglesford, who had apparently overcome the indisposition that kept her bound to her chambers, had flown down the stairs like a canary and sent the footman out the front door to halt the carriage that had just begun to roll away.

“My dear Lady Anglesford, what is it?” Dr. Stigand had demanded. He had returned to the house to reconnoiter in place of Sir Robert, who wanted nothing more than to prop his foot up on the cushions of the coach. Pevensey wondered if these country doctors always feared the worst when receiving such an urgent recall—the gamekeeper accidentally discharging a loaded gun, the cook’s hand slipping when cutting the shallots.

“A letter!” Lady Anglesford had declared, clutching her heart in a fit of histrionics. “You must read it. Sir Robert must read it!”

And so the suffering magistrate had been unearthed from the carriage and helped into the house once again. Pevensey was now enjoying the prospect of Sir Robert, seated in the drawing room, his leg propped up on the decorative pillows that matched the sofa, reading and re-reading the sheet of paper Lady Anglesford had handed him.

“Dash it all!” he said, forgetting Lady Anglesford’s feminine presence in his excitement. “It’s a confession!”

“So it would appear,” said Dr. Stigand, taking his own look at the note. His enthusiasm was slightly more moderated, and when Pevensey had a chance to look at the letter, he understood why. One did not have to be familiar with the late Harold Harding’s writing to recognize that this was indeed a forgery. Pevensey made no comment, however, deciding to wait for Sir Robert to give his verdict.

“He was an odd old fellow, very odd, I always said. Always walking the woods at strange times of day and saying peculiar things. I’d like to say this comes as something of a surprise, but no, I had qualms about him in the past. I am so sorry, Lady Anglesford. You were right to bring this letter to me.”

Pevensey grimaced. It was such a handy solution to the problem of Arabella Hastings’ death. He wondered if the rest of the villagers would see it that way as well and exonerate the young earl at the expense of a man who was now safe from the punishment of the law.

Dr. Stigand said nothing to stem the tide of Sir Robert’s conclusions. Here was one example, at least, of village nepotism papering over the truth.

“What’s this? What’s this?” demanded William Hastings, having correctly guessed from all the uproar in the hallway that something was afoot.

“It is a celebration, good sir!” proclaimed Sir Robert. He tried to stand using his cane but then winced and sat back down. “We have found the culprit in the death of your daughter.”

It was Pevensey’s turn to wince. Hopefully no one would think
he
was included in the “we” statement which Sir Robert had just issued. His sketch of Sir Robert’s face was coming along nicely, a perfect blend of benevolence and pomposity.

The magistrate eagerly explained the exciting news of Harold Harding’s confession.

“My God!” said William Hastings, reaching out a preemptory hand for the letter. “Give it here!” His greedy eyes raked it up and down, but in the end, his own conclusions were identical to Sir Robert’s. “So! It
was
that raving lunatic that did it—God rot his bones!”

“Now, now, Mr. Hastings!” said Dr. Stigand, clearing his throat to remind all the gentlemen that Lady Anglesford was still in the room.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the mill owner grudgingly. He shoved his thumbs into the pockets of his wide waistcoat. “Although I daresay you’re glad to be rid of the batty blighter too. It could have been
you
, Lady Anglesford, on that bridge when the old fellow lost his mind. Who knows?”

Lady Anglesford gave a wan smile. “I do see your point, Mr. Hastings, but you would do well to remember that Mr. Harding was, in fact, my uncle. However much I might deplore certain actions, I do still mourn his untimely death.”

William Hastings snorted, as if the dual emotions Lady Anglesford claimed were utterly incompatible. “Well, I’m sorry the man’s dead too. But only because I wanted to see someone hang for this. And now it looks as if justice will be cheated by frostbite, eh, Pevensey?”

“That depends on one’s viewpoint, I think,” said Pevensey, closing his book on the finished sketch. “But from the Almighty’s perspective, justice is never ever cheated. It’s merely delayed a while.”

“Hmm, quite.” William Hastings yawned dismissively. “At any rate, it looks as if your services are no longer needed.”

“So it would appear,” said Pevensey dryly.

Like the magistrate and the doctor, he had hoped that the young earl would be cleared of the crime—but not at the expense of all evidence, all logic, and all common sense.

***

It was too late to ride into the village that day and catch the afternoon post. Mr. Hastings had paid for Pevensey to switch horses several times on the way up to Woldwick, but no such largesse would be forthcoming for the return journey. No, Pevensey would have to leave his hired horse at the inn and travel inside the posting carriage, or if unlucky, outside of it.

