by Anne Perry
She did not tell him that she had spoken of the letter to Hooper and asked him to find the source—or enough information so that she could decide what to do about it when that time came, if it ever did.
“You must forgive Seth, however hard you find it,” Roberson continued, leaning forward a little. “You do not know if he has repented of anything of which he was guilty, or if his misery is only the pain and grief of losing his first wife and his daughter, his only child. That must hurt him every day, and—”
“He blames Rose,” Celia cut in. “He says so, every time he mentions her.”
“I know. Perhaps that is something yet to heal, and Clementine may help him more than you or I can grasp. It is a wonderful thing to be loved, Celia. I think you and I both know that.”
“Yes,” she said. “I wish that for Clementine, of course I do. And it would be wicked to deny it to anyone, even Seth Marlowe.”
“The kettle is boiling,” he told her, looking beyond her at the plume of steam rising from the stove.
“Oh, of course!” She rose to her feet. “I’ll make tea.”
* * *
Things were not as easy for Celia as they had seemed when agreeing with Arthur Roberson. Early the following afternoon, she had another visitor, and this time it was Seth Marlowe. The moment she saw his face, she knew the encounter was going to be difficult. His eyes were blazing beneath his heavy brows, and his mouth was pulled into a thin, angry line. He did not wait to be invited in but reached his arm above hers and pushed the door open, walking straight past her.
She was about to protest, but the words died on her lips. She closed the front door and followed him across the hall and into the sitting room. He stood in the middle of the carpet with a paper in his hand. He held it high and shook it. “Swear to me that you didn’t write this one either!” His voice was already shrill and rising. “Have you no shame, woman?”
Celia felt cold right through to her bones. So, another letter had come.
He leaned forward a little. “Admit it! You wrote this.” He shook the paper until it rattled. “You…you…” He seemed lost for words sufficiently damning.
“I did not!” She raised her own voice to match his pitch and anger. “I don’t know what it says, but perhaps if you get hold of your temper and use your brain, we might work out who actually did. Or are you afraid of that, because you know?”
“I already know, you stupid creature! It was you. You are a pathetic, jealous woman!” he shouted. “Well, I won’t give in to you! I’ll show this to Clementine, and we’ll see if she wants to see you or speak to you ever again!”
Celia was shaking with fury, and fear. Suddenly, a friendship she had valued for years looked as if it was coming to a miserable end. How could this man really love Clementine if he denied her any friends, expected her to change her whole life, cut herself off from anyone he didn’t like? She must steady her mind, think clearly. She couldn’t give in to such bullying. But what could she do? Looking at Marlowe, and then the letter, she saw the reason for his fear—and it was fear, really. This rage was springing from his fear of losing something he valued very much. She knew that, even if she doubted the reason for it. It was not out of consideration for Clementine’s feelings, of that she was perfectly sure.
Marlowe took a step toward her. If he reached forward now, he would touch her.
It galvanized her to life. “You think I wrote this? Why? You already threatened me, and I told you I would not see Clementine if it was going to endanger her happiness.” Actually, she could not remember what she had said, but stating it now might help. “I care how she feels, which you clearly do not. And if my staying away from her is for the better—so long as she knows it is your order that keeps me away and not my own choice, or any change in my friendship for her—then I would keep my word.”
He relaxed a fraction, but his knuckles were clenched and white where he held the letter, only a few feet from her face.
“The letter you told me of was cruel and accused you of being the cause of your first wife’s death. What does this one say?”
“As if you don’t know!” he said between his teeth.
“I don’t! And, personally, I don’t care. But if you want to stop them you’d better discover who wrote it before they start writing them to other people as well. Are you sure they haven’t done that yet?”
He froze, horror making his mouth gape.
“Then you’d better find out,” she said with as much self-control as she could manage. “It’s the only way to stop them. And soon, before they start sending them all over the place.”
He wavered.
“Think!” she ordered. “Who has reason to want to hurt you?”
“Only you.”
“I could name three others at least,” she retorted. “Perhaps it would narrow it down if you could say who knew the information in the letter. I presume it must be a very small number of people, or telling everybody wouldn’t be much of a threat.”
“It’s lies, you…you stupid woman!” He almost spat the words.
She kept her temper with increasing difficulty. “About what? About whom? I’m trying to narrow it down, so you can at least rule out some. I take it you do want to stop them?”
He was silent for a moment, then realized that she was right. She saw the change in his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s wicked inventions about how my wife died and the circumstances leading up to it. Accusations about our marriage. It’s…cruel. It hurts me, and if it gets to be known, it would hurt Clementine terribly.”
For a moment she was actually sorry for him. Happiness was sometimes so fragile. “Is there anything in it that has reference to something private? If so, that would rule out most of us. You didn’t live here then, and I’ve never heard you speak of that time. Think about it.”
“Only Arthur Roberson,” he said slowly.
She was stunned. “For heaven’s sake, if you think he would do that, you’re crazy! Why? What on earth would make him stoop to such a base and wicked thing?”
