Vital Secrets (28 page)

“Damn it! Did they take the rifles?”

Marc pointed at the marked samples.

“Damn it! Did they give you money?”

Marc shook his head.

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!”

Marc brushed by him out into the shadows.

“And just where do you think you're going, Lieutenant?”

Marc did not reply. He found the path and strode steadily back towards the Kingston Road. Several shots rang out: the soldiers shooting at one another, no doubt. He found the horse where he had left it. He mounted and galloped away towards the city. Spooner could clean up the mess he had made. The operation was a total failure. None of the rebels had been caught or identified. And none ever would be.

M
arc's first thought was to keep on riding right through the city to the fort, where he could stable the rebels' horse (stolen surely) overnight and then find himself a warm, safe bed, preferably a long way from the arrogance of authority and the desperation of those without it. In refusing to name Thomas Goodall, he recognized that he had crossed a line, had committed an act that could not be undone. But what precisely that was he did not at this moment care to know: something other than his mind was now directing him willy-nilly where it wished. So be it.

Thus it was that he did not question the horse when it swung down West Market Lane and stopped outside the entrance to Frank's Hotel. The upper windows of the rooms
above the tavern and those above the theatre were all dark except one: the parlour room of Mrs. Thedford's suite. Something was nagging at him, a vague feeling that he had seen or heard something whose significance he had overlooked. He nudged the horse back into the alley that led to the hotel stables. With the motions of a sleepwalker he found an empty stall, un-saddled the beast, threw a blanket over it, and then, stepping over a comatose stable boy, made his way through the dark to the back door of the Franks' quarters. Using Frank's key, Marc eased the door open and felt his way along the hallway that eventually brought him to the theatre entrance. The stage area was pitch black, except where a single shaft of moonlight sliced through one of the upper windows and across the pit. There was no tragedian to take a bow in its mellow beam. Marc crossed the stage, pausing to take in an echo of applause, and tiptoed up the stairs to the hallway above. Jeremiah Jefferson was fast asleep with the storage-room door ajar.

Marc headed for Merriwether's room, where he had left his own boots, tunic, and accoutrements, but halted outside the door with the wedge of light under it. Perhaps Mrs. Thed-ford was sitting just beyond it at the little davenport-table that served as her desk, working on the company's books or revising the playbill for Detroit or completing the travel arrangements that her murdered colleague would have handled. He felt she was someone he could talk to about matters too painful and complex to be uttered to oneself. He raised his hand to give a one-finger tap on the door, but as his palm brushed it on the
way up, it swung silently open. The room was fully lit, but empty. Surely she had not gone to bed in the other room and left half a dozen candles blazing here? But, then, perhaps she had merely gone into that room to fetch something and, overcome by physical and emotional fatigue, had put her head on the pillow and fallen into a deep sleep. He decided he would just take a quick peek inside, then snuff the candles and leave quietly.

He was almost at the bedroom doorway when he heard the sound: a giggle—muted, smothered perhaps, but clearly a giggle. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He listened intently, but did not move. There was a rustling, as of starched sheets. Then a sigh that had no sadness in it. He should have wheeled and bolted, but he didn't. Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn into that doorway and a sight that first mystified and then seared him.

No candle lit the scene on the bed, but the last of the moonlight bathed it visible and shimmeringly surreal. At first blush, it was a silken knot of tawny limbs, intertwined and serpentine. Then a flash of toe, a whipped wisp of hair, a bulb of surprised flesh confirmed the human form—or forms. The willful moans of surrender, the muzzled grunts of pleasure-pain, the yip at forbidden touch would have conjured in any viewer's imagination the lustful conjunction of male and female in the oldest act. But what Marc saw, and his mind at first rejected, was the sexual entanglement of woman and woman: Tessa Guildersleeve and Annemarie Thedford.

They were far too engrossed to notice Marc's shadow fall across the bed, then retreat. Marc did not realize until he had backed across the outer room and sat down on the settee there that he had neglected to take a breath. He was sure they would now hear him gasping, but the moans and sighs continued apace, slowing and receding gradually as the minutes ticked by. Mrs. Thedford's voice became distinguishable: a sequence of soothing sounds above the grateful mewling of the girl. Marc sat stunned. Yet despite the almost visceral revulsion he felt, the tenderness and consolation in the sounds from that room were undeniably those of love's afterglow—not the satiate wheezes of lust's exhaustion. That Annemarie Thedford loved Tessa Guildersleeve was unashamedly revealed.

His mind began to work again. He found himself staring across the room at the commode where Mrs. Thedford kept the only gifts her father had bequeathed her. In a flash, he realized what he had overlooked the day before, and he knew what instrument had stunned Merriwether and made the horrific stabbing possible. Before him was a plausible motive for what he had known all along was a murder committed in the white heat of rage and recrimination. He did not know entirely how the crime had been orchestrated, but he knew for certain who had committed it.

“Ah, Marc. I thought that was you in the doorway. I'm glad you decided to wait.”

Mrs. Thedford was standing across from him, her nakedness swathed in a satin robe, and she was smiling a welcome
at him, as if he had arrived a bit early for tea and had happily made himself at home.

“Where are the silver candlesticks, the ones you claimed were so dear to you?”

“I was sure you'd notice sooner or later; nothing much gets past you,” she said, and it sounded for all the world like a compliment.

“There was one here when I searched the room yesterday. If I hadn't been so obsessed with finding the laudanum, I would have realized it then.”

“Ah, so it was you who'd been in here. You didn't quite place the hand-mirror or the candlestick back where I always leave them.”