He went down to the kitchen to say his farewells to the staff and was rewarded by some blushes from the cook, a ham dinner, and his own cake. He resigned himself to a quiet evening of packing up his meager luggage and completing some of the unfinished pieces in his sketchbook. He hated to leave a job half-done…although that was what he was doing now, there was no denying it.

He still had no alternative theory to offer as to the murderer’s identity, and that was what made contesting the letter so impossible. Previous experience, however, had taught him that illumination often came when the clouds of confusion were the darkest. That was what made things doubly frustrating, to call off the chase now when the quarry was just on the other side of the hill.

Pevensey’s opportunity to finish his sketches in quiet, however, was cut short by the arrival of two unexpected guests throughout the course of the evening.

The first was none other than Harold Emison, the Earl of Anglesford. Pevensey opened the door to find the earl’s fair face looming several inches above his own. “My lord,” said Pevensey with a bow. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you mind if I come in?” said the earl, smiling awkwardly. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Of course,” said Pevensey, infusing his voice with cordiality. He had assumed his investigation was checkmated, but here was the tiniest of possibilities that his king could wriggle out of the trap. He gestured the earl to sit down, and since the small room only provided one chair, sat down himself on the bed.

“It’s that blasted letter,” said the earl.

“I thought that might be it.”

“Yes, well, it’s a forgery, I think. No, more than that—I
know
it is.”

“Of course it is.”

“Oh, so you already know?” The earl seemed taken aback. “Well, then can we have it removed from circulation, before Uncle Harold’s name is tarnished forever?”

Pevensey clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You see, my lord, you and I know that it is a forgery, but Sir Robert…well, he thinks otherwise. And is quite happy to do so.” He decided to turn the conversation in a more profitable direction. “Whom do you think forged the letter?”

“My mother.”

“Ah.”

“She means well, of course.”

“Mothers always do. In this case, she wrote it to protect…?”

“Me.”

“And you are coming to me to reveal the truth of the matter because you—”

“—have no need of protection. I am innocent. I would swear as much on Holy Writ. And I dislike having my uncle’s name made into a byword simply on the chance that I might be wrongfully accused.”

Up until this moment, Pevensey had strongly wished to believe in the young earl’s innocence. But now, he had no further doubts. When a guilty man successfully weathers a murder investigation, he does not strive to reopen the case by discrediting the evidence pointing to someone else.

But without the countenance of the local magistrate, there was nothing Pevensey could do to continue the investigation. “You’re asking for help in the wrong quarter, my lord. It’s Sir Robert’s door you need to be knocking on, not mine.”

***

Pevensey’s second visitor arrived no more than ten minutes after his first had departed. Once again, Pevensey bowed. “Your servant, Miss Swanycke.”

“Thank you. I know this is unusual, but…may I come in?”

“If you think it wise. Perhaps we might leave the door ajar?”

She nodded.

“Thank you,” replied Pevensey with exaggerated seriousness. “A man can’t be too careful of his reputation.”

At that, she laughed, as he had hoped she would, a merry laugh that rang out like sleigh bells throughout the cold room.

“Please, do take the chair.”

“Ever the gentleman, I see.”

She sat down with alacrity, and, instead of sitting on the bed, Pevensey took the liberty of putting one hand in his waistcoat pocket while leaning against the wall with his other arm. He expected her to come straight to the point—she seemed that kind of woman—and she did not disappoint.

“I assume you know that letter is a forgery?”

“Yes. Thank you for the compliment to my intelligence.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Miss Swanycke. Her white skin, smooth and polished like alabaster, appealed to him. Pevensey regretted that he would probably never encounter her out of mourning and dressed in something softer than rigorous black.

“But there is something else you wish to tell me, isn’t there?”

“Yes. I’ve agonized over this decision all day. At first I thought it better to keep quiet, for Haro’s sake, I mean—”

Pevensey nodded sympathetically.

“—but I could not still my conscience. Uncle Harold was not a murderer! Such an idea is not only inconceivable but also impossible. I know that you may hesitate to believe me, but I must tell you that I was in his company all morning on the day in question. I had just come downstairs from visiting him in the attic when Haro came rushing back into the house with orders for the servants to drag the pond.”

Pevensey allowed an incredulous look to steal over his freckled face. “Miss Swanycke, when I interviewed you regarding your whereabouts, you told me, most emphatically, that you were alone that morning.”

“Yes, well—”

“And when I interviewed Lady Anglesford, she was most emphatic that you were with her and Mr. Torin Emison.”

“I know, but—”

“And now you propose a third story, that you were in fact ensconced with your great-uncle in the attic. Just what do you claim to have been doing up there?”

She blushed. “Eating toast. I know you won’t believe me, but—”

“On the contrary. I
do
believe you. I have never heard someone fabricate a story that involved eating toast. Ergo, you must be telling the truth.”