“Clementine,” he said slowly.
“Rubbish!” She was really angry.
“You haven’t seen—” he began.
“No, I haven’t, and neither have you!”
“Oh, but I have.” He said it firmly, quite sure of himself. “He may not even have admitted it to himself, but he’s in love with Clementine. He wants her. And she has chosen me.” He stood a little straighter, but still too close. “Thank you, Mrs. Hooper, I think you have hit the nail on the head. Arthur knows all about me. His wife was my sister. He acts as if he has forgiven me for my wife’s death, but in his heart he blames me. He can’t accept what she was. Una refused to believe it either. It all fits together.”
“No! Arthur has been the one person who has always defended you!” she protested. “That’s a wicked suggestion and completely untrue.”
“You are naïve, Mrs. Hooper. You think a clerical collar makes a man innocent, but it can also mask a multitude of sins. It is the best disguise in the world. But masks can be torn off.” He started to walk around her toward the door.
“You were wrong about me!” she said loudly. “And you are wrong about him, too.”
“No, I’m not! I’m obliged to you.” He opened the door into the hall. “I can put an end to this.”
She followed after him, almost on his heels. “If you accuse the vicar of writing those letters, you’ll be wrong. And you will make an enemy not only of a good man who’s defended you all the time you’ve been here, but of just about everyone in this community, including Clementine!”
“Of you, perhaps, but your judgment was never much good. Most of the rest of them, when they realize I am right, and they are wrong, will be revolted, and—”
“They won’t believe you. Unless you show them the letters, of course.” She saw him flinch.
“Are you prepared to do that? And let them judge between you and Arthur Roberson? Well, are you? And you haven’t apologized for accusing me and calling me a liar yet.”
“Perhaps you put Roberson up to it?” Marlowe raised his eyebrows, as if he actually might believe what he said.
Celia was so astonished that she was rooted to the spot, and Marlowe was at the front door before she could even think to reply. He opened it and stepped outside, slamming it behind him. She drew in her breath, but the only words that came to her mind were ones she was ashamed even to think.
* * *
Hooper set out the next morning. He walked briskly to the ferry and took it downriver as far as Wapping Stairs and the police station. It cost extra, but it was worth it. He paid the ferryman and went up the wet and slippery stone steps onto the wharf and across to the police station door. With Monk’s permission, two men, Laker and Walcott, were to assist him. He was profoundly grateful for them. With these men and one of the station’s boats, it would be simple to row upriver and moor at the steps nearest their destination. Hooper found an ease and a familiarity on the water, even more so with these men by his side.
Laker and Walcott were waiting and the three of them left immediately. They were well into their rowing before the men spoke.
“What are we looking for when we get there?” asked Laker.
“Any information about Seth Marlowe or his wife, Rose, or their daughter, Flavia. She may not be using that name. We don’t know a lot about her, only that she has, or used to have, auburn hair.”
Time passed, and it took considerable effort to row against the ebb tide, before Hooper continued, “Marlowe has lived in several different places in the past, but he is a regular churchgoer. What we know about Rose is that she died by drowning, not in the river, but in the sea, off the south coast. Their daughter, Flavia, is still alive…or we think she is.”
“If she is, do we know where she might be living?” asked Walcott. “Or of someone else who was closely involved with any of them?”
Hooper shook his head. It was cold this morning and he needed his strength to keep the boat moving. He felt the beginning of the incoming tide help them.
Everything was gray, except where the clouds broke and the sun shone on the water’s face in brief moments of silver. The dark hulls of ships at anchor had a strange beauty about their old wood, barnacle-crusted below the waterline. Some were wide-bellied for cargo, others sleek for speed. Tall masts rose into the sky and barely moved in the early morning stillness.
It had been a hard night and Hooper had not slept well. He had known the moment he went in through his front door that Celia was distressed, although it was a while before she told him what had happened, and longer still before he realized what had upset her the most.
When Celia related how she had countered not with fear but with intelligent questions as to who could have had the information contained in the letter, Hooper was relieved. She explained that, after a moment’s thought, Marlowe had announced that only the vicar, Arthur Roberson, had known all the facts and could easily have made up the few he had not known. What had distressed Celia so much was that Roberson was now a suspect. In fact, he was now the only one, and Celia herself had caused that to happen. She was weighed down by guilt, but even worse than that, by the fear that other people might believe it, and that Roberson would be despised, possibly even driven out.
Had he not been so distressed for Celia, Hooper would have been enraged himself by such a terrible injustice. What reason would the vicar have for doing such a thing? Celia had told him the same moment he realized it for himself: Clementine, of course. He had seen the way Roberson looked at her; he had heard the tenderness in his voice.