“You hid the other one, didn't you?”

She smiled warmly. “Silly of me, wasn't it? I should have tucked them both out of sight.” There was no bitterness in this remark: it was a plain statement.

“You have no idea how much I've admired you …” Marc said, his voice nearly breaking.

“And I, you,” she said, pulling a padded chair over beside the settee and sitting down to face him. “And now you've come to accuse me of murdering Jason, and I can see the pain it is causing you.”

“I don't know how you did it, but I know it was you,” Marc said softly, looking away, afraid of what might next be said or done.

“Don't be so disconsolate, Marc. Of course I did it. And
I was positive it would be you who would find me out.” She was gazing upon him with admiration and a plaintive sort of fondness.

“You admit it, then?”

“I do. And now I'd like you to wipe that disappointment off your handsome face and relax, have a glass of sherry with me—sans laudanum—and we'll discuss everything.”

All Marc could think of replying to this unexpected invitation was, “What about Tessa?”

Mrs. Thedford laughed. “The minute I've finished making love to her, she starts snoring like a hedgehog.”

T
HEY WERE SITTING VERY CLOSE TOGETHER,
almost knee to knee, sipping sherry like two old friends after a long absence. Mrs. Thedford did not take her eyes off Marc, even as she tipped her sherry glass to her lips. Her seeming unconcern and aplomb were as unnerving as they were incredible.

“I suggest that you go first, Marc. Tell me all you think you know.” She sat back, smiling encouragement. Marc collected his thoughts.

“I believe you heard Tessa cry out when she was attacked by Merriwether, and thinking logically that it was Rick Hilliard behaving abominably, you grabbed a candlestick and ran down the hall into Tessa's room. There you discovered Merriwether in his nightshirt on top of a helpless Tessa who, already drugged and disoriented, had mercifully passed out. You did what any
responsive person would have done: you struck Merriwether on the back of the skull with the only weapon you had, the candlestick. He reared up, still conscious for an instant, spun around, then collapsed on the carpet, faceup and legs splayed, but still breathing. Enraged by his actions—after all, he had just violated in the most reprehensible manner possible a young woman who was not merely your ward but your … paramour—you decided to finish him off. This was a decision taken in a fury, totally irrational and utterly unlike anything you had ever done or thought to do.”

“You are very generous.” She seemed amused by this quaint narrative.

“You could have struck him again with the candlestick, but I suspect the fact that he was facing you may have caused you to hesitate. It was then that you spotted Rick slumped unconscious on the settee. There was only one candle lit beside Tessa's bed, and in your fear for Tessa you had not seen him. He had foolishly strapped on his sabre to impress Tessa. You pulled it from its scabbard, gripped it with both hands, steeled yourself, and plunged it into Merriwether's chest. Then, the deed done, you were suddenly horrified at what you'd done. Tessa was unconscious and breathing regularly. You had to place the blame elsewhere if you were to survive and help her through this crisis. Somehow you smeared blood all over poor Hilliard, picked up your candlestick, and ran. I'm certain that the weapon is still in this building and can be found.

“But, of course, Tessa's cry had been heard by both
Armstrong and Beasley, something you hadn't had time to consider. Fortunately, Armstrong was too drunk or hungover to respond. His door was ajar, so he must have seen you, in the weak light from Tessa's room or his own. The bloody candlestick was in your grip. Beasley claims it was no more than two minutes between the time he heard Tessa cry and his arrival there, so he, too, must have seen you in the dark hall. How you contrived to have them lie for you and do it so consistently I can only guess. But it was midmorning Tuesday before I began my questioning. You had ample time before that to intimidate and coach your colleagues, who are after all your underlings and dependents.”

“And you believe me capable of that sort of bullying hypocrisy?” She looked genuinely hurt at being accused of this latter, more venial, transgression.

“Not at first and that was my mistake. I thought from the beginning that this was a crime of passion—I could not get the image of that steel stake through Merriwether's body out of my mind. But having watched you rehearse on Monday, having worked with you alone here yesterday afternoon, and performed next to you last evening, no, I could not believe you capable of organizing and manipulating such a conspiracy.”

“Thank you. Because, you see, I did nothing of the sort.”

“But Beasley and Armstrong must have seen you. There wasn't time for you to hear the cry, realize its significance, pick up the candlestick, stumble into Tessa's room, strike Merriwether down, discover Hilliard, draw his sword, stab
Merriwether, decide to set up the young lothario as the murderer, find something to dip into Merriwether's spouting blood, smear Rick's jacket, breeches, hands, and boots, pick up the dropped candlestick, and flee back to your room. All of this in two minutes? No.”

“The reason you believed their testimony was because all of them were telling the truth. What they say they saw is what they did see.” She said this proudly, and still there was a twinkle of amusement in her steady gaze.

“It is not possible.”

“Well, let me tell you what
was
possible and what
did
happen. More sherry?”

Marc shook his head. Mrs. Thedford leaned forward again, allowing the top of her robe to slip open several inches. She didn't appear to notice, however, for she had suddenly become quite serious, narrowing her gaze and appearing to visualize the actions as she narrated them.

“I knew I would lose Tessa someday. Men were increasingly attracted to her, and I could see her trying out various responses to their overtures. She never stopped loving me, never left my bed except when it was imprudent not to. I'm sure you're worldly enough to realize that our love is considered by most to be unnatural.”

“But you were also her mentor,” Marc protested. “She must have been terribly confused. And as the older adult, you bore full responsibility for the … the situation.”