Or was Marlowe seeing the vicar as a rival, and doing this himself to drive Roberson out? No, that was too convoluted. Anyway, Hooper could not imagine Roberson stooping to the level of writing poisonous letters to Marlowe, anonymously or not. It was Hooper’s profession to judge a man’s intentions and always to pursue the guilty. Was he so bad at it that he had seen the guilt in Marlowe, and not in Roberson? Somebody had written the letters, although it seemed that no one had read them except Marlowe himself. Who besides Roberson might know of Marlowe’s behavior during his marriage, before he came to the village? Hooper racked his mind to think of all possibilities. Who had known Una? Wasn’t that Roberson’s dead wife’s name? Who might she have told, if Rose had confided in her? After all, they were sisters-in-law.
He had asked Celia, and had seen the sudden understanding in her eyes. Hooper had expected her to mention someone in the village, but she had stumbled over the words when she answered.
“Me!” she had told him. “She talked a lot to me when I was looking after her in her last months. She didn’t tell me anything about Seth, but I suppose, from his point of view, she could have. That’s why Marlowe thought it was me! Only now he is sure it is Arthur. What can we do?”
The tears had been running down her face as she spoke. And he had no answer.
* * *
Hooper and the men were making good time. They had rowed in unison with silent understanding for years now: the fair-haired, ambitious Laker, with his handsome face and the impudent air hiding his dreams; the darker, stockier Walcott, who spoke so little and seldom showed any emotion. Hooper understood them both. They had tested each other’s courage through many dangers, and a few tragedies. Words were an unnecessary disturbance of the rhythm.
Hooper returned to his own thoughts as his arms automatically pulled at the oars. Marlowe had said he had confided in the vicar. Who did the vicar confide in? In asking that question, Hooper had a sudden glimpse of the vast loneliness of a man who believed that God had set him aside to be a refuge for others, someone whom they could trust to speak the truth, to judge fairly, to offer God’s forgiveness for certain offenses or, in time, for all of them. Without anyone to assure him when he was right, and tell him gently when they thought he was mistaken. If Roberson indeed loved Clementine, why had he not asked her to marry him? Or was he moving toward it too slowly, and Marlowe had beaten him to it?
There was no answer to any of these questions, only more questions. He did not have to tell Celia otherwise. After she had told him of the meeting with Marlowe, he had simply brushed the stray lock of hair off her brow, where it was coming out of its pins, then taken her in his arms. It was not an answer, but it was an intense, wordless comfort. He had held her even closer and felt her relax, leaning against him a little, calmer, turning her head sideways to rest against his cheek.
Silence and touch were infinitely better than false words of comfort and promises you could not keep.
There was silence now, apart from the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the boat. They were more than halfway to the steps closest to their destination. They were past the warehouses and shipyards, beginning to pass residential areas.
His thoughts were interrupted by Laker’s voice, but he’d missed what was said. “Sorry?”
“I asked you what he’s done, this Marlowe,” said Laker. “It might help if we knew that.”
“Fair question,” Hooper replied. “He’s a self-righteous prig who goes to church every Sunday and tells people what is wrong with them, and what they should do about it.” He saw both men frown. “He’s been getting anonymous letters,” he went on. “And I want to know who sent them.”
“Why?” Walcott asked. “Sounds like he deserved them.”
Hooper held up a finger. “One, because the vicar is being blamed for it, and I don’t think he’s at fault.” He put up a second finger. “Two, I want to know exactly what’s in them, and if it’s true.” He put up a third finger. “At the moment, my wife is also being blamed.” He raised his fourth finger. “And this man is about to marry a very nice young woman whose loyalty he will test to the last degree by cutting her off from all her friends.”
“What did those letters say?” Laker asked.
Hooper smiled. Laker always wanted to know everything. “The second one implied that he more or less drove his wife to suicide. The first one, I don’t know. Whether there was anything more or not, he kept it to himself. I’d like to know how much of that is an exaggeration by someone who hates him and how much of it is true. Does that help?”
“Yes, sir,” Laker answered with a grin. “A pleasure, sir.”
Hooper gave them the rest of the information he had from Mrs. Soames.
Laker lifted his hand from the oar and rubbed his eyes. “Families,” he said with a downturn of his mouth.
Hooper did not comment. He knew Laker, his dreams and tragedies.
Walcott said nothing.
They arrived at the steps to the Pimlico pier and secured the boat. As they stretched their muscles made tight from exertion, Hooper gave them instructions where to begin their search.
“This is the last place he lived with Rose, according to what he told Roberson. He will have attended church, because it is the one place where he feels comfortable. There will be churchgoers about this morning. Ask until you find someone who knew him. Hear all you can. He’s bound to have made enemies. We’ll meet back at the pier at four. You take inland, Laker. Use an omnibus if you need to. You take the east, Walcott. I’ll take the west.”
“I don’t suppose he’d go to a pub?” Laker asked with a twisted smile.
“Neither do I,” Hooper agreed. “If he drank at all, it would be alone. But he likes to have an audience. Someone to preach his ideas to. Try any societies that sound likely. Nothing frivolous…”
“God help us,” Laker said sourly. “Is this girl really going to marry him?” A flash of pity lit his face.
“Maybe she’s desperate?” Walcott suggested, leaving the exact meaning of his remark unsaid